Tag: family

Beds

I can’t really remember the beginning of this story. There have been so many versions of the beginning that I can’t quite place the proximate cause. And the initial what really isn’t important.

Where my memory–and this story–starts is driving up to Henry Ford Macomb Hospital on 19 Mile Road. It was dark, but that doesn’t mean too much in mid-December Michigan. If it was dark it could have been 5 pm, but I think it was closer to eight.

I don’t know if I checked into the hotel first, but I must have so I wouldn’t be distracted by that personal logistical detail of where I would sleep.

Although she’d been at Henry Ford Macomb before, I hadn’t. She had been abulanced to the ER the day before. There was confusion about whether she was getting admitted so I flew in to see what was happening.

I walked into the hospital to find her room. She didn’t have one. Somehow she was still in the ER and had been for 36 hours. The nice lady at the desk told me to get back in my car and drive around the hospital to the ER entrance. I asked if I could walk and she looked at me like I didn’t realize that I was in the Motor City where people do NOT walk when they could drive.

She was in an observation bay at the far end of the ER, a little bitty lump underneath a bunch of blankets that doubled her silhouette. She was asleep so I brushed a kiss on her wisps of white hair. Her skin was gray. I followed the IV to see that she was getting blood. To counteract that gray, I supposed.

There was a bunch of untouched food on the tray next to her and some empty blood bags.

This joint was a disaster. Patients in ER limbo for days. Improper biohazard handling. An impotent patient advocacy process. (Why would an organization create multiple ineffective avenues for remediation? You only need one ineffective procedure.)

She was surprised to see me when she woke up, except she really wasn’t. Waking up in a hospital bed is accompanied by a through-the-looking-glass haze, and, while I didn’t belong in this scene neither did she.

Her smile was weak, but it was sunny and I was so happy to be there: to advocate for her; to make the nurses really see her; to argue about a room with the moronic patient advocate; to steamroller through to the hospital president; and to get what she needed.

I was there to watch the miracle blood bring back the color in her cheeks and watch her lose her wilt. I sat with her for a few days. I held her hand. I made sure she ordered food and that she ate it. I positioned her poinsettia so she could remark again and again on how beautiful it was. I held her hand again, and rubbed her back. And she melted at the touch. I sat next to her with my computer on my lap so she would wake up and see me. We chit chatted about pretty much nothing.

I did this, I thought, for her. But when she peacefully died in her sleep in her own bed a short few weeks later, I knew that I had done it for me and that it was my hand melting when I touched hers.

How fortunate that the hospital was such a shit-show. I am grateful for a last intimate connection. I am happy that I was present with her and she with me. It was a good-bye that I didn’t recognize in that moment. But it was good.

Thinking about you, Mom, especially today, the anniversary of that last time you snuggled up in your bed and went to sleep. Sweet dreams.

Posted on by docthink 0

Bam Ba Lam

Old lady singing into a large microphone

“Oh, God!” said my high-school boyfriend.

Me: What?
HSBF: You know that song, ‘bam ba lam’?
Me: Yeah?
HSBF: It came on the radio today and MY MOM WAS SINGING IT!!!

Oh. The, Horror.

It was a little funny, except that I never met his mom. So I didn’t have much perspective. Come to think about it, I never met his dad. Or his brothers. In 30ish months of “going together,” with our ancestral homes separated by about a mile, I never met his people.

My mom introduced me to the Beatles. She would play Meet the Beatles and Introducing The Beatles. She had a bunch of old records we’d listen to, like Limbo Rock. I grew up with people listening to music. People had records and also listened to music on the radio. And sang along.

My folks gave me my first AM radio when I was about seven. I used to listen to CKLW [the motor ciiitttttyyy] like church. Detroit radio introduced me to the Stones, Supremes, Little Stevie, Smokey, Aretha, Clapton/Cream/Stevie W/Traffic, Zeppelin, The Who, Kiss, Prince, George Clinton and GrandMaster Flash.

When I was ten, I got my first turntable. It also had a radio that included FM! I bought my first LP–Elton John’s Greatest Hits. In high school I had a job in a record store. I always had music on–in the house, in the car, via my portable FM radio and eventually on my boombox.

On school mornings, I’d get up, pad into the kitchen and turn on the radio to eat breakfast. We’d listen to the AOR station (I’ll be the roundabout). I guess my Mom listened. She didn’t turn it off or tell us to turn it down. She’d be in the room, so I guess she listened or at least heard.

So, like who cares that your mom knows your song?

Maybe that’s why I didn’t know his mom and family. He cared that his mom knew his song. As if only we teens owned the public airwaves. As if it was unacceptable that his mom was part of that public. What if he was embarassed of his family? I didn’t know them so maybe they were embarrassing. That said, they couldn’t be much worse than mine, and he was over our house all the time. What if WE were the embarrassing ones–lacking even the most basic self-awareness that we were embarrassing?

I know that I resemble an embarrassment to my spawn. Rolling into the Boys and Girls Club after summer camp with Get Low blasting from the minivan is certainly cringe-worthy. Or when a millennial colleague caught me on my headphones and asked me what I was listening to. Don’t judge an old book by it’s cover, I say.

So I’m thinking about HSBF’s mom, enjoying music. And hope that she looked like this:

And for the record, these Black Betty induced memories were triggered as the Big Guy blared it from his phone, followed by some Creedence. He ain’t no fortunate son. He came by it honest.

Posted on by docthink 0

First of The Year

me, my mom and sibs before we were orphans

Frankly last year was much less a trial than 2014. Not that I’m complaining. Overall healthy and happy and–after upping my craft beer consumption in Traverse City–fat.

Folks would likely say that it was good to take it easy after that roller coaster, but I think that I was a bit too easy. Does lazy rhyme with easy? I think so. While I don’t want to be that person who jumps over social media, I did realize that I was spending too much of my down time with where child stars are now, seventeen celebrity plastic surgery botches (number 9 will surprise you!), and way too much time on the escapades of a rich man who wants to be king. So I started with a Trump-diet and now am more mindful on taking the click bait.

I started thinking about all the posts that I start in my head and don’t write and therefore never publish. Seems to be less lazy to create than simply consume. So I’m publicly challenging myself to post every day for the next year.

Yes, Loyal Reader. Every. Stinking. Day. For. The. Entire. Year.

So today I am posting a musing on becoming the old people. Because I became that last January when my mom died. There are a few flung of my Aunts/Uncles left, there’s really only two that I know. And none that my kids know.

So now that the Spouse and I are orphans, we have become the old people. The elders. Maybe a little earlier than we should have, but that’s who we are. There is a turnover at the old people’s table, and I found myself there.

And, I wonder if the elders before me had a mental image of themselves of being 28–or some such age. I don’t see myself as one of those old hippie baby-boomers, but I think others just might. It’s my personal cognitive dissonance. Am I inside out? Or outside in?

Until tomorrow, Loyal Reader.

Posted on by docthink 2

Parchment

College paper. Printed out.

My son wrote a very good, very smart paper.

It was all the more remarkable by the restraint. His argument was tight. His passion was clear. He made his points with clarity and only a hint of his impressive vocabulary that he wields as a poet.

And I couldn’t throw it out.

It was the print copy that I proofed for him. I was clearing the table for dinner, and had to move the pile of pages, unnumbered and with only a very few specs of my penciled carats in the margin. It interrupted the laying out of pork loin chops, Swiss chard and a very, very good warm potato salad with Dijon and capers.

And I couldn’t throw it out.

As if it was an original. Irreplaceable.

I know that the bits and bytes, the zeroes and ones, the binary form of this paper that are these smart words are in the computer. I know they are also accessible via The Cloud. And they can be reproduced easily via .

And, still, I couldn’t throw away these sheets that made the words real. Because if they are not held in my hand, can the thoughts disappear? Forever? Unretrievable?

I can’t throw it away. I want it.  For real.

Posted on by docthink 0

Mother’s Day Anew

Estee Lauder Modern Muse gift with purchase

I got one of those gifts with purchase. That special bag filled with makeup goodies from the department store that makes you feel like you got something all the while pretending you didn’t get taken by them because you spent $17 on mascara and had to find something else to bring you up to the minimum purchase requirement. As an aside, the good news is, when you get old and are trying to hold visible age at bay, the products are much more expensive so you only need to buy one item. And you feel like you BETTER get something with that purchase.

The bag is pretty and a good size. The lipstick is in a shade I can wear (the only thing slightly worse than getting a shade that is hideous is getting a perfect shade that becomes your favorite and when you run out you don’t want to spend $22 on a tube of lipstick that they gave you for free). The eyeshadow kit is always the most fun. I play with the different combos of colors. I do one eye using a light hand and then do the other eye super dramatic. Then I usually wash it off and put the kit away and later wonder why I have so much junk.

I put the bag, eyeshadow, lipstick, cleanser and moisturizer in the bathroom. It will be out on the counter for a few weeks and then I’ll hide it.

I was clearing off the table to set it for dinner and found the fragrance that came in the kit. I didn’t put it in the bag. I’m weird about scent. I’ve been wearing the same fragrance for pretty much my entire adult life. And when I tried other perfumes, I’d go mad smelling myself all day. So back to the familiar.

I picked up the pretty, miniature bottle and thought that I’d bring it to my mother. I have been bringing her these “foo-foo” samples–especially on her too many trips to the hospital or rehab. Fancy eau de toilette is always a lift and a laugh.

As I fingered the bottle and briefly traversed that thought, I remembered that Mom is gone. Just like that. Boom. Jarred into reality.

I heard an ad on the radio about getting a gift for Mothers’ Day, and felt another tug. I don’t have a mom to give anything to anymore. Not since January.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. I didn’t know Mothers’ Day was a holiday of pain. I guess that’s what happens. Crappy circle of life.

And Happy Mothers’ day, Mom. Miss you.

Posted on by docthink 0

First Tattoo

big mean-ass dragon

My dad had tattoos. He served in the Navy, part of the Greatest Generation. He had an anchor on one bicep. A battleship on the other forearm. And above the battleship, a young woman with curly hair wearing a crackerjack hat with a few of his ports of call underneath her smile. We always said she was Mom.

My sibs got tattoos at different times. My one sib originally had a little unicorn with a rainbow and a kitty-cat with her little paw in the air. Not my style. When Dad died, she had an anchor tattooed on her ankle.

My other sib is a musician and had an eighth note with a rose tattooed on her chest. She got an anchor, too.

I always wanted a tattoo of a menacing dragon. One that I would wear over my back and shoulder with the tail just curling over the top of my arm. If I wore a tank top, you would see the tail and wonder what the whip was attached to.

But I never got the tattoo. The colors would fade, and my imagination had vibrant colors. Worse, as I aged, it would sag. And anyway, it’d probably hurt.

Yesterday I had my mouth tattooed so they can track the size of the tumor in there. In my head, it looks like a dragon. And it will kick evil’s ass.

Posted on by docthink 0

Baaack (again)

I thought I might blog over on another platform, but it just seemed disconnected from my thinkings. I thought about starting a new blog, but I liked this old one. So, I thought that I would just write here, again.

I wanted to write again because I haven’t written from my own voice on my own things for a really long time.

I really enjoyed being the Doctor of Thinkology and just thinking about things. I stopped writing here when I started up a professional blog. I just couldn’t keep up two blogs. That other blog was a good blog. I liked the analysis and writing, and it helped me out professionally. But then I switched jobs and had a conflict with that blog. So, I pretty much stopped writing.

So, now, to catch you up, the the 16-year-old in this post is now 22.  And the 11-year-old here is now 19. I think I will rename them Big Guy and Little Guy. Which is not reflective of their sizes. Also, this sweet pup has left us but we have brought another into our home. Oh, and one more catch up thing. I got cancer. Guess that really explains why I’m back.

Posted on by docthink 0

Giving Thanks

boys walking

I have been quite a laggard in postings. My apologies to my loyal reader. As the turkey roasts, I am thinking about the thanks I am giving.

  • I am thankful that the 17-year-old hooked me up with my new favorite band. Great music to prep Thanksgiving Dinner by.
  • I am thankful that the Spouse has cooked dinner pretty much every night since September 15. AND has done the dishes, too.
  • I am thankful that the 14-year-old has introduced me to the FIERCE sport of wrasslin’. Little girls cried during the last meet. Fierce, I tell you.
  • I am thankful for working in the Bush administration. Without those guys, I would have never learned new levels of tolerance–and never loved so many Republicans. Yes, they are people, too.
  • I am thankful that we have good health insurance, didn’t get dumb in the mortgage market, live within our means and have stable jobs. I pray that the new guys–with our help–make changes so that more people can give this set of thanks next year.
  • I am thankful for Facebook. Sounds dumb, but it’s like living in a far-flung dorm–low pressure way to be in the lives of people you care about. (Sibling, get on the stick!)
  • I am thankful that my mother is a fighter. She has been in rehab 3 times over the past year, after a fall, a broken ankle, and then major GI surgery. Each time we worried that she might be too tired to push her 85-year-self through rehab. And each time she proves us wrong.
  • I am thankful that I have the best spouse, kids and dog in the whole wide world. Bar none. No one can dispute this. Don’t even try.

And I am thankful to you, my loyal reader. I write this mostly for me, but am thankful that you take some of your time to think with me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Posted on by docthink 1

The Obama Relationship: Why Should We Talk About It?

This is a screamingly odd endorsement. While I can respect the authors’ expertise in family and marriage counseling, I hang my hopes and dreams on the promise of Obama’s policies and NOT on having a “storybook romance.” How silly.

A president can be a great president even if he has a strained family relationship–Lincoln, FDR. A person can be an exceptional leader even if s/he has a hard time with a spouse. And IT ISN”T IMPORTANT if John McCain curses at his wife or sees her as a brilliant partner. It simply doesn’t matter.

Nobody knows what goes on between Michele and Barack behind closed doors. Nobody knows if they have vicious fights or spend days not talking to each other. Nobody knows if she gets angry because he doesn’t know what Sasha’s homework is. Or because he blew off a social engagement with her family. And that they made up or that it simmers. DOESN”T matter.

Obama does not walk on water. He does not need to be a perfect specimen of a human being. He needs to be an effective leader of the U.S., a cool-headed man who can propel our country forward into this millennium full of challenges like energy, the environment, education and healthcare.

Good for Michele if he picks up his socks or he is sexually attracted to her–but it makes no difference to me.

Read the Article at HuffingtonPost

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
Posted on by docthink 1

Trying to Get It Right

white charger

I was speeding up M-39 one year ago, at this time. I was zipping around cars to try and get to St. John Oakland Hospital.

No that’s not right.

I was creeping along up the Southfield Freeway. My flight was on time to Detroit, and the Sibs knew that I was on my way. I was really wishing that I had taken the noon flight. I got the call around ten in the morning, but it would have been too close. The next flight was 2:30. Gave me a little more time to deal with the logistics of an out of town spouse and two boys home for summer vaycay.

No that’s not right. My dealing with the logistics was: two frantic calls, throwing some clothes in a bag. I specifically packed a jacket. In case I was staying for a funeral.

No, that’s not right. There was no “in case.” At least that’s what my ever-the practical brain knew. Fortunately, the brain was in charge of packing. And the brain was in charge as I was stuck in traffic on the freeway. Between exits 5 and 6, my cell phone rang. And for that split second, the brain lost control of the situation. The heart fumbled for the phone.

The brain grabbed control back and immediately was sorry that the phone was answered. It was the Sibling who had news for me.

No, that’s not right. She didn’t have news, because I already knew. And I asked her not to tell me. I told her I would be there in about 30 minutes. I didn’t need to hear it right this second. I still had time. I wasn’t ready, and it would do me no good to know right now. “It can wait,” I said. I cried as I crawled up the “express”way.

No, that’s not right. My volume was high when I told her I didn’t want to know. She felt I had to know right then. I was so angry. I hung up before she could get it all out. I screamed. Then, I cried. I was stuck in traffic, I was all fucking alone in some strange car, in a city that I hate. I couldn’t pull over. My eyes stung.

I wasn’t so sure where the hospital was. I knew where the other hospital was, but not this one. I drove past it, had to turn around. I went into the lot and parked the car. (I think it was a sliver sedan. A white Charger maybe? Yeah, that was it, the white Charger that failed me.) I went to the desk and asked to see my father.

No, that’s not right. I didn’t know what to ask. I couldn’t see my father in the way you see someone in the hospital. It was more like seeing someone in a morgue. He was dead. So I told the woman at the information desk that I wanted to see my father, and that he was dead, and that he died within the past hour. Where would he–and my family–be?

I went into the ICU and he was there. With my mother and Sib#1. Sib#2 and SpouseOf#2 were in the hall.

No, that’s not right. He wasn’t there. His body was. And I don’t think that he had been there for a few days. So it didn’t really matter that I missed seeing him. Traffic didn’t matter. The noon flight wouldn’t have helped. But what I wanted was that all three of us were with him so he would know that we were all there. All together. All for him. The brain knew that he wouldn’t have known. Then brain went to work tending to the tasks at hand. There was alot to do, and this was all new.

No, that’s not right. The heart kept trying to poke out from the heavy blanket. It did matter.

No, that’s not right. It doesn’t matter.

No, that’s not right. It does.

No….

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
Posted on by docthink 1