Word Speak

Whenever I'm feeling angsty or sad, for some reason I always turn to poetry to get myself back on track.  This poem spoke to me this week:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;

Man never Is, but always To be blest:

The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,

Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

--Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man

Not sure why this poem spoke to me.  It just did, hitting all the right emotional buttons. 

Nothing is better when words speak to your soul.  Poetry has a way of doing that.  Deep thought: Maybe because less is more?

Fear Schmear

I've mentioned before on this blog that my mother suffers from Alzheimer's.  And what a damn cruel disease it is.  Mom is currently in the advanced stages and we've recently had to put her in an elder care facility because of her medical and daily needs.  Fortunately we were able to find a wonderful facility but, even though wonderful, it's still incredibly hard to not be able to care for your own parent and, worse, see them live somewhere besides their own home.  It feels all sorts of wrong.

At first, my brother and I really struggled with the care facility, despite its homey decor, sunny windows, and nurses and caregivers who my brother and I routinely refer to as "saints."  There was a lot of guilt and fear for us, mostly because so much of it was unknown and unfamiliar.  But yesterday, I heard my brother laughing as we visited with Mom.  Mind you, I haven't heard a lot of laughter the last couple of months and it sounded like Vivaldi.  We were seated around a large table, having lunch with Mom and some of the other residents, all of whom have varying degrees of dementia and Alzheimer's.  To my left, sat a resident named "Mary" who proceeded to tell me all about World War II and her experience with the Coast Guard.  To my brother's right sat a new resident, "Sylvia" who kept asking my brother if he wanted coffee.  Between us sat Mom who kept smiling and laughing whenever my brother laughed.  Whenever my brother laughed, the rest of the table laughed and smiled too.  Then it dawned on me: the place had become less scary because we had finally begun to get to know the other residents.  We didn't always hang out in the privacy of my mother's sunny room. 

One thing I've learned is that Alzheimer's patients respond to kindness and touch.  Hold their hand, listen to their stories, acknowledge them and suddenly the nightmare stops feeling so scary.  With my mother, we've learned to cherish her moments of clarity, even as they grow more infrequent.  She's still Mom.  We can still see who she is in the brightness of her turquoise eyes, regardless of what she says or doesn't say.

When I visit Mom today, I'm actually looking forward to talking again with Mary too, even though she won't remember a single thing we talked about yesterday.

Born in the Wrong Century

When you consider some of the things I love and enjoy, I have to wonder if I was born in the wrong century.  To wit:

1) I love silent movies.
2) Any movie in black and white. 
3) The Rifleman.
4) Cult horror flicks from the 1950s.

Yesterday, I happened to flip onto the Turner Classic Movie channel and found this little gem starring Jack Benny and Ann Sheridan: George Washington Slept Here.  It really had nothing to do with George Washington but it was sort of like Please Don't Eat The Daisies (another one of my fave movies) where a couple from New York decide to purchase a fixer-upper in the country.  Of course, fun and frivolity ensued. 

Black and white movies from the 1940's for me are like grilled cheese and tomato soup.  They're just comforting in their campiness and predictability.  I heart them.

Back in the Groove

I asked Craig what would he rather do this morning before we get our day in gear: (1) Hike up Telegraph Pass or (2) Go for a run around Lakewood Parkway.  Sadly, he picked #2.  I'm not sure my body can handle a run after having done nothing except hang out in hospital rooms for the last couple of months.

Wish me (and my legs) some luck.

Have a great weekend!

P.S. Is anyone going to see that Jack Carter movie this weekend?  Or is it John Carter...Whatev.

Mirror Mirror On the Wall

Is Pinterest the fairest of them all?

Everywhere I turn, there's buzz about Pinterest. Over the weekend, there was an article in my local newspaper calling Pinterest "digital crack" for women which, quite frankly, I found a little insulting.  Still, being that I spend an obscene amount of time online, my curiosity was piqued.  I have a ton of friends (male and female, by the way), who really dig Pinterest. 

To me, Pinterest is like Tumblr, Twitter, and Facebook all rolled into one, but Pinterest is a little more artsy, if that makes sense.  It's kind of like one giant virtual scrapbooking exercise.  It's great to "pin," for example, pictures of things that interest you like houses or cupcakes or books. 

As a writer, it would be kind of fun to pin a collage of things like the setting for your book.  Or characters or even clothing that you think your characters would wear if, let's say, you're writing a historical.  The possibilities are endless, really. 

One of these days, I'm going to get serious about Pinterest.  I'm afraid to dive into it too deeply at the moment because I fear a major time-suck brewing if I do.

Do you Pinterest?

Belly Laugh

I've been in need of some laughter lately and this SNL skit did the trick.  For anyone who's perplexed at the popularity of those Housewives shows (or, worse, the Mob Wives), this one's for you. It's absolutely hilarious!

I give you the Housewives of Disney, courtesy of SNL:


(03-03-12) from Jennception on Vimeo.

A New Appreciation

Sometimes it takes those face-planting, body-slamming life events to get you to change a perspective.

Since my Dad passed away last month, I've come to appreciate a few new things: Hospice, death, time, and living.  Confused? Yeah, so am I.  Still.  But I'm working on it.

Suddenly moving at the speed of sound, my usual mode of operation until about 30 days ago, now doesn't feel right at all.  Wasting time, even five minutes, feels like wearing itchy polyester clothing as opposed to cotton.  I'm not saying anything cheesy like I'm suddenly stopping and smelling the roses but I am beginning to evaluate more closely how I'm spending my time and the choices I'm making. 

Regarding Hospice and hospice care, the people affiliated with Hospice of the Valley here in Phoenix are absolute saints.  Because of them, the last couple of days with Dad were calm and we will be eternally grateful for every minute of those peaceful, dignified moments we had with him.  Hospice, its nurses and doctors, gave us the gift of time and rescued us from a confusing rollercoaster medical nightmare.  I will never be able to thank them enough.

Some day I'll see my wonderful Dad again, of that I'm certain.  I don't expect to ever lose the ache in my heart either.  But till we meet again, I'm going to continue to honor him by making the best of the life I have in front of me.