No Loitering

If I could choose my exit, I opt for a quick death--here one minute, gone the next, with little or relatively little pain.  But, barring suicide, one has little to say in the matter.  So, this next entry is to address what should happen if I should not get the quick out that I hope for.

Simply put, I don't want extraordinary efforts taken to maintain a life not worth living, for which there is no hope of recovery.  Lucy's story, in At the End of Life, resonates with me.  Lucy was 8 years old when she was diagnosed with leukemia.  Her initial treatment led to remission, but when the cancer returned, a bone marrow transplant was her only option.  Against the odds, Lucy developed a particularly severe form of host versus graft disease, which her parents were told would make her wish she had died.  The recount of what happened was gut-wrenching.  Lucy did want to die, but the doctors and nurses were mightily to keep her alive.  Lucy, although a child, recognized that the quality of her life could never be sufficient to make life worth living.

Or consider Mr. Stone, an elderly man who knew the end was near when he expressed his wish not to be intubated and put on a ventilator.  That didn't stop the doctors from suggesting that he was incapable of making such a decision and intubating him against his wishes. 

I want to live!  Let me rephrase, I want to live with dignity!  I want to love my family and argue about politics and cheer for the Cowboys. 

And I want to die with dignity.  I don't want to be hooked up to machines that breathe for me or perform other bodily functions if there is no hope of living, truly living without the new technology  If I exist only in body, but my spirit is trying to go, let me go!  Let me go to my Savior!

 I want to be pain-free and generally comfortable, and I want to be at home.  Surround me with love, some music from the 60s and 70s, and let me go. 

For the record, I do have an advance directive, but lest there be any doubt, let this serve as additional evidence of my wishes.

And When I Die, and When I'm Gone . . .

Nothing is certain except death and taxes, so the saying goes.  And as much as I hate to admit that I'm pretty much like everybody else, like everybody else, I'm not going to get out of this world alive.  It's a fact.  I don't mean to be macabre, but that's just the way it is.

Therefore, recognizing that it will happen, some day, hopefully far in the future, I think it is best to do a little planning to help my family in the event they must make decisions for me before my demise as well as to help them once it occurs. 

Why do it now? Simply put, I've been influenced by two books in particular.  The title of the first one, At the End of Life:  True Stories About How We Die, by Lee Gutkind, is pretty self-explanatory.  It is a collection of personal accounts written by both health care professionals and loved ones of people who have died that were touched in some way by that death.  Many of the essays were poignant; some were inspirational; some were disconcerting.  The essays confirmed for me that I never want to be subjected to the degradation and suffering of a life prolonged by artificial means at all costs.  There comes a time to go, and if my time should come by way of some debilitating disease or some injury from which recovery will not occur, I just want to go--but more on that another time.

The other book that has led me to this point is The American Way of Death, by Jessica Mitford (as updated in the 1990s).  Why, in God's name, would anyone sink thousands of dollars in the ground with the cost of an elaborate funeral?  I think it's rather silly to overdo a wedding when it's only one day, but at least it will create fond memories meant to last a lifetime.  But with a funeral, there is no lifetime to recall with fondness the hope and beauty of that day.  More on this as well at a later time, but to put it simply, I want a simple send-off.  Absolutely NO PUBLIC VIEWING, and no embalming.  Direct cremation, followed by perhaps a simple memorial service, and then a party for anyone (family, friends, enemies, and people who didn't even know me) who cares to join in the celebration--whether a homegoing celebration or a ding-dong-the-witch-is-dead celebration. 

That's it in a nutshell.  I will expand on this in future postings. 

Almost 10 years ago, I was sick enough to be hosptalized several times. Before the hospitalizations and after I ultimately had surgery, there were many afternoons when I didn't feel well so I just slept. One of those times, I awakened to find our cat, Pepper, settled next to me, purring away contentedly. This was not normal. He tolerated his people better than many cats, but it wasn't his habit to sleep on our bed or to even be on the bed in general. When it happened a few days later, again when I did not feel well, I realized that somehow he knew and wanted to offer his comfort. Pepper died today. We've had him for 14 years, having acquired him from some students who found him in the parking lot of a restaurant and randomly asked me if I wanted him. He was propably about 7 or 8 months old at the time. And he was cool, in that cool cat way. I thought that I would die laughing when he attempted to jump from the cedar chest to the window sill and he missed. He looked around to see if anyone caught this mishap, then coolly walked away with an attitude of, "I meant to do that!" Pepper wasn't as adventurous as Kiko, who escaped to the great outdoors at every opportunity, but occasionally, Pepper would make a foray into the backyard. Once he spent several days outside. We searched frantically, but could not find him. Several days later, he let us know he was ready to come back in; he was outside our bedroom window, meowing to let him in. He'd probably been in the backyard the whole time. Pepper was probably the most considerate cat. He would wait patiently by the bed until someone clearly stirred to let us know that his food dish needed to be refilled. We will miss Pepper. Rest in peace.

Courage

One who does not have courage cannot rightly call himself a leader. Unfortunately, that is often the case with today's political "leaders." Too often, they check the direction of the wind,consider the impact on their next campaign, and speak carefully such that plausible deniability, that is the ability to deny ever having taken a certain position, is preserved. So, President Obama might be forgiven if he avoided the contentious issue of same-sex marriage. The upcoming election will likely be close. President Obama won four years ago because of a coaliton of differnt groups turned out to support President Obama, including independents. The Independent vote are always the trophy that every presidential candidate covets, particularly in a close election. Today, President Obama showed courage in a way that I would never have expected. I'm not surprised that he does not object to same-sex marriage. I am surpised that he was willingto state his position unequivocally in an election year, where there are plenty of reasons--some legitimate, many not--to vote for the Republican nominee. President Obama might have waited until after the election. He could have deflected attention to other issues. He could have highlighted what he has done for gay rights, including ending Don't Ask/Don't Tell for the military. President Obama didn't play it safe. That says a lot about him as a man. His courage was was evident when he gave the kill order to take out Osama bin Laden. His courage was evident when he stood strong to get the Affordable Care Act passed. And President Obama has done it again. Without doubt, it is not all down-side risk for the President. He will strenghten his support among certain constituents. And, according to the news this evening, his campaign raised $1 million today. Moreover, some might say that there was little risk to begin with, given that the mose ardent opponents of gay rights aren't going to vote for Obama anyway. Regardless of my own position on same-sex marriage, I have nothing but respect for the President for coming out strong on a issue that could cost him his job.

It's Cotton Palace Time

I had no plan to post about the Waco Cotton Palace again. Been there, done that and that. I really had not planned to make this an annual thing. . . until I received an email today containing this link. So, here I go again.

I listen to oldies radio all the time, but every now and then, a song will thrust me into nostalgia. Today, it was "Put Your Hands Together" by the O'Jays. The year was 1974, and it was on the Top 40 charts in March of that year. At 13 years old, my adolescent life seems trivial now, but it was everything to me at that time, including,

Shepherd of the City Lutheran Church
confirmation
Pam Douglas
City Band
Brownie

I was happy--very happy. My mother was alive and I naively believed that you could live forever if you just willed yourself to do so. Spring was breaking, the time for track and he President's Physical Fitness Test in PE, and we were all nervously anticipating 8th grade graduation and the start of high school the next fall.

I might not have been as happy as I remember, but I'm sure I didn't fully appreciate the happiness I had. That's the risk of nostalgia--not an exactly earth-shattering pronoucement, right? And as happy as I recall being, I could have not imagined the joy and fulfillment of marriage, family, my career, and my life in general.

So, I did get misty for a moment, listening to the harmonies of the O'Jays. But hopefully, I will remember to enjoy the present and be optimistic about the future.

My Haiku: A Morning Jog

Running through the clouds
Amazingly cool and crisp
At the break of day.

Perhaps not the best, but I composed this while jogging in the fog this morning. Who says running can't be productive!

Helen Wilson and potato salad

Throughout college, and most of high school, for that matter, if we were having barbecue, my job was to make the potato salad. At first, it was just to dice the potatoes and the boiled eggs, and my mom would chop the onions and add the pickle relish and salad dressing. I advanced to chopping the onions, and before long, I was doing the whole bowl of salad.

It reached the point where I HATED making potato salad. It didn't matter that everyone loved my mom's recipe and always wanted her to bring the potato salad to any gathering. The fact was that I only sort of liked potato salad myself and would have been perfectly happy without it. I hated cutting up the various ingredients--I was slow and it took me forever. "Why me?" I would wail before my mom asked me oh-so-sweetly to just start it, knowing that once I started it, I'd probably finish it.

Either way, when my mom died, I stopped making potato salad. There was no reason to do so. By then, in 1989 when she died, I'd moved to Texas and was rarely home for those cook-out holidays. In Texas, I never made it for my family, even though I'd acquired more of a taste for it, nor did anyone else ask me to make potato salad.

So alas, yesterday, when out of the blue I decided to make potato salad, it had been more than 20 years since the last time I had done so. My mom's recipe was still stored in the recesses of my brain, although I had to dig a bit. So off I went.

And. . . it was good! Even the youngest BoilerBaby liked it. BB3 was particularly taken by it, mostly foregoing the California cole slaw that she loves and in fact had made in favor of the potato salad. I felt like such a rotten mother, having deprived my kids of something that they very much liked.

I enjoyed it too, maybe because it brought back such fond memories of the mother who raised me and the good times that abounded when she was around. I can't really call it "comfort food" because it was not that to me as a child. Maybe for me, the better term is "mom food."

If only they knew . . .

I wish the Congressmen who voted to defund Planned Parenthood knew what I knew. If they did--and they honestly cared about women's health and children--they'd be hard-pressed to vote against Planned Parenthood.

I vividly remember the time I spent there for my social work practicum. I went in a bit uncomfortable with knowledge that the clinic referred women for abortions. I quickly learned that, far from its reputation among those who don't know, Planned Parenthood does not encourage abortions. Rather, for women facing an unwanted pregnancy, abortion was an option, as was continuing the pregnancy and keeping the baby , and as was continuing the pregnancy and putting the baby up for adoption. I was trained to respect the client's choice. If she had no interest in an abortion, then our discussion turned to services to make sure she had a healthy pregnancy and services to help her thereafter, whether with the adoption or raising her child.

While there, I learned how, for many women, Planned Parenthood was their only health care provider. For many, if Planned Parenthood had not been available to do their annual exam, including a Pap test and breast examination, they would not have had those services. I learned that many women looked to Planned Parenthood for choices about contraceptive methods and provision of their Pills, IUDs, diaphragms, and condoms so that they might never need to consider an abortion.

Throughout the time I was there, I was always saddened when a woman chose abortion over adoption or keeping the child. But the decision to undergo an abortion was only very very rarely reached lightly. For even those women who resolutely opted for an abortion from the outset, it was clear that they had reached their decision only after gut-wrenching consideration and discussion with those closest to them. Yes, there were women who cavelierly approached abortion as nothing more than another birth control method, but those women were rare, and deserving of no more distain than woman who cavelierly create broods of children, fathered by different men, which neither they nor the fathers can support.

I spent an awful lot of time educating clients on different contraceptive methods or preparing them for what to expect as they underwent their first pelvic exam. I talked to a lot of high school girls who felt pressured by their boyfriends to have sex, and we discussed healthy relationships and strategies for dealing with peer pressure, things I learned during my training.

I learned that far from being an abortion-mill, Planned Parenthood was an agency that sought to promote women's health and to protect a woman's autonomy.

One woman's story in particular has stayed with me over the years. She'd returned to the clinic for her post-abortion exam, and her first stop was a visit with me. I knew from the outset that she was not okay. As we talked, she explained that her pregnancy was the result of an extramarital affair. She had given birth to one child with congenital birth defects, which prompted her husband to have a vasectomy. Thus, when she became pregnant again, there was little doubt that it was not her husband's child. She explained that she was very torn about having the abortion: one the one hand, she wanted to have a healthy baby, but the reality was that her husband would have left her once he found out about the affair, and she would not have been able to care for her special needs child alone. She reluctantly opted for an abortion. Maybe she should have thought about the consequences--the choice--before she had her affair, but that's beside the point. What was the right choice in this circumstance? Who's to decide? I can only say that it was a decision that only she could make because only she would have to live with the consequences.  Having made the decision to have an abortion, can anyone honestly say that she should have had to entrust her health to some illegal provider of abortions?  I think the answer is self-evident.

I have no doubt in my mind that abortion is always a tragedy; it is evidence of a failure somewhere along the way, but the answer is not to defund an agency simply because it provides a service.
 

Mean Girls, Part Deaux

Being middle-class means that I live in a nice, relatively safe suburban neighborhood, with good, relatively safe public schools. That's good. The downside is that there are too many middle-class moms with time on their hands. As the saying goes, idle hands are the devil's workshop. Their main concern is ensuring that their children are popular with both the other kids and the teachers, even if it means that their mean girl personas, which should have long ago disappeared as they grew in maturity, are too often allowed to come out and play. To-wit: I received an email from the room moms for the youngest BB's first grade class. They're preparing for the end of the year (good). They're planning to purchase a very nice gift for the teacher (wonderful). They've asked for donations for this gift (no problem). So far, so good, until I reached the end of the email where there's the description of the card to be signed from the kids who contributed to the gift! That's right. Children who can't or don't contribute, don't get to sign the card. We wouldn't want Mrs. K. to miss crediting the kids who gave her the gift.

I have to be clear here: I appreciate what the room moms do. Even though their motives may not be entirely pure, their volunteer work in the class room is surely a help when kids need individual attention. Plus, somebody has to organize the different parties during the year, and I appreciate that they're willing to do so.

In addition, in my middle-class neighborhood, there aren't that many kids whose parents can't afford to contibute, but there are some whose families are economically challenged. It is those kids who I feel for, maybe because I would have been one of those kids. But of course, I wuld have never been put in that position. My mom, was often the room mom. And she never did anything that would have the effect of excluding any child. Indeed, she often came up with creative, but inexpensive, ideas in her role as room mom. I don't recall if we ever gave the teacher a gift, but if we did, it was not expensive and did not require all kids to contribute money. What I do recall is that every year, the teachers were genuinely effusive in their praise of what a great room mom she was.

I should also note that it's not that I think that private school parents are somehow better. Rather, in my experience, they tend to be a little more secure in their social position and don't feel as much of a need to remind the teachers of it.

So, it's rather an understatement to say that I'm a little miffed about the email I received. Yep, let's teach our kids the value of money, and while we're at it, let's give them an early lesson on exclusiveness. In fact, better yet, maybe the children's signatures should reflect the size of their contribution: those who give the most, can sign first and in the biggest print so that Mrs. K will know who really to favor and perhaps even pass that info on to next year's teachers. First grade is not too early to learn this important lesson.

Waco: Komen and Cotton Palace

Today, in the space of about 30 seconds, I went from pride in my hometown to chagrin. This morning, as I lie in bed, willing myself to roll out, I saw the promo for the Race for the Cure, in which one of my colleagues appears. We quickly "rewound" the ad to see her again. I felt all warm and fuzzy, remembering all the years we've participated. It's a big to-do in Waco, and we've participated every year, either walking the 1 mile or running the 5K. Rain or shine, with little kids or without, we were there, enjoying the carnival atmosphere, collecting the freebies, honoring breast cancer survivors, and supporting a good cause.

As I basked in the glow of warm memories, the commercial for Waco Cotton Palace ran--that annual "celebration" where we relive the charm and pageantry of the antebellum South. I've never succeeded in explaining Cotton Palace to one who hasn't experienced it, probably because I'm biased and bothered about the whole thing. It's so wrong in so many ways, let me count those ways. The King of Cotton, an old and accomplished businessman, and the Queen, a young, fresh-faced high school senior. That's bad enough, but consider how one becomes Queen. She isn't chosen because of her academic accomplishments, her good deeds, or even her beauty. Rather, she must be a member of one of the old, very wealthy Waco families. That's it. She's won the birth lottery. At least I think that's how it works. It's steeped in great mystery, and not accessible to a mere commoner like me. Then there are the princesses (Waco girls) and the duchesses (outsiders). They too are not necessarily accomplished--trust me, I know. Connections, however, matter.

The truth is, the royal motif is annoying, but most colleges and high schools select a Homecoming King and Queen, and I don't lose a wink of sleep about it. Rather, it's the fact that Cotton Palace is exclusive in particularly repugnant ways. Blacks and Latinos (and probably Jews) need not apply.

But wait, there's more. The pageant and the show, a reliving of the history, the happy history, when cotton was king, some people attended lovely balls and sipped mint juleps, while others literally slaved away, denied the fruits of their labor. Slavery is a historical fact, but not one I believe worthy of a celebration.

I'm an outsider, so maybe that's why I don't get it. But it's not worth it to me to try to understand. Every year, other outsiders will attend Cotton Palace for the first time and some will be offended. I've done my best to warn them.

For posterity

I post only so that I can remember all that is happening. It is happening quite fast. After yearsw of thinking about remodeling, making excuses for not remodeling, lacking the courage to undertake the remodeling, being ambivalent about remodeling, and being downright too cheap, we finally took the plunge. The great remodel of the back bathroom, our master bathroom, and [drum roll] . . . the kitchen has begun.

The work actually started last Monday, September 20, with the demolition of the back bathroom. We left that morning, and by the afternoon, everything except the tub was gone. The next day, Bruce and Nellie replaced old insulation and damaged drywall.

Then came Wednesday and demolition of the kitchen. Bruce and Nellie don't play! We left that morning, and by the afternoon, all the old cabinets were out, the built-in china cabinet gone, the flooring removed, and the appliances in the dumpster. The kitchen was just a shell.

Thursday, new drywall in the kitchen, measurements for the pass-through and the mud guys started their work. Those guys work hard for their money. As we sat cackling over mindless TV, they were prepping the drywall and texturing the back bathroom and kitchen. I don't know what happened on Friday because I left for the recruiting forum in LA. but I believe the mud guys finished texturing both the back bath and the kitchen.

Yesterday was too exciting for words! We stayed up late Sunday emptying our bathroom cabinets. On Monday when I left, the kitchen was still little more than a shell; the back bath was a shell, and our bathroom had all the old cabinets and counters. When I arrived home, it was as though the remodeling fairy waved her magic wand! New kitchen cabinets were set; the back bath cabinets were set, and the old vanities in our bath were removed and new doors for some cabinets and the new vanity cabinets were set. Cabinets, cabinets everywhere! It was so much fun finding the little design touches that we weren't expecting. The 45 degree angles on the bottoms of base cabinets; the end panels with the same detail as the doors; the new end cabinet for the telephone books and other stuff. It was quite exciting to see the new drawers in places that we hadn't had them before. Plus, the crown moulding was installed in the kitchen and back bathroom.

Tonight as I sit recording this at 9 pm, the mud/paint guys are priming the cabinets. Bruce and Nellie finished the demolition of our bathroom earlier in the day, replaced damaged drywall, installed can lights in the kitchen, and the plumber was here.

There are boxes everywhere, but this too shall pass. And we'll have a pretty new kitchen plus updated bathrooms to boot.

What a difference 18 years makes?

We watched Home Alone 2 this weekend with the younger BoilerBabies. It was released 18 years ago, so it's not exactly a revelation of Biblical proportions that there have been some noticeable changes since then. But some of those changes are reminders of how fast things have changed.

The McCallister family is headed on vacation, and they have airline tickets! Not e-tickets, but the real paper tickets in an airline envelope, something the younger BBs have never seen and the older ones probably don't remember.

O'Hare Airport looks a little dated, but what's particularly striking is how quickly a huge family gets through security. Of course, this was before 9/11. There was no requirement to show a government-issued ID, slip one's shoes off, and submit to a full-body scan before heading to the gate. And had little Kevin ran onto a plane without a valid boarding pass in today's world, he might have experienced a quick introduction to the air marshals. Kevin's visit to the Twin Towers drove home the point of the setting being in a pre-9/11 world.

Finally, as usual, the technology establishes its own time stamp. There are some large, clunky electronic things, but it was Kevin's Polaroid camera that brought on the nostalgia. "Shake it like a Polaroid picture" just can't have the same meaning now that Polaroid cameras are obsolete.

There may be other things that I missed, given that as usual, I was multi-tasking (a phrase that might not have been in common parlance when the movie was released), but this I know: the kids laughed just as much as if the movie had been released last week.

Omigosh, I am SO old??

In just 2 hours and 11 minutes, Iwill no longer start my age with the digit "4." This is my last day in my 40s, and I'm okay with that.

When I was a child, 20-somethings were big people, adults, that is until I got to my 20s and felt like an imposter playing dress-up. Then 30 seemed so old--until I got to 30. It seemed anti-climactic in fact. The only thing that changed was that I stopped adding a year to my age with each birthday. I realized it when I started to tell someone I was 30 when in fact I was 33. Oops!

The age of 40 was even more anticlimactic. There was too much going on. The most memorable thing about 40 was that I was stung by a bee, for the first time ever, on my birthday. Lucky me.

So what thoughts do I have about turning 50? Well, it sounds really, really old. Fifty years. One-half century. Old enough to be a member of AARP. Senior discounts, here I come!

Plus, so much has happened that when related to younger folk, it makes me sound old. I have an adult child, for goodness sake! In my lifetime, I've seen the advent of cheap electronics, from calculators ($400 when I started high school) to the home computer. My iPhone has more functionality than the computers aboard the first Apollo space ships. Oh, and there was that first moon-landing that I witnessed live.

I would sound like an old fogey should I start to talk about the price of things "back in the day." I'll be able to regale my grandchildren with stories of purchasing 45s for 99 cents and LPs for $7.00 ($12.00 for double albums). Oh yes, I can remember when candy bars were 10 cents and even a nickel bought a bag of penny candy. Fifty cents bought enough candy to share with the neighborhood.

On a more serious note, I was born into a country where it was perfectly legal to discriminate against Blacks and women for no other reason than that they were Blacks and women. Only as an adult did I apprecate my mother's accomplishment in being able to qualify for mortgage as a widowed, Black woman. That didn't occur until after the passage of the various civil rights acts, but discrimination was so endemic that obtaining a loan with three strikes against her (female, single, and Black) was almost unheard of at that time.

Had I grown up in the South, I might have sipped from the water fountain set aside for "Negroes." I was 6 or 7 years old before the Supreme Court decided Loving v. Virginia. Women lawyers (or for that matter, female bus drivers) were rare, virtually an object of curiosity.

I suppose I could go on, but the simple fact is a lot has happened. But . . . I don't feel my age. I started this morning with a walk/run in which I felt great! Endorphins are my friends. My mother, God bless her, couldn't run 50 yards when she was 50 years old. On a good day, I can jog three miles, and four miles on a really good day.

I have no grandchildren, and no expectation of any anytime soon. I do have, however, a six-year old. Plus, I'm still too young to qualify for the best senior citizen discounts.

So, tomorrow, I cross an artificial and arbitrary line. But the simple fact is that life (God willing) goes on and life is good. I expect that there will be little difference between today and tomorrow, besides a little cake (okay a lotta cake) and ice cream.

Adventures in Fourth Grade

This post is a sequel to an earlier post. This time, BB3 is the reporter. According to her, Nick, another fourth grader, was pretending to stick his finger far up his nose, when lo and behold Nate came along and bumped Nick, causing Nick to jam his finger so deep into his nose that he couldn't get it out.

I kid you not.

This incident resulted in a visit to the school nurse, who I'm sure never expected that extracting fingers from noses was part of her job description.

My children's school is rated "exemplary" based on its standardized testing scores, but recent events cast doubt on that rating. I think that the teachers are teaching the three Rs which is good, but they just might want to add a lesson or two on the importance of not sticking things in ones ear or nose.

Just sayin'.