G is for Generations

April 10, 2018 Sally3 Comments

I’ve been away for a few days on a much-needed retreat with my husband (and, as a result, have fallen behind in my A to Z Challenge). We traveled to one of my favorite places — Laity Lodge, which is in the remote hill country of Texas.

Meanwhile, back at home, my father’s grandchildren took care of him.

My father has nine grandchildren — eight of them are mine.

Helen, my oldest daughter, is an RN. She took time off, so I could take some time off. I think that’s pretty wonderful.

Every time I go away, it seems, my father needs to go to the Emergency Room. Each time it turns out to be nothing. Still, it was awfully nice to have someone with medical experience there with him. Plus four other of the grandchildren helped Helen — it takes a family to care for the elderly.

I remember when my father first held his first grandson. Dad took Philip in his arms and Philip promptly spit up all over him. I’m sure it had nothing to do with my father. Philip and I had just spent the whole day traveling and we were exhausted. After the initial whoops and clean-up, my father sat and held the sleeping baby for a long time.

Now I get great joy watching my father get down on the floor to play with his great-grandson.

When I think about my children taking care of my father, and about the special relationship especially the older kids have with him, it warms my heart.

Margaret Mead said, “Everyone needs to have access both to grandparents and grandchildren in order to be a full human being.”

I think she’s right.

A to Z Blogging Challenge · About My Dad · family

F is for Falls

April 6, 2018 Sally4 Comments

“Tell me about the fall,” the Physician’s Assistant asked as he removed the stitches from my father’s forehead the other day,.

“It’s a long story,” my father deflected.

“I’d like to hear it,” the PA said.

My father launched into his very short story — “I was standing at the foot of my bed and I fell. I’m not sure how or why.”

“Have you had other falls that require stitches?” he asked.

“I’ve never had stitches before,” my father replied.

I don’t know if he’s never had stitches before, but he hasn’t required stitches in recent years.

His last serious fall was early October 2015. I was making my annual pilgrimage to Nashville, and my father could still be home alone at that point. He wears a Lifeline pendant which can detect falls, so when he fell that night, my brother next door was notified.

Peter came down to the house where he found that my father had fallen and hit his head on some bookshelves in his bedroom. My father was quite insistent that he was fine. The ambulance came, checked him out, and he refused to go to the hospital.

“I’m fine,” he said.

But he wasn’t fine.

A few days after I got home, he said, “That fall must have done something to me. Something’s not right.”

I took him to the hospital, and, sure enough, something wasn’t right. He had a subdural hemorrhage that had bled into the ventricles of his brain. Because he hadn’t gone to the hospital, no one had told him to stop taking his Warfarin, a blood thinner, and the bleeding had gone on for nearly a week.

This turned out to be a good-news/bad-news situation. The bad news was that his injury was pretty serious and would take some time to resolve. The good news was that the scans of his brain also revealed another condition called Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus (NPH). The NPH may have been present for some time, and had probably caused the instability that led to the fall.

The next summer a neurosurgeon put in a ventriculo-peritoneal shunt that relieved the pressure in his brain by draining fluid into his abdominal cavity. It greatly improved his motor stability.

post-surgical Dad at the butterfly conservatory

Of course, he doesn’t remember any of it now.

When we were in the ER for the latest fall, the nurse asked if he had ever fallen before.

“No,” was the immediate answer.

“Don’t you remember the fall when you hit your head on the bookshelves?” I asked him.

He looked at me blankly. “No, I don’t,” he replied.

It was a lifetime ago. In the intervening two years, my mother had died, he had had the surgery, gone to rehab, and started having a home health aide come to help care for him. He had lost his driving privileges. He couldn’t live alone.

When he fell most recently, I was downstairs to help him immediately. I could see the gash on his forehead.

“We need to take you to the hospital,” I told him.

“No, I’ll be fine,” he said.

Some things don’t change.

Or perhaps they do.

We overrode his wishes and took him to the ER.

A to Z Blogging Challenge · About My Dad · family

E is for Eggs

April 5, 2018April 5, 2018 Sally2 Comments

Every Sunday morning I fix two over-easy eggs and a piece of toast for my father. When I set the plate down in front of him, his eyes light up. “Oh! Eggs!” he exclaims, clearly delighted.

For the longest time, he had been eating his cereals on a rotation. I had to remember which he had eaten the day before and correctly serve something different. Frosted Mini Wheats. Honey Bunches of Oats. Real Medleys.

For a much longer time before that, my mother had prepared breakfasts based on a schedule. Eggs were served twice a week. Hot cereal once or twice a week. Waffles were Sunday fare. My sister knew the schedule. Honestly, I hadn’t recognized the consistency of it until she wrote it down.

But there it was — this routine that was all but carved in stone.

Until it wasn’t.

Because my mother was slipping.

It devolved into an orderly cereal rotation, something he could handle on his own.

When I introduced Sunday eggs as a way of making the Sabbath special, for him it became a weekly delight.

His delight is my delight.

Then there was the time when age-10-me called from 4-H camp to ask about bringing home some chickens. My father thought I said “a chicken” so he agreed.

I brought home nineteen cute little Polish chicks. Thirteen of them turned out to be roosters, most of which mysteriously disappeared one day when my parents sent me to the movies. We also has some delicious chicken soups after that.

That was the beginning of my father’s stint as a chicken farmer. He shopped Murray McMurray for unusual chickens, ordering more than once an assortment they called “the rarest of the rare.”

He really wanted some Araucanas – the chickens that lay green eggs. I think he eventually got some but they weren’t the greatest layers.

But to answer the age-old question — for my father, the egg clearly comes first.

A to Z Blogging Challenge · About My Dad · family

D is for Dermatology

April 4, 2018 Sally8 Comments

“What kind of medicine did you practice?”

The still-wet-behind-the-ears spring-chicken doctors who have never met my father before always ask it.

What they don’t understand is how much medicine has changed in the past fifty years.

Fifty years ago, when my father left the military and settled in Cooperstown with his family, his job title was Head of General Services. General Services included the emergency room, the ambulatory clinic, and medical clinic. Basically, it was everything except OB/GYN, pediatrics, surgery, and radiology.

Back in the 60s and 70s, many doctors didn’t specialize the way they do today. They practiced medicine. The vast majority were probably what we would consider primary care providers today. Doctors followed patients their whole adult lives — or maybe it was the other way around.

As a side note, in addition to General Services, as if that wasn’t enough, my father was the medical director at the county nursing home (then called the “county infirmary”) and also oversaw public health.

As the giant centrifuge of medicine spun and spun, doctors began to be sorted out based on specialized interests. Bassett Hospital fostered learning and encouraged doctors to pursue their interests. My father’s was dermatology.

“I dabbled in dermatology,” is often his answer to the what-kind-of-medicine question. Or he’ll say, “I practiced internal medicine and dabbled in dermatology.” He was Bassett’s first dermatologist although he was never “Board-certified.” When he retired, dermatology was the last practice he gave up.

The dermatology nurses were the first to arrive at his party last month. Obviously, they adored him.

One dermatologist sent us this note (with his regrets that he couldn’t attend):

Don was one of the major reasons I came to Bassett in 1995. We talked at length by phone on several occasions, and during my recruitment visits. Don embodied everything that was appealing and excellent about Mary Imogene Bassett Hospital. He always cared so much about his patients, and all of Bassett’s patients. He was curious about their problems and committed to practicing excellent medicine. He was kind, concerned, and practiced “patient-centered” care long before the term was coined… I was very fortunate to have been able to learn from Don, and work with him as a colleague for several years before his full retirement.

Another doctor — an internist — sat at one of the tables at the party writing, writing, writing. Finally, he looked up, saw me, and said, “I want you to know this story, but I don’t think I can do it justice writing here and now. Can I just tell it to you?”

Of course I wanted to hear it. I’ll retell it as best I can remember (the places may not be correct, but the gist is there).

Before we had a dermatology department, we sent all the derm patients to your dad. He was very good.

Once, I had a patient with a peculiar skin problem. He was one of the “uppity-ups”, you know, from the city. Anyway, this fellow asked if Bassett had a dermatologist, and I told him no, but we had someone on staff who was very good. That wasn’t good enough for this patient, so he went to see the head of dermatology at Columbia. Well, that guy couldn’t help him.

About six months later, I saw the patient again. He still had the problem and asked again if I could recommend someone. I suggested your father, but he went instead to see the chief of dermatology at the Mayo Clinic. This guy was world-renowned, you know, and he didn’t know what the problem was either.

The next time I saw the patient, he was getting ready to fly to Germany. The best dermatologist in the world was there and had agreed to see him. No luck again. The Grand Poobah of Dermatology did not know what it was.

Finally, the patient came to me one last time and asked about seeing your father, and, of course, your father correctly diagnosed him and treated him.

My father more than “dabbled” in dermatology. He was pretty darn good.

Humility keeps him from saying that — so I will.

A to Z Blogging Challenge · About My Dad · family

C is for Cunningham

April 3, 2018 Sally3 Comments

C is for Cunningham. Glenn Cunningham, to be precise.

One of my father’s prize possessions is the following letter on University of Kansas letterhead stationery.

February 25, 1940

Dear Donald:

Your very good letter reached me several days ago and I was terribly sorry to hear of your accident. I hope that you are recovering satisfactorily without too much pain.

Those burns are painful and it sometimes takes a long time for them to heal. It took mine several months to even begin to get well. Just don’t let anything discourage you, fight your battle bravely and when you’re well you’ll be just that much better man for having had the experience. It sometimes takes things like these to make us fully appreciate good health and normal functioning of our entire bodies.

Take good care of yourself and do as your parents and you Doctor tell you to so you will get well without complications of any kind. It’s that dogged determination, the will to want to do a thing, that will make you successful in anything you want to do.

Best of luck and every good wish that you will be completely recovered very soon.

Your friend,
Glenn Cunningham

Glenn Cunningham had also included a picture with a note on the back:

“…When you are well and older I hope you beat that time.”

My father attended a 4-room school in Brookside, NJ through the 8th grade. The students had jobs to do at the school in addition to their studies. One day, when my father was 9 years old, he was doing his job of washing dishes and a shelf collapsed, spilling a large pot of boiling water on his legs.

I’m not sure who suggested it, but during his recuperation my father wrote a letter to Glenn Cunningham, a runner who had also suffered terrible burns to his legs as a boy. Glenn’s accident also took place at school when a stove exploded in the classroom. His brother Floyd died from the burns he suffered and doctors thought Glenn would never walk again.

When I read about Glenn Cunningham’s life, it reminds me of my father — a genuinely good man who used his life to help others. Glenn and his wife opened a ranch and helped raise over 10,000 foster children. My father had at least that many patients from walks of life and all socio-economic strata. Neither one prioritized monetary gain over service.

“It’s that dogged determination” and generosity of spirit that shaped both of their lives.

A to Z Blogging Challenge · About My Dad · family

A is for Army

April 1, 2018 Sally3 Comments

My father served in the United States Army.

I don’t think he would ever begin the story of his life at this point, but this is an alphabetical telling, not chronological. Plus, I was born during the Army years, so I suppose it’s a good place for me to start.

The Army helped pay for his medical school. In return, he gave them 6 years active duty.

One posting was in Eritrea, which at the time, was part of Ethiopia. My earliest memories are from Kagnew Station, the army base there. Those little fragments of memories hardly seem real. I rode camels. I sifted sugar to help in the kitchen. We had chameleons.

My early memories rarely include my father though. I imagine he was kept quite busy with his work.

He moved his way up through the ranks. This is one of my favorite pictures of my mom and dad from one of his promotion ceremonies.

When he left active duty, he didn’t fully leave the Army. For many years he belonged to an army reserve unit — the 414th Civil Affairs Battalion out of Utica. While in the reserves, he continued to study and move up in ranks, eventually becoming a Colonel. He called it a “full bird Colonel.”

“What comes after that?” younger me asked him.

“General,” he said, and I was duly impressed.

When he had put in whatever time he needed for a full retirement, he did just that.

These days he likes sorting things — emptying banks and sorting the coins, sorting through papers and photos, sorting pins of various shapes and sizes that he has acquired over the years.

At dinner the other night, he said to Karl, “I have a lot of insignia pins. I found a dish that had a whole bunch of them. Maybe you’ll have some use for them.”

I looked at the assortment he had spread over his dresser. Sure enough, those full-bird eagles were thrown in some pennies and nickels, a lucky 4-leaf clover, and a few caduceus.

He had forgotten the hard work that went into earning them. I’m not even sure he knew their significance. He was ready to give them away to anyone who seemed interested.

My dad was in the army, but I think he has forgotten it.

I remember, though.

I remember him shining his army boots on the night before reserve duty, and the smell of the boot black.

I remember how different he looked in his fatigues.

Mostly I remember feeling kind of proud that my father served in the army.

A to Z Blogging Challenge · dreams · family

2018 Blogging from A to Z: About My Dad

March 31, 2018March 31, 2018 Sally7 Comments

Tomorrow the A to Z Blogging Challenge starts. I missed the deadline for the Theme Reveal and I’m pretty sure I signed up twice. It makes me wonder how this year’s challenge will go.

Writing has been such a struggle lately. I can’t seem to find a chunk of time to write. Writing, or, for that matter, doing anything “in dribs and drabs,” as my mother used to say, is a challenge. It takes time to get into the right mindset and find the right words. For me, an interruption comes and I’ve been sent back to Monopoly/Writing Jail without collecting $200 or 200 words or anything.

Recently I had this horrible dream:

I was walking in a field with my family — my husband, my children, my siblings, and my father. The field grew swampy, and we were talking about how it hadn’t always been that way and how we planted corn on it in the past. The path was narrow and my father stepped too close to the swamp. As he fell in, the swamp became a deep hole full of water and I jumped in to save him. He was sinking so I swam beneath him to get his head to the surface so he could breathe. As I pushed him up to the surface, I felt myself running out of air. While underwater, I could see some family members sitting to rest, but they hadn’t noticed him falling in. No one was coming to rescue us. I couldn’t call for help because I was underwater. My father couldn’t call for help because he can’t think clearly. I realized that I needed air and I needed to get help, but to do that, I would have to let go of my father. I used all my strength to heave him up and then pushed myself toward the surface for a breath. He slid past me, like dead weight, and I grabbed his hands. Instead of reaching the surface, I went down, down, down into darkness.

Then I woke up. It was an awful dream. I don’t need a Joseph to interpret it, but it served as a warning.

To misquote an African proverb: It takes a family to care for the elderly.

I’m so thankful that I DO have a strong and supportive family. My brothers, my sister, my children, my husband all pitch in.

The other night, when my father fell around midnight, Karl was right there ready to help. He drove us to the hospital and then stayed with my father so I could go home and get a little sleep before I went to work at 5 AM. (My father ended up with stitches in his forehead and staples in his scalp. Everything else seems to be okay.) I know Karl wouldn’t let me drown.

Helen is taking days off from work to stay with my father so Bud and I can get away for a mini-vacation. She did the same thing back in January. She’s not going to let us drown.

And I need to make sure I ask for help BEFORE I’m underwater. (Lifesaving 101)

But back to the A to Z Challenge. I decided to adopt this theme: About My Dad.

Writing about who he was will help me with who he is.

Plus, he’s one of my favorite people in the whole world. I think you’ll like him, too.

I just have to make sure I carve out those chunks of time for writing.

family · photography · poetry

Today Is Good

March 15, 2018 Sally13 Comments

I’d rather be right where I am today
Yes, I would
Yes, I would
Today is good

I’d rather keep in step with time than stay
Yes, I would
As I should
Today is good

Sometimes my heart begins to stray
To other times, to other days

My memories may not obey
This need to stay
Here in today

The day will come when I will say good-bye

Yes, it will
A moment still
And so until

I’ll lean into the sadness and I’ll sigh,
This is good —
For I have stood
Right where I should

Sometimes my heart begins to stray
To other times, to other days
My memories may not obey
This need to stay
Here in today
Here in today

My first thought when I saw the photo challenge was Simon & Garfunkel’s El Condor Pasa.

My second thought was wishing to go back in time to when my children were young and my parents were both still alive. I quickly realized that wasn’t a healthy road for me to go down.

So I ditched Paul Simon’s sparrows, snails, hammers, and nails, and wrote this about my need to stay in the moment.

family

Celebrate 88

March 13, 2018 Sally9 Comments

“This is such a great idea,” any number of people said the other day when we hosted a birthday party for my father at the Otesaga.

Not to be morbid, but the idea came from receiving lines at funerals. When my oldest brother died four years ago, I stood in a funeral receiving line for the first time. It felt like everyone had a story to tell about Stewart. I wished he could have heard them. He would have felt so loved.

When my mother died, the same thing happened. Person after person held my hand and told me a story about my mother and how much she meant to them. It gave me comfort to hear, but I wished my mother could have heard the stories too.

When Mr. Hanson, my 7th grade math teacher, died, his funeral was packed. The receiving line stretched out the door of the Vet’s Club and down the street. I wished I could have grasped his hand one last time, looked him in the face, and told him how much I appreciated him.

That’s why I started thinking about a party for my father.

I bounced the idea off my siblings. Before long, I was on the phone with the Otesaga. It had to be a strange call for their event planner.

Me: I’d like to have a birthday party for my father.

Planner: How many people do you expect?

Me: I have no idea.

Planner: I really need a number.

Me: I have no idea.

She worked with me.

I am so thankful for Brooke. She listened and guided and suggested.

For instance, she suggested that we use several adjoining rooms so it never felt crowded. She suggested we set up one room with comfortable seating, so my father could sit on a couch instead of a dining chair. She and her staff put out the decorations we had brought — books and photographs. She was wonderful.

The real quandary was how to get the word out. Friends of Bassett helped SO much. They blasted the invitation to retired physicians, current physicians, administration, and I forget who else. The local churches also helped to spread the word. As I ran into people at the grocery store or the gym or the post office, I invited them. It’s hard to corral a lifetime of people.

Among the first to arrive were two nurses from Dermatology, his last hold-out in his long and varied medical practice. He was delighted when he saw them.

From the home health aide who takes care of him,

To a former CEO of the hospital,

To one of his secretaries,

To a little leaguer he had coached,
To family,

More family,

And a slew of friends and colleagues, his life was well-represented.

The next day, as he started working his way through all the cards, he asked, “How did all those people know it was my birthday?”

I just smiled.

family · Life

If I Just Keep Moving

March 7, 2018 Sally3 Comments

“If I can just keep the car moving,” I said to Laurel, “I think we’ll be okay.”

Earlier last Friday, I had marveled at the way the snow surrounded the house, blowing, swirling, sticking to windows on every side.

Schools had announced their closures the night before. The hospital had called twice to reschedule appointments that family members had for Friday. The pool — actually the whole sports facility where I work — had decided to close pre-snowstorm.

But the swim meet was still on.

Swim meets are never canceled.

Ever.

Bud shook his head in disbelief, but handed me the keys to the car that has better snow tires.

And off Laurel and I went, driving the 80+ miles to Half Moon, NY.

The roads were bad.

“Take a picture,” I told Laurel, handing her my phone and quickly returning my hands to the steering wheel.

It was white-knuckle driving time.

I usually take back roads, zipping up and down hills, past farms, through hamlets, to save time. Not Friday, though. I chose my route based on which roads I thought would be clearest.

Route 20 wasn’t bad when I finally got on it.

Not bad, but not great either.

The viewable area in my windshield grew smaller and smaller as the wipers got caked with ice.

“I have to stop and clean the wipers,” I told Laurel — but there was nowhere to stop. The plowed lane was narrow and the shoulder non-existent.

We passed a huge Walmart truck leaning at an odd angle in the median and covered with snow. I wondered how long it had been there.

We passed an SUV down an embankment. “Do you think anyone is in that car?” Laurel asked.

“I don’t know, but I can’t stop,” I told her. “It wouldn’t be safe.”

I watch a state trooper in my rearview mirror pull over beside it. He put his flashers on for safety, and I assume he went to check.

Grimly we drove on.

“I’m going to stop at that gas station,” I said to Laurel, “so I can clean the wipers.”

But I couldn’t see the entrance and the brakes didn’t want to cooperate, so I continued driving.

30 mph seemed optimum. If I slowed, the car skidded. If I went faster, I felt like I was flirting with out-of-control.

“If I keep the car moving,” I said to Laurel, “I think we’ll be okay.”

We pressed on.

Past the tree tipped into our lane.

Past more vehicles off to the side.

Past snowmobilers.

Past 4-wheelers with plows attached.

Past bundled-up people with shovels who made me think of people bailing out sinking ships with tea cups.

Once we got to Albany, the roads were fine. The last little jaunt up to Half Moon was easy.

I sighed with relief when we checked into our hotel.

As I lay in bed that night listening to the thumps, hall noises, and plumbing sounds that go with staying in a hotel, I thought about how much of life is like that drive.

Sometimes it’s white-knuckled and demanding of every ounce of my attention.

Sometimes questions of whether I made the right decision overwhelm me.

Sometimes obstacles fall in my path.

Sometimes I can’t enjoy the scenery.

Sometimes I just have to keep moving.

Sometimes that’s all I can do.