An Alzheimer's Letter

Dear Night Shift,

My grandmother is the patient in room 561. She broke her hip and will be having surgery to correct it tomorrow. There are a few things that we want you to know tonight.

1) She is what she used to call when she wasn't and so it was funny, "stone deef". But now she is and it hasn't been funny for years, so be loud and in a place where she can see you when you talk. But don't expect a verbal response.

2) She is anxious. She broke her hip because she is a wanderer. Six, eight hours a day she would wander the nursing home halls. It was her new "job." Like so many of us, she is now out of work and it makes her anxious.

3) She's a picker. That bandage, that IV, that name bracelet... they all need to beware. And you need to pay attention when that IV starts beeping unlike you did when I gave birth to my children and you'd let that thing beep for 45 minutes at 3 in the morning. Ok, so that wasn't you, but it could be more serious for her, so please pay attention.

4) She's boy crazy. If you send in any man you can find every four hours or as needed, all will be well. They just need to smile at her, talk nicely, and if they had the time, hold her hand for a minute. That would be more than her husbands ever did for her, and she does have her wits about her enough to remember that.

5) Please be nice to her. We don't know this new version of her. She's a different person to us. We loved the person who used to live in that body, so we're riding it out with this new person, but we don't know her well. Sometimes it is hard for us to be around this new grandmother who doesn't talk much and doesn't make eye contact much and only remembers us sometimes. The rest of the family has no contact with her, and at this point, we understand. We don't like it, but we understand.

We've been sad for a long time now. But you, you're just meeting her. You don't look into her eyes and remember how it used to be. You don't feel fear, regret, anger, and sadness when you look at her. It doesn't disappoint you when her eyes don't light up when she sees you. So you could talk to her in a sweet voice like we try to do, and it would be a true sweet voice, not one you are just trying on, hoping it is enough.

6) Call her by her first name. She still remembers that. I was named for her. It's my first name and I don't use it except at the doctor's office, but it is one of the many parts of her that lives on in me. I hope that the name and the memories are all I carry, and not this disease.

She is a good woman. She is loved. She is completely vulnerable. Please take care of her.

Thank you.
Her granddaughter

Photos Anyone?

One of my favorite quilts at the show. It was in a section of quilts based on punchlines.

Birthdays call for key lime pie and the soft hues of candlelight. (Note my buddy Stephen in the back pondering, "I bet she wishes for more pie.")

I don't know what to say here. I opened my door one afternoon and there was a Mucha Lucha match playing out on my front porch.

The new babies. Darwin giving me her seductive, "Let me lick your hand" stare while Chicken exercises his God given right to curl up on the bed. Or so he tells me.

This Message is Self Destructing as You Read It

A not very subtle fan has noted the lack of jots lately. He pointed this out by emailing me and telling me to write. He avoided threats. Mighty nice of him.

I wish I had an internal alarm like that.

"Warning: BEEP. You must write within the next 36 hours.
BEEP. It is time to get your eyes checked.
BEEP BEEP. That book you put down 17 days ago has slipped under the couch. BEEP BEEP, I SAY! You have not shaved the back of your calves in 3.5 weeks."

Instead I make my eye appointment when I bump into my eye doc at a bluegrass show. The book gets found when we move. The writing happens if the fan reminds me. And I discover the hair thing on the first warm day.

In my life: I had my first Facebook birthday. Turns out that you don't have to be a rock star as long as you've got Facebook on your birthday. That was really wonderful. My fave Happy Birthday came from a high school classmate who gave me the great opening by asking (tongue in cheek) how old I am. I told him that I had 24 more hours at 38 before I began the next 25 years of 39. My mom gave me a framed drawing of that eternal 39 year old, Jack Benny.

Birthday weekend I saw a favorite opera, "Tosca", my fave locals Billy Ray Hatley and the Showdogs, and a favorite national act, Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. In no particular order - all the musicians kissed me, they played all my favorite songs, and everyone died. You figure it out.

After that wonderful weekend I woke up Monday morning feeling happy, got dressed up, was having a great hair day and then threw up while driving my daughter to school. Flu.

Let's move on to going to the annual quilt show, seeing my cousin perform delightfully in "A Trip to Bountiful" out on the Northern Neck and a big honkin' snow storm.

That's me.

Warning: BEEP. You promised your husband that you wouldn't be up half the night working on the computer.
BEEP. Tonight is the night to finish reading the article on the transformation of war into playable entertainment.
BEEP BEEP. The inspection sticker on your car expired in February.
BEEP BEEP, I SAY! If you don't get your liver test tomorrow your brilliant, mild-mannered rheumatologist is going to go howler monkey on you.

Pet Funeral

One of my pushy fans reminded me that I never posted the pet funeral pictures. Did I say pushy? I meant adoring. Did I say fans? Well, that's what I pay all five of them for...

In case you are a sixth random soul who stumbled on this blog, my two dogs died within three weeks of each other in October. They were 15 and 16 and in love until the day they died. The 16 year old stopped eating after the other one died, and died of heartbreak. We also had the ashes of the cats on the front porch for a couple of years because I could not bear to bury them and they loved the porch in life. My husband laid down the law: give all pets a proper burial or no other animals enter the domicile.

I do funerals for a living, so this became a BIG event. First we have the prep which took all afternoon. We had balloons to fill for the balloon release, cookies to bake for the reception, four graves to dig...As you can see, I did none of these things. Let me also point out that my pushy/adoring fans can see my beautiful, renovated kitchen if they look past my beautiful, baking cousin. I would also like to note that one of the many benefits of having one's own personal funeral director is that he will dig a grave for your pets.

I wrote the names and life dates for all of the pets on the sidewalk in front of the house and a nice epitaph.

This is the altar for the service with the ashes of our four pets and their photos. Each family member put something in the grave along with their ashes. I gave tearful but funny eulogies. And our sweet pet sitter said a few words.

Afterwards we lit candles and had the balloon release. Most everyone has lost a pet at some point, so the balloon release was for all of their beloved pets, too. We all said the names of our pets as we let the balloons go and said together, "We love you!"

Then the children enjoyed the family grief meal: ribs. They make a heart less healthy, but they can lift their share of mourning.

I must say that this greatly helped my grief. It was nice to be joined ny friends, neighbors, and family. And I feel like I was able to give my dear animals a loving sendoff as we had given them a loving home in life.

Oh, and yes. That is a Snow White costume.

My Buddhist Pet Peeves

"Pet peeve" is such a strong, negative way of putting it. Let's think more along the lines of ironies and the elements that make me laugh.

Most people know how ridiculous I find Buddhist advertising and catalogues selling... junk. Pretty junk. Cool junk. Sometimes even useful junk, but by my understanding of Buddhist beliefs, it is all still junk.

Junk to keep us tethered to the same old way of seeing life. Junk to collect dust in the house and dust in the mind. More junk to get attached to.

The other element I find ridiculous in these ads is the dependence upon hotties. I just got one on Facebook. A VERY attractive man grinning at me with a knowing look from the margins of my computer screen beckoned me to "Enlightenment Bliss."

I didn't think nirvana. I didn't think escape from the cycles of suffering. I looked at that guy and, to be perfectly honest I thought, YUM.

And YUM gets me no closer to enlightenment. Last time I checked, cutie quotient wasn't on the Buddha's lists of requirements for sages. I told the Facebook hottie that "No, I will not drink the kool aid, thank you very much." And then I mumbled, "Even though you are VERY cute." You know, just to be nice.

And to end my tongue in cheek tirade - my last Buddhist Pet Peeve - telling people not to swallow in meditation groups. Silly. Silly. Silly. The sounds of other humans in the room are part of the reason we meditate together. You might be a Buddha mind genius in the quiet, undisturbed nook in your attic. So what, if you can't pass the life in the world test.

At least that's what I am thinking. If I am wrong about all of this, I'll be getting my enlightenment bliss soon from a dude that looks like a cross between Patrick Swayze and Tom Selleck. And I'll be wearing some sweet purple meditation pants I saw in a catalogue, but I'll be very, very quiet.