Anyone else out there have a spouse/partner that's turned you into an "Olympics Widow"? I mean, don't get me wrong... I'm as excited as the next guy that they're here (and I'm definitely rooting for the good ole' USA), but geez! I'm with three kids ALL DAY LONG, and I look forward to some kind of adult conversation at the end of the day!
Husband's been GLUED to the set, every night (until the wee hours of the morning, I suppose... I'm never awake when he comes to bed), since the opening ceremonies.
I asked him earlier tonight, "Am I going to lose you all night long again tonight?" You know what his response was? "Well, the Olympics are only on every four years." So, in other words.... yes, dear, you ARE going to lose me again tonight, and every other night until the very last competition is over, and the very last medal is awarded. Sigh.
On the way home from picking up R. at the Club (more on her assessment of her first day at camp later), I ran into one of my brothers as I was heading into my front door. Since he's been having a bit of difficulty with his car lately, and has developed quite a repore with a mechanic, I figured I'd ask him where he went and what his opinions were of the dreaded engine light. He seemed to think it wasn't much of a big deal -- that it was probably a sensor that wasn't connected right, or that the gas cap wasn't screwed on properly (uhm... been there, done that), or that it was very likely some kind of other minor malfunction.
At first, he told me that I shouldn't worry about it too much, but when I balked about the possibility of being out somewhere with my kids in the car, and having my car die on the side of a road somewhere, he said he'd meet me back at the house after I dropped R. off at the Club tomorrow, and go with me to see his mechanic.
I sure hope he's right, and that it's something really tiny. Maybe, just maybe, that would mean there's a glimmer of hope that SOMETHING will finally go our way after all! :)
As for Miss R. -- she LOVED her first day of camp! She said they made a bunch of craft-like things in the morning (which I assume were left in their room to dry overnight), and then they went to Stone Mountain Creamery in the afternoon, where they got to "concoct" their own ice cream treats. She said everyone was surprised when she was the only one who finished her entire ice cream (little do they know what a bottomless pit she can be!).
She went upstairs at 4:00, as part of the drop-off program, and called me to ask if she could attend the next free swim. I agreed, as long as she made sure to meet me outside right at 5:00, which, I was proud to see that she did.
And, as predicted, she was tired as all get-out when she came home. She showered, ate, brushed her teeth, and headed upstairs to bed. I wouldn't doubt it if she was asleep soon after her head hit the pillow!
I'm so glad that she liked it, and that my little one was an angel today -- well, except for the brief lapse, when she managed to get into my Vaseline AGAIN, and daubed some into the front strands of her hair -- right after I'd just finished washing it too! Ugh! Guess that girl can't hold her halo straight ALL of the time! :)
Wish me luck tomorrow, and please, please... pray that there's only something minor wrong with my car. I know that there are lots of worthy people who are on a waiting list for a kidney, but I'd rather keep my set in tact for now, thanks!
Monday, August 11, 2008
What A Difference A Day Makes!
Today was R's first day of summer camp. She's going all week, from 9:00 in the morning, until 4:00 in the afternoon, at our local Boys and Girls Club. I told her she could go upstairs to the drop-off until 5:00, too. So...she should be GOOD and tired by the end of the day!
And, because R. isn't here, Miss S. has been as quiet as a mouse. She's finished her Cheerios, had her fill of juice, and is now lounging on the chair in my living room, watching Princess Dora. The only noise coming from her is an occasional response, when Dora asks the viewers to help her by repeating something, either in English or in Spanish. S. keeps mumbling her responses through her beloved pacifier.
I have the feeling that it's going to be a VERY quiet week around here! :) And, R. was very excited about getting "her turn" to participate in camp. She just loves it, and it's so good for her, too.
I was planning on taking S. to the park today, but AGAIN, it's dark, cloudy, gloomy, and cool. I have no idea what's prompting all of this funky weather, but someone needs to inform Mother Nature that it's August, for Pete's sake! Not that I'm complaining, really.... I'm not a big fan of the heat, so this weather's fine for me. It's not so good for little ones, though, who want to go outside and run and play, and can't understand why it's not allowed. It also makes me want to go crawl underneath the covers and go back to sleep. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, S. will take a nap, which would mean I could, too. If I wanted to.
But.... with the burgeoning hamper in our bathroom, I'll probably be a good little doobie and wash a load of clothes, instead. I'll just have to wait and see how loud that bed gets when it calls to me! :)
Oh... and BTW.... my engine light is still on. Sigh.
And, because R. isn't here, Miss S. has been as quiet as a mouse. She's finished her Cheerios, had her fill of juice, and is now lounging on the chair in my living room, watching Princess Dora. The only noise coming from her is an occasional response, when Dora asks the viewers to help her by repeating something, either in English or in Spanish. S. keeps mumbling her responses through her beloved pacifier.
I have the feeling that it's going to be a VERY quiet week around here! :) And, R. was very excited about getting "her turn" to participate in camp. She just loves it, and it's so good for her, too.
I was planning on taking S. to the park today, but AGAIN, it's dark, cloudy, gloomy, and cool. I have no idea what's prompting all of this funky weather, but someone needs to inform Mother Nature that it's August, for Pete's sake! Not that I'm complaining, really.... I'm not a big fan of the heat, so this weather's fine for me. It's not so good for little ones, though, who want to go outside and run and play, and can't understand why it's not allowed. It also makes me want to go crawl underneath the covers and go back to sleep. Who knows? Maybe, just maybe, S. will take a nap, which would mean I could, too. If I wanted to.
But.... with the burgeoning hamper in our bathroom, I'll probably be a good little doobie and wash a load of clothes, instead. I'll just have to wait and see how loud that bed gets when it calls to me! :)
Oh... and BTW.... my engine light is still on. Sigh.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Am I Blue? Am I Blue? Ain't This Paint on My Face Tellin' You?
Oh, man... where do I even BEGIN with this one!!! I'd barely woken up this morning, and was on the potty, when R. came downstairs and "announced" that S. had "somehow" gotten into a tube of blue paint from one of R's craft kits (all of which should have been thrown away by now, by the way), and when I finally saw S.... she looked like a member of the Blue Man Group. Or an Oompa-Loompa.
She was blue from head to toe!
So, I had to wash her completely down first thing this morning. That was it. It was the final straw that broke this camel's hump. I gave R. her medicine (so she wouldn't be off the wall), and told her to go wake up her brother (who's been taking it upon himself to sleep the day away lately! I warned him last night that I'd be getting his lazy butt up out of bed bright and early this morning, and I wasn't kidding!!), and TOGETHER they would clean her room, then clean his.
He came downstairs, all mopey and grumpy 'cause he had to get up so early, and I told him that he had to clean too. He said, "R's not going to help me clean", so I told him to send her back downstairs and I'd take care of it.
When she came down, I said to her, "I'm only going to say this once, so you had better listen. If I hear, one time, that you're not helping to clean, not only will I tell your brother to stop cleaning and make YOU finish both rooms BY YOURSELF, but when your father comes home from work, I'm going to have him remove EVERYTHING out of your room but your bed. That means your TV, your Gamecube and all of your games, your CD player and all of your CD's, your desk, your nightlight, your lamps, your toys.... EVERYTHING. And... you will be made to sleep in your room with JUST YOUR BED."
I knew that the threat of her not having a light or some kind of sound would be enough to move her tiny little hiney in gear. They've been upstairs cleaning ever since. I've been informed that they've finished R's room, and they've now moved on to N's. I told him that I want everything up off of the floor and put away where it belongs, 'cause when they're done cleaning, he's to come down, get the vacuum cleaner, and vacuum both rugs.
Tough love sucks, but it works!
And, what's my little one been doing the whole time? Sitting quietly on the chair in the living room, watching Dora, and peacefully rubbing her beloved "pup pup" on her nose. They're soooooooo much better when they're separated!
She was blue from head to toe!
So, I had to wash her completely down first thing this morning. That was it. It was the final straw that broke this camel's hump. I gave R. her medicine (so she wouldn't be off the wall), and told her to go wake up her brother (who's been taking it upon himself to sleep the day away lately! I warned him last night that I'd be getting his lazy butt up out of bed bright and early this morning, and I wasn't kidding!!), and TOGETHER they would clean her room, then clean his.
He came downstairs, all mopey and grumpy 'cause he had to get up so early, and I told him that he had to clean too. He said, "R's not going to help me clean", so I told him to send her back downstairs and I'd take care of it.
When she came down, I said to her, "I'm only going to say this once, so you had better listen. If I hear, one time, that you're not helping to clean, not only will I tell your brother to stop cleaning and make YOU finish both rooms BY YOURSELF, but when your father comes home from work, I'm going to have him remove EVERYTHING out of your room but your bed. That means your TV, your Gamecube and all of your games, your CD player and all of your CD's, your desk, your nightlight, your lamps, your toys.... EVERYTHING. And... you will be made to sleep in your room with JUST YOUR BED."
I knew that the threat of her not having a light or some kind of sound would be enough to move her tiny little hiney in gear. They've been upstairs cleaning ever since. I've been informed that they've finished R's room, and they've now moved on to N's. I told him that I want everything up off of the floor and put away where it belongs, 'cause when they're done cleaning, he's to come down, get the vacuum cleaner, and vacuum both rugs.
Tough love sucks, but it works!
And, what's my little one been doing the whole time? Sitting quietly on the chair in the living room, watching Dora, and peacefully rubbing her beloved "pup pup" on her nose. They're soooooooo much better when they're separated!
Friday, August 8, 2008
The Good News, and The Bad News
Whoo wee! What a busy day! My little one was being a spitfire, and man, did she wear me OUT! I did wind up talking with their pediatrician about her, too, because her off-the-wall behavior is becoming a bit concerning to me. He actually saw some of it in action while we were in the examining room, and he said that although he's not ruling out that she's being a typical 3-year-old, with an AMAZING intelligence level, he is definitely willing to keep an eye on her, and continue to hear me if I come back time and time again and gripe about her hyperactive behavior. I personally think I have another ADHD child in the making, but I guess we'll just have to wait it all out and see.
So... do you guys want the good news, or the bad news? Oh, I guess I'll just start with the good news first.
We didn't go any further than the customer service desk at K-Mart, because I got quickly annoyed and exasperated by my little one, who went everywhere else but right beside me, even though she promised she'd stay with me (as an obvious ploy to get out of going into a carriage). Once I made my returns and layaway payment, we walked over to TJ Maxx, to try our luck on the clearance racks there.
Lo and behold... we found one pair of cute jeans, one pair of denim capri pants, and a really adorable "hoodie" style button down baby-doll top for R. All in the Juniors department (which we now have to routinely shop in, because of her budding "figure"... ACK!), and all totalling less than $20!! I also found a really cute pair of Champion sneaks (reminiscent of Sketchers) for $10 bucks at PayLess. So, she's pretty well set for back-to-school.
The bad news is, on the way out of the TJ Maxx strip mall, and on the way to another stop off at a local bakery (they have the BEST fresh rolls and bread ANYWHERE), I noticed a funky light come on on my instrument panel. I pulled into the parking lot of the bakery, pulled out my owner's manual from the glove compartment, and panicked when I found out what that light was a symbol for -- the engine!
I grabbed my cell phone, called my husband, and tried my fool best not to flip out. He asked me if I'd gotten any gas lately, and I said yes... I'd just filled the tank before we headed out. He reassured me that maybe, just maybe, it was a sign that the guy didn't tighten the gas cap on enough, and that I should try to tighten it again. He thought that would do the trick. So, I went in, bought my bread (and resisted the urge to shove half the loaf into my mouth all at once -- I eat when I'm stressed), and took the girls back out into the parking lot, securing them both into their seats before futzing with the gas cap.
I took it completely off, and tightened it enough to hear that "clickclickclick", got into the car, started it up.... and still saw the engine light.
So, once we got settled into our next destination... lunch at McDonald's... I called my husband again to vent some more. Again, he reassured me that it might take a day or two for the car to "run through all of its checkpoints" before the light went out. I have no idea what that means, exactly, but I sincerely hope that it's true.
Engine work is the kiss of death for a car, and we can't afford the repairs right now.
It's always something, isn't it?
Pray that there's no light tomorrow. We still need groceries.
So... do you guys want the good news, or the bad news? Oh, I guess I'll just start with the good news first.
We didn't go any further than the customer service desk at K-Mart, because I got quickly annoyed and exasperated by my little one, who went everywhere else but right beside me, even though she promised she'd stay with me (as an obvious ploy to get out of going into a carriage). Once I made my returns and layaway payment, we walked over to TJ Maxx, to try our luck on the clearance racks there.
Lo and behold... we found one pair of cute jeans, one pair of denim capri pants, and a really adorable "hoodie" style button down baby-doll top for R. All in the Juniors department (which we now have to routinely shop in, because of her budding "figure"... ACK!), and all totalling less than $20!! I also found a really cute pair of Champion sneaks (reminiscent of Sketchers) for $10 bucks at PayLess. So, she's pretty well set for back-to-school.
The bad news is, on the way out of the TJ Maxx strip mall, and on the way to another stop off at a local bakery (they have the BEST fresh rolls and bread ANYWHERE), I noticed a funky light come on on my instrument panel. I pulled into the parking lot of the bakery, pulled out my owner's manual from the glove compartment, and panicked when I found out what that light was a symbol for -- the engine!
I grabbed my cell phone, called my husband, and tried my fool best not to flip out. He asked me if I'd gotten any gas lately, and I said yes... I'd just filled the tank before we headed out. He reassured me that maybe, just maybe, it was a sign that the guy didn't tighten the gas cap on enough, and that I should try to tighten it again. He thought that would do the trick. So, I went in, bought my bread (and resisted the urge to shove half the loaf into my mouth all at once -- I eat when I'm stressed), and took the girls back out into the parking lot, securing them both into their seats before futzing with the gas cap.
I took it completely off, and tightened it enough to hear that "clickclickclick", got into the car, started it up.... and still saw the engine light.
So, once we got settled into our next destination... lunch at McDonald's... I called my husband again to vent some more. Again, he reassured me that it might take a day or two for the car to "run through all of its checkpoints" before the light went out. I have no idea what that means, exactly, but I sincerely hope that it's true.
Engine work is the kiss of death for a car, and we can't afford the repairs right now.
It's always something, isn't it?
Pray that there's no light tomorrow. We still need groceries.
Another Day At The Races!
Today's going to be another relatively busy day. First, I've got to get the bills straightened away (I just LOVE paying them all online! It saves so much time, and a ton of stamps! :). Then, the girls and I are headed off to K-Mart. I have to return a couple of things, and plunk a good hunk-o-change down on my Christmas layaway. This is the SECOND one I've got going, by the way... I took the first one out a few weeks ago, because it also had a bunch of back-to-school clothes for N.
I may check out some more clothes for R. while I'm there, but I'm already pretty sure that I won't have much success at this particular store. They tend to have a lot of "hoochy-mama" things in her size, and I'll be damned if I'm going to have my 9-year-old daughter wearing a shirt that says "Bite Me" across her budding chest, and pants that expose her entire navel! Uhm... no thanks.
I also have to run the mundane errands, too... filling up my tank with gas (I take a big, heaving breath before plunging off that particular cliff!), running to the post office, and probably picking up a few things at the grocery store to tide us over until Sunday, when we'll do our "big" grocery shopping (usually two heaping carts full, which is why I have to wait for a day when my husband's home from work, so he can push one of the carts around the store. Hey... I'm good but I'm not that good! :). R. also has her ADHD follow-up with her doctor today at 3:30 this afternoon. So... once I get off this thing, I'm going to pretty much be hitting the ground running.
Before I sign off for the time being, though, I want to share with you all a not-so-pleasant "transition" I've been going through with my son, lately. He's turning 14 at the end of next month, and I know he's probably only trying to assert his independence a bit, and therefore he's "pushing" his father and me, to see how far he can go. Trouble is... I push back.
Case in point: My son called home at around 4:30 last night, just before the Club was about to close. My husband answered the phone, and then came to check with me about my son's request. He wanted to go over to a friend's house after the Club closed, and wanted to know if that was okay with us. Since we had nothing planned, I said it was fine with me. My husband returned to the phone, telling him it was okay, and also letting him know that we expected a phone call at some point, letting us know what time he needed to come home.
Now.... fast forward to 9:00.... and still no phone call from my son. My husband was practically spitting nails, especially considering 1) we'd gotten him a cell phone, primarily for the purpose for keeping in touch with him at any given moment, and 2) we've expressed our frustration and disappointment with him about his "forgetfulness" before.
My husband left, storming out of the house to go retrieve our son from his friend's house. And of course, once my son got into the car, my husband lit into him about being more responsible and doing what he was told.
When he walked into the door, I gave him a piece of MY mind, too... probably reiterating everything my husband said. I told him that he was NOT going to keep turning into this kid I didn't know, and didn't like very much, because he felt like it. That he was going to quit doing what he felt like, going to bed when he felt like it, getting up when he felt like it, calling when he felt like it, going where he felt... it was all going to STOP. He mumbled, "Okay, Mom".... as he was reaching for his XBox Live game piece! (This was taken away from him at 10:00 the night before, because apparently, he has no self-control when he plays the dang thing, and stays up until the crack of dawn to battle all sorts of evil-wrongdoers, and can't get his hiney out of bed until the middle of the afternoon!).
I told him, "Don't you dare even begin to think that you're getting to play with that contraption tonight. And, if you don't stop acting like a little punk, your phone will be taken away from you FOR GOOD." I also reminded him that it was less than a month before he was back in school, which meant he had to get up even EARLIER than he did for middle school, so he had better start getting used to going to bed and getting up, or he was going to be in BIG trouble.
He went sulking off up to his room.
Sigh.
I hate, hate, HATE being the "bad guy" to my kids. But honestly, this boy, who never, ever gave me an ounce of trouble, is turning into some punk kid that I don't particularly like. So, a serious case of reeling in is in order. He's going to remain respectful, decent and kind.... even if it KILLS me! :)
Okay... off to give all of my husband's hard earned money away to the utility companies, the car companies, the Internet company, the dentist, the orthodontist.....
I may check out some more clothes for R. while I'm there, but I'm already pretty sure that I won't have much success at this particular store. They tend to have a lot of "hoochy-mama" things in her size, and I'll be damned if I'm going to have my 9-year-old daughter wearing a shirt that says "Bite Me" across her budding chest, and pants that expose her entire navel! Uhm... no thanks.
I also have to run the mundane errands, too... filling up my tank with gas (I take a big, heaving breath before plunging off that particular cliff!), running to the post office, and probably picking up a few things at the grocery store to tide us over until Sunday, when we'll do our "big" grocery shopping (usually two heaping carts full, which is why I have to wait for a day when my husband's home from work, so he can push one of the carts around the store. Hey... I'm good but I'm not that good! :). R. also has her ADHD follow-up with her doctor today at 3:30 this afternoon. So... once I get off this thing, I'm going to pretty much be hitting the ground running.
Before I sign off for the time being, though, I want to share with you all a not-so-pleasant "transition" I've been going through with my son, lately. He's turning 14 at the end of next month, and I know he's probably only trying to assert his independence a bit, and therefore he's "pushing" his father and me, to see how far he can go. Trouble is... I push back.
Case in point: My son called home at around 4:30 last night, just before the Club was about to close. My husband answered the phone, and then came to check with me about my son's request. He wanted to go over to a friend's house after the Club closed, and wanted to know if that was okay with us. Since we had nothing planned, I said it was fine with me. My husband returned to the phone, telling him it was okay, and also letting him know that we expected a phone call at some point, letting us know what time he needed to come home.
Now.... fast forward to 9:00.... and still no phone call from my son. My husband was practically spitting nails, especially considering 1) we'd gotten him a cell phone, primarily for the purpose for keeping in touch with him at any given moment, and 2) we've expressed our frustration and disappointment with him about his "forgetfulness" before.
My husband left, storming out of the house to go retrieve our son from his friend's house. And of course, once my son got into the car, my husband lit into him about being more responsible and doing what he was told.
When he walked into the door, I gave him a piece of MY mind, too... probably reiterating everything my husband said. I told him that he was NOT going to keep turning into this kid I didn't know, and didn't like very much, because he felt like it. That he was going to quit doing what he felt like, going to bed when he felt like it, getting up when he felt like it, calling when he felt like it, going where he felt... it was all going to STOP. He mumbled, "Okay, Mom".... as he was reaching for his XBox Live game piece! (This was taken away from him at 10:00 the night before, because apparently, he has no self-control when he plays the dang thing, and stays up until the crack of dawn to battle all sorts of evil-wrongdoers, and can't get his hiney out of bed until the middle of the afternoon!).
I told him, "Don't you dare even begin to think that you're getting to play with that contraption tonight. And, if you don't stop acting like a little punk, your phone will be taken away from you FOR GOOD." I also reminded him that it was less than a month before he was back in school, which meant he had to get up even EARLIER than he did for middle school, so he had better start getting used to going to bed and getting up, or he was going to be in BIG trouble.
He went sulking off up to his room.
Sigh.
I hate, hate, HATE being the "bad guy" to my kids. But honestly, this boy, who never, ever gave me an ounce of trouble, is turning into some punk kid that I don't particularly like. So, a serious case of reeling in is in order. He's going to remain respectful, decent and kind.... even if it KILLS me! :)
Okay... off to give all of my husband's hard earned money away to the utility companies, the car companies, the Internet company, the dentist, the orthodontist.....
Thursday, August 7, 2008
And We're Off!!
Mornin', everyone!
We've got to leave out of here in about 20 minutes, to go to both my son's and my oldest's daughter's orthodontist appointment. My son is going for his first follow-up since getting his braces off, and my daughter is going for a consultation, to see if she needs them. The orthodontist said that he may be able to do some preventative work now, which would eliminate braces all together. Wouldn't that be wonderful???
Problem is, it's another gloomy, cloudy, rainy day here, and all I really want to do is crawl back into my bed and hibernate. Do you think I'd get in any real trouble if I gave my 13-year-old the car keys, and told him to drive them there?
Just kidding.
Maybe.
Say hello and let me know that you stopped by, and I'll check in when I get back.
xox
We've got to leave out of here in about 20 minutes, to go to both my son's and my oldest's daughter's orthodontist appointment. My son is going for his first follow-up since getting his braces off, and my daughter is going for a consultation, to see if she needs them. The orthodontist said that he may be able to do some preventative work now, which would eliminate braces all together. Wouldn't that be wonderful???
Problem is, it's another gloomy, cloudy, rainy day here, and all I really want to do is crawl back into my bed and hibernate. Do you think I'd get in any real trouble if I gave my 13-year-old the car keys, and told him to drive them there?
Just kidding.
Maybe.
Say hello and let me know that you stopped by, and I'll check in when I get back.
xox
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
In The Grand Scheme of Things, A Month Isn't Very Long at All (Part 6)
For those of you who don't have a calendar handy, I'd like to remind you that today is August 6th. Now....think back to a month ago. July 6th. Can you remember what you were doing? Maybe finishing up your cleaning after your Fourth of July celebrations? Maybe taking your kiddos to the park? Or your dog for a walk? Or planning a trip to the beach? Maybe you were posting a blog about the events that had happened in your life.... the friends and family you saw, the fun you had, the places you've been.
My guess is, that no matter what it was you were up to, you can probably remember some of the details pretty clearly. Why? Because it was only a month ago, right?
Now....keep that in mind as you read this. Because my point is, as the title of this post suggests, in the grand scheme of things, a month really isn't very long at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday, August 20, 1989: My husband and I walked in through the door of our tiny apartment, after our virtually silent ride home from The Cape. Our plan was to drop off all of our luggage (much of it still untouched), check in on our kitties and make sure they still had enough food and a fresh supply of water, and then head off to the hospital to find out more about my Dad.
A short time later, we were standing at the registration desk of Mt. Auburn Hospital, finding out which room they were holding my father hostage in. We walked through a maze of hallways, and took what seemed like a dozen elevators before we'd finally found it. I hesitated for a moment before I stepped inside, took a deep breath, and put on a cheesy smile. At least I could attempt to make light of the situation, and not stress him out any more than he probably already was.
I walked in to find some of my family already there. My mom was sitting on a chair next to his bed, looking pretty shell-shocked and worn out. My guess was she hadn't been home much since she left the cottage a few days before, and it clearly showed. My sister was there, too...sitting on the radiator in front of the big plate-glass windows. My niece Alison was sitting beside her, and the two of them looked as if they were just about holding each other up.
I moved closer to the bed, where my father was taking up space. He was propped up to a near sitting position, and was chatting up everyone when I walked in. He saw me, and said, "Oh, there she is!", as he had done so many times whenever I came to visit. But, this time, it sounded so much smaller somehow, and his voice sounded deflated, as if he were a balloon whose air is slowly leaking out somewhere. He looked old, he looked tired, and he looked really, really sick. It took all I had to turn around and bolt.
We all made small talk for a bit, and then my mother asked me to go to the cafeteria with her, to get something to eat. I knew my mother well enough to know that she probably hadn't eaten a thing since she brought my father to the hospital, and I wondered what she really wanted of me.
As we were walking, she updated me on Dad's situation. She told me she'd spoken to the head Oncologist, who had also consulted with the head Oncologist at Brigham and Women's. They both agreed that there was a slight chance that they could "minimize the cancer in Dad's liver by giving him a large dose of chemotherapy, followed by radiation". My heart actually leaped up to my throat when I heard this... could there be a possibility that my father might survive this, after all?
Then, my mother hit me with the bad news. Given my Dad's weakened state, the dose of chemotherapy they're considering might kill him.
And then, my mother dropped the real bombshell.
She told me that she gave them permission to go ahead with it, and that his first dose was scheduled to be administered the next morning.
My head was reeling. I didn't know what to think. Should I be optimistic, and hope, possibly beyond hope, that this "plan" could work and restore my Dad's health? Or, should I resign myself to the fact that my Dad was going to die?
Suddenly, the idea of grabbing a tuna fish sandwich and a bag of chips in the cafeteria didn't quite appeal to me. In fact, I was trying really hard to keep myself from hurling all over the place.
I took another deep breath (I took a lot of them, in those days), and told my mother that if she'd talked things over with Dad, and he agreed to the procedure, that I supported the decision 100%.
That's when she told me that Dad didn't know a thing. In fact, he still thought that he'd had a hernia, and the surgery was to repair it.
What???? WHAT????
I couldn't contain myself. I asked her how in the HELL could she possibly think that keeping that kind of information from him could be a good thing? She said, "Because I know your father, Cheryl. Probably more than anyone else on earth. And I know that if he realizes he's as sick as he is, he won't fight it. He'll just give up."
How could she possibly think that? My Dad would never give up on anything. ANYTHING. But, she seemed to be convinced that this was the right thing to do for him, and I knew it would be pointless to even try to make her believe otherwise.
Thursday, August 31, 1989: My Dad had been through the full cycle of chemotherapy, and was suffering miserably because of it. With the first two or three treatments, his strength and health seemed to get a bit better, and we all sincerely hoped for the best. But, as the massive amounts of toxic chemicals kept being pumped into his body, his body finally broke down because of it, making him vomit, sweat, have chronic diarrhea, and feel generally like crawling into a deep hole and never coming out.
He went from having moments of clarity and lucidity, regaining the dry humor and amazing intelligence that was typical of my Dad, to suffering bouts of hallucinations: talking to ghosts of ship mates long past, with whom he'd seen many things that no 17-year-old boy should have to witness, as a sailor in the Navy during World War II; having conversations with my dearly departed Nana, whom he fiercely adored and missed tremendously; and recounting events from our childhood that we'd all long since forgotten.
Monday, September 4, 1989: My father's 62nd birthday was celebrated in his hospital room. We'd all brought in flowers, cards, presents, and a huge cake. It was actually a pretty decent day with Dad. He was "in the moment", and seemed happy and content to have us all there with him to honor his special day. He even managed to spend most of his time with us sitting up in a chair, rather than lying in bed.
We'd also received some good news from his doctors. They seemed to think that, even though my father wasn't 100%, he was well enough to attempt going home. Of course, this news made us all incredibly hopeful. So much so that my mother went through a flurry of preparations to get their apartment spic and span for my father's homecoming. She hired several contractors to install new carpeting, paint the inside walls and trim, and make some repairs -- all of which my father had promised her he'd get to, but never got the chance. She wanted so much to make his home as "revitalized" as his health seemed to be.
Saturday, September 9, 1989: My father arrived home, and although he was weak and tired, he was definitely glad to be in his familiar surroundings. Before he'd left the hospital, he'd had his second round of radiation. His doctors felt that, since he'd done so well with the first round, that it was "safe" to continue with the rest of his treatments.
On Monday, my mother arranged to begin at-home hospice care for Dad. But, she was quite dismayed when she found out that their insurance only covered part-time care. Since all of us (including her) were in desperate need to return to our jobs, which we'd all pretty much abandoned while Dad was in the hospital, she scrambled to find volunteers to come and stay with my Dad for the other half of the day.
I was scheduled to be one of those volunteers. Unfortunately, I'd come down with some horrendous virus, which wound up landing me at my own doctor's. She told me that I had a really bad gastro-intestinal virus, and that it was HIGHLY contagious. She warned me not to go anywhere near my Dad for at least 48 - 72 hours. I was devastated. My mom was furious.
She did manage to find other family members to go and care for Dad, who seemed to be holding his own at home. For the entire week, he was brought back and forth to the hospital to continue receiving radiation. All seemed to stay steady.... until my dad returned home after receiving his fourth radiation treatment.
Saturday, September 16, 1989: My Dad wound up getting diarrhea so badly that he could barely make it from the bed to the bathroom, and wound up soiling his pants several times over the course of the weekend. My mom later recalled that at one point, she rocked him as he cried like a baby, apologizing over and over to her for being so helpless. It was so uncharacteristic of my father to ever need any kind of help, and going to the toilet was seriously private for him. So, to not only need help going back and forth to the bathroom, but also having his wife clean up after his "accidents", made him feel deeply ashamed and humiliated. I can't even imagine just how badly her heart broke for him.
By Sunday night, he'd turned to my mother and softly stated, "Toddy, I think it's time for me to go back to the hospital." She knew, right then and there, that there was very little hope left.
Monday, September 18, 1989: My parents' 42nd wedding anniversary was celebrated as my father's birthday was.... in a hospital room. My Dad had been transported, by ambulance, back to the hospital the night before, right after my Mom made a quick phone call to the Oncologist, to let him know of my father's current condition, and to ask for his advice. He suggested that my father get back to the hospital.... quick.
Given my father's demeanor on the evening of their wedding anniversary, I almost couldn't believe that he was having any real problems. Yes, he looked fragile and weak, but again, his spirit was back in full force, and he was enjoying having his children and grandchildren around, wishing him and his bride love and best wishes for a future we'd all hoped they would have.
It wasn't until I encountered a brief moment alone with my Dad... a moment when he asked me to help him get to the bathroom and back, that I realized fully how dire his situation was. He was sitting in the chair, and as I gently helped to get him upright, I could feel that he was nothing more than skin and bones underneath the Johnny that draped around him. And he had an underlying smell that was almost putrid. A smell that went beyond dirt and grime. A smell of death.
Tuesday, September 19, 1989: When I first contacted my boss, letting her know of my father's situation and the need to spend some time with him and my family, her initial response was, "Take all the time you need." Apparently, the time I needed was far different from the time she expected me to be out of the office. She started calling me, telling me that my projects were beginning to pile up, and although she was terribly sorry to bother me at such a difficult time, my presence was sorely needed at work. So, I began going into the office, to try my best to play catch up with all of the lingering work I needed to complete. This was before the age of the laptop, and the ability to work from home, so it was almost mandatory that I show up to make some sort of dent.
I managed to put in a full day that Tuesday, and was reassured by my boss that she greatly appreciated my presence, and that if I could even come in for half-days for awhile, she'd be grateful. As I was leaving the office to head towards the hospital, I told her I'd do my very best for her.
As a result of putting in so many hours, and fighting through the rush hour traffic to get to the hospital, I didn't show up there until early evening. I walked into my Dad's room, expecting to see the same man I'd visited with the day before. I was completely shocked to see such an enormous transformation.
He was in serious pain, and was practically writhing from it. His hallucinations had come back full force, and almost everyone he encountered was thought of as someone else. His skin was turning yellow from the jaundice he was beginning to experience -- a hazard of his non-functioning kidneys and liver, which were both beginning to completely shut down.
Shortly after I arrived, the family and I were whisked into a conference room to meet with the team of doctors who had been working on my father's case. Their faces where blank and their voices were matter-of-fact as they gave us the rundown on his current condition. Not only were his liver and kidneys shutting down, but his other vital organs were following suit. Despite their efforts with the chemotherapy and radiation, his cancer appeared to have metastasized throughout his entire body, and he was in dire pain. His prognosis was fatal; they didn't give him much longer. He was dying.
They recommended that his morphine levels be bumped up considerably, to keep him comfortable "until the end". I think I'd pretty much blacked out from the information overload, up until that statement. I awoke from my protective fog to hear sounds of weeping from several members of my family.
I had an important question to ask, and I wanted to make sure I had the answer before I could cast my vote on the morphine issue.
"Can you tell me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my father is no longer lucid enough to make his own decisions regarding his healthcare and pain management?" All three doctors concurred -- with a resounding yes.
My vote was in. My Dad began receiving massive quantities of morphine.
My mother was all but inconsolable. My sister decided to take her to the cafeteria, to let her air out for awhile before taking her back to see my Dad -- maybe for the last time. Everyone else went with them. Everyone but me.
I went back to my father's bedside. He was sleeping soundly, but woke up when he saw me. He must have seen me as his young bride, because he called out to me, "Toddy! Hold my hand, Toddy! I'm so scared." I couldn't hold back any longer. I started to sob as I took my father's rough, well-worked hands. The hand I used to hold when crossing the street. The hand I held when I pretended he was my boyfriend. The hand that used to stroke my hair when I was sick. The hand that lifted me up when I was down, protected me from harm, and held me when I needed comfort. Now that hand, and that man, needed comfort from me. So, even though he thought I was his young wife, in a life they'd had so long ago, I held him. I sat, and sobbed, and held him as he lay dying.
It was the last time I saw my father alive.
Wednesday, September 20, 1989. As promised, I went into work that morning. I had a lot to accomplish on my first half-day, and was eager to cut through the paperwork on my desk, and return to the hospital to see how my Dad was doing.
I'd been there for about an hour, when Sarah Bodge, my co-worker and dear friends, knocked gently on my office door. Since her office was right next to mine, I could hear her on the phone moments before. By the end of the call, she was crying. When she knocked on my door, I almost wanted to tell her to go away and leave me alone, because I knew, in my heart of hearts what she had come to tell me.
Instead, I slowly turned my chair to face her. Her usual beautifully applied make-up was streaking down her face, along with a steady stream of tears. She seemed completely oblivious to it though. The information she carried to that door with her held much more importance.
"I just got off the phone with your mom. She asked me to tell you this as gently as possible. I'm so terribly sorry to tell you this, sweetie, but your Dad just passed away."
What happened next was a total blur. I remember falling into Sarah's arms, screaming "No! No! NO!!!!", and sobbing in a gutteral, animal way I'd never cried before. Someone must have called my husband's work, because he showed up shortly afterwards to take me to the hospital -- to be with my mother and the rest of my family. And to say my last goodbye to my Dad.
One month. One short month. No one knew, on that evening down The Cape, that all we'd have left with him was one short month. No matter how you look at it, it just wasn't enough time.
My guess is, that no matter what it was you were up to, you can probably remember some of the details pretty clearly. Why? Because it was only a month ago, right?
Now....keep that in mind as you read this. Because my point is, as the title of this post suggests, in the grand scheme of things, a month really isn't very long at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday, August 20, 1989: My husband and I walked in through the door of our tiny apartment, after our virtually silent ride home from The Cape. Our plan was to drop off all of our luggage (much of it still untouched), check in on our kitties and make sure they still had enough food and a fresh supply of water, and then head off to the hospital to find out more about my Dad.
A short time later, we were standing at the registration desk of Mt. Auburn Hospital, finding out which room they were holding my father hostage in. We walked through a maze of hallways, and took what seemed like a dozen elevators before we'd finally found it. I hesitated for a moment before I stepped inside, took a deep breath, and put on a cheesy smile. At least I could attempt to make light of the situation, and not stress him out any more than he probably already was.
I walked in to find some of my family already there. My mom was sitting on a chair next to his bed, looking pretty shell-shocked and worn out. My guess was she hadn't been home much since she left the cottage a few days before, and it clearly showed. My sister was there, too...sitting on the radiator in front of the big plate-glass windows. My niece Alison was sitting beside her, and the two of them looked as if they were just about holding each other up.
I moved closer to the bed, where my father was taking up space. He was propped up to a near sitting position, and was chatting up everyone when I walked in. He saw me, and said, "Oh, there she is!", as he had done so many times whenever I came to visit. But, this time, it sounded so much smaller somehow, and his voice sounded deflated, as if he were a balloon whose air is slowly leaking out somewhere. He looked old, he looked tired, and he looked really, really sick. It took all I had to turn around and bolt.
We all made small talk for a bit, and then my mother asked me to go to the cafeteria with her, to get something to eat. I knew my mother well enough to know that she probably hadn't eaten a thing since she brought my father to the hospital, and I wondered what she really wanted of me.
As we were walking, she updated me on Dad's situation. She told me she'd spoken to the head Oncologist, who had also consulted with the head Oncologist at Brigham and Women's. They both agreed that there was a slight chance that they could "minimize the cancer in Dad's liver by giving him a large dose of chemotherapy, followed by radiation". My heart actually leaped up to my throat when I heard this... could there be a possibility that my father might survive this, after all?
Then, my mother hit me with the bad news. Given my Dad's weakened state, the dose of chemotherapy they're considering might kill him.
And then, my mother dropped the real bombshell.
She told me that she gave them permission to go ahead with it, and that his first dose was scheduled to be administered the next morning.
My head was reeling. I didn't know what to think. Should I be optimistic, and hope, possibly beyond hope, that this "plan" could work and restore my Dad's health? Or, should I resign myself to the fact that my Dad was going to die?
Suddenly, the idea of grabbing a tuna fish sandwich and a bag of chips in the cafeteria didn't quite appeal to me. In fact, I was trying really hard to keep myself from hurling all over the place.
I took another deep breath (I took a lot of them, in those days), and told my mother that if she'd talked things over with Dad, and he agreed to the procedure, that I supported the decision 100%.
That's when she told me that Dad didn't know a thing. In fact, he still thought that he'd had a hernia, and the surgery was to repair it.
What???? WHAT????
I couldn't contain myself. I asked her how in the HELL could she possibly think that keeping that kind of information from him could be a good thing? She said, "Because I know your father, Cheryl. Probably more than anyone else on earth. And I know that if he realizes he's as sick as he is, he won't fight it. He'll just give up."
How could she possibly think that? My Dad would never give up on anything. ANYTHING. But, she seemed to be convinced that this was the right thing to do for him, and I knew it would be pointless to even try to make her believe otherwise.
Thursday, August 31, 1989: My Dad had been through the full cycle of chemotherapy, and was suffering miserably because of it. With the first two or three treatments, his strength and health seemed to get a bit better, and we all sincerely hoped for the best. But, as the massive amounts of toxic chemicals kept being pumped into his body, his body finally broke down because of it, making him vomit, sweat, have chronic diarrhea, and feel generally like crawling into a deep hole and never coming out.
He went from having moments of clarity and lucidity, regaining the dry humor and amazing intelligence that was typical of my Dad, to suffering bouts of hallucinations: talking to ghosts of ship mates long past, with whom he'd seen many things that no 17-year-old boy should have to witness, as a sailor in the Navy during World War II; having conversations with my dearly departed Nana, whom he fiercely adored and missed tremendously; and recounting events from our childhood that we'd all long since forgotten.
Monday, September 4, 1989: My father's 62nd birthday was celebrated in his hospital room. We'd all brought in flowers, cards, presents, and a huge cake. It was actually a pretty decent day with Dad. He was "in the moment", and seemed happy and content to have us all there with him to honor his special day. He even managed to spend most of his time with us sitting up in a chair, rather than lying in bed.
We'd also received some good news from his doctors. They seemed to think that, even though my father wasn't 100%, he was well enough to attempt going home. Of course, this news made us all incredibly hopeful. So much so that my mother went through a flurry of preparations to get their apartment spic and span for my father's homecoming. She hired several contractors to install new carpeting, paint the inside walls and trim, and make some repairs -- all of which my father had promised her he'd get to, but never got the chance. She wanted so much to make his home as "revitalized" as his health seemed to be.
Saturday, September 9, 1989: My father arrived home, and although he was weak and tired, he was definitely glad to be in his familiar surroundings. Before he'd left the hospital, he'd had his second round of radiation. His doctors felt that, since he'd done so well with the first round, that it was "safe" to continue with the rest of his treatments.
On Monday, my mother arranged to begin at-home hospice care for Dad. But, she was quite dismayed when she found out that their insurance only covered part-time care. Since all of us (including her) were in desperate need to return to our jobs, which we'd all pretty much abandoned while Dad was in the hospital, she scrambled to find volunteers to come and stay with my Dad for the other half of the day.
I was scheduled to be one of those volunteers. Unfortunately, I'd come down with some horrendous virus, which wound up landing me at my own doctor's. She told me that I had a really bad gastro-intestinal virus, and that it was HIGHLY contagious. She warned me not to go anywhere near my Dad for at least 48 - 72 hours. I was devastated. My mom was furious.
She did manage to find other family members to go and care for Dad, who seemed to be holding his own at home. For the entire week, he was brought back and forth to the hospital to continue receiving radiation. All seemed to stay steady.... until my dad returned home after receiving his fourth radiation treatment.
Saturday, September 16, 1989: My Dad wound up getting diarrhea so badly that he could barely make it from the bed to the bathroom, and wound up soiling his pants several times over the course of the weekend. My mom later recalled that at one point, she rocked him as he cried like a baby, apologizing over and over to her for being so helpless. It was so uncharacteristic of my father to ever need any kind of help, and going to the toilet was seriously private for him. So, to not only need help going back and forth to the bathroom, but also having his wife clean up after his "accidents", made him feel deeply ashamed and humiliated. I can't even imagine just how badly her heart broke for him.
By Sunday night, he'd turned to my mother and softly stated, "Toddy, I think it's time for me to go back to the hospital." She knew, right then and there, that there was very little hope left.
Monday, September 18, 1989: My parents' 42nd wedding anniversary was celebrated as my father's birthday was.... in a hospital room. My Dad had been transported, by ambulance, back to the hospital the night before, right after my Mom made a quick phone call to the Oncologist, to let him know of my father's current condition, and to ask for his advice. He suggested that my father get back to the hospital.... quick.
Given my father's demeanor on the evening of their wedding anniversary, I almost couldn't believe that he was having any real problems. Yes, he looked fragile and weak, but again, his spirit was back in full force, and he was enjoying having his children and grandchildren around, wishing him and his bride love and best wishes for a future we'd all hoped they would have.
It wasn't until I encountered a brief moment alone with my Dad... a moment when he asked me to help him get to the bathroom and back, that I realized fully how dire his situation was. He was sitting in the chair, and as I gently helped to get him upright, I could feel that he was nothing more than skin and bones underneath the Johnny that draped around him. And he had an underlying smell that was almost putrid. A smell that went beyond dirt and grime. A smell of death.
Tuesday, September 19, 1989: When I first contacted my boss, letting her know of my father's situation and the need to spend some time with him and my family, her initial response was, "Take all the time you need." Apparently, the time I needed was far different from the time she expected me to be out of the office. She started calling me, telling me that my projects were beginning to pile up, and although she was terribly sorry to bother me at such a difficult time, my presence was sorely needed at work. So, I began going into the office, to try my best to play catch up with all of the lingering work I needed to complete. This was before the age of the laptop, and the ability to work from home, so it was almost mandatory that I show up to make some sort of dent.
I managed to put in a full day that Tuesday, and was reassured by my boss that she greatly appreciated my presence, and that if I could even come in for half-days for awhile, she'd be grateful. As I was leaving the office to head towards the hospital, I told her I'd do my very best for her.
As a result of putting in so many hours, and fighting through the rush hour traffic to get to the hospital, I didn't show up there until early evening. I walked into my Dad's room, expecting to see the same man I'd visited with the day before. I was completely shocked to see such an enormous transformation.
He was in serious pain, and was practically writhing from it. His hallucinations had come back full force, and almost everyone he encountered was thought of as someone else. His skin was turning yellow from the jaundice he was beginning to experience -- a hazard of his non-functioning kidneys and liver, which were both beginning to completely shut down.
Shortly after I arrived, the family and I were whisked into a conference room to meet with the team of doctors who had been working on my father's case. Their faces where blank and their voices were matter-of-fact as they gave us the rundown on his current condition. Not only were his liver and kidneys shutting down, but his other vital organs were following suit. Despite their efforts with the chemotherapy and radiation, his cancer appeared to have metastasized throughout his entire body, and he was in dire pain. His prognosis was fatal; they didn't give him much longer. He was dying.
They recommended that his morphine levels be bumped up considerably, to keep him comfortable "until the end". I think I'd pretty much blacked out from the information overload, up until that statement. I awoke from my protective fog to hear sounds of weeping from several members of my family.
I had an important question to ask, and I wanted to make sure I had the answer before I could cast my vote on the morphine issue.
"Can you tell me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my father is no longer lucid enough to make his own decisions regarding his healthcare and pain management?" All three doctors concurred -- with a resounding yes.
My vote was in. My Dad began receiving massive quantities of morphine.
My mother was all but inconsolable. My sister decided to take her to the cafeteria, to let her air out for awhile before taking her back to see my Dad -- maybe for the last time. Everyone else went with them. Everyone but me.
I went back to my father's bedside. He was sleeping soundly, but woke up when he saw me. He must have seen me as his young bride, because he called out to me, "Toddy! Hold my hand, Toddy! I'm so scared." I couldn't hold back any longer. I started to sob as I took my father's rough, well-worked hands. The hand I used to hold when crossing the street. The hand I held when I pretended he was my boyfriend. The hand that used to stroke my hair when I was sick. The hand that lifted me up when I was down, protected me from harm, and held me when I needed comfort. Now that hand, and that man, needed comfort from me. So, even though he thought I was his young wife, in a life they'd had so long ago, I held him. I sat, and sobbed, and held him as he lay dying.
It was the last time I saw my father alive.
Wednesday, September 20, 1989. As promised, I went into work that morning. I had a lot to accomplish on my first half-day, and was eager to cut through the paperwork on my desk, and return to the hospital to see how my Dad was doing.
I'd been there for about an hour, when Sarah Bodge, my co-worker and dear friends, knocked gently on my office door. Since her office was right next to mine, I could hear her on the phone moments before. By the end of the call, she was crying. When she knocked on my door, I almost wanted to tell her to go away and leave me alone, because I knew, in my heart of hearts what she had come to tell me.
Instead, I slowly turned my chair to face her. Her usual beautifully applied make-up was streaking down her face, along with a steady stream of tears. She seemed completely oblivious to it though. The information she carried to that door with her held much more importance.
"I just got off the phone with your mom. She asked me to tell you this as gently as possible. I'm so terribly sorry to tell you this, sweetie, but your Dad just passed away."
What happened next was a total blur. I remember falling into Sarah's arms, screaming "No! No! NO!!!!", and sobbing in a gutteral, animal way I'd never cried before. Someone must have called my husband's work, because he showed up shortly afterwards to take me to the hospital -- to be with my mother and the rest of my family. And to say my last goodbye to my Dad.
One month. One short month. No one knew, on that evening down The Cape, that all we'd have left with him was one short month. No matter how you look at it, it just wasn't enough time.
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