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A friend sent me a piece this morning written by a nurse within an elder care facility. In it an elderly woman confronts the nurse in an agitated state. Holding up a picture of her very much younger self, the older woman asks “Have you seen this person?”
It’s a valid question from a woman who bears so little resemblance to the vibrant, hearty woman in the photo.
It’s a valid question from a woman who no longer recognizes family or long time friends.
It’s a valid question from a woman who requires residential treatment for a disease that has robbed her of the ability to recognize everyday dangers, to navigate her way home again or to follow the rhythm of the day from morning meds to meals to bedtime without friendly reminders from the staff; robbed even of the ability to recognize herself in the mirror.
The nurse’s response was one of those that anyone who has ever visited the sick or dying, or the frightened or grief-stricken prays will come when called upon to say something. Her response is kind I hope I found often enough to bring a little comfort. Her words have that special kind of grace.
She said “I have seen this person. She has aged gracefully and is loved by many”.
You can read the whole story, submitted by subscriber “jaelpn”, here at AllNurses.com
OK. I may not have anything worthwhile to write lately, but I do have dinner recommendations…
A brief confession first, though…I feel I must admit I am not very persnickety about expiration dates. I will eat most anything. I mean, sure, I smell the milk carton periodically and decide that maybe it’s past its prime. I have a strict rule to toss anything with fuzz on it…or slime. In general, I don’t mess with canned goods that have expanded under pressure. They go straight to the bin.
I am at an age, though, that I have come to realize a few things about food standards.
Firstly, reading the expiration dates requires that I now go find my cheaters, or call the ophthalmologist and get a prescription for bifocals. The latter simply isn’t going to happen. The former usually doesn’t happen either; at least not when it is just me.
Secondly, it hasn’t killed me so far. I have survived eating bugs and rocks in my early years. I have drunk unpasteurized milk and eaten street food in foreign countries. For a decade or more, my mayonnaise-laced sandwiches spent mornings in a brown paper bag in an un-refrigerated school locker. I am not dead yet.
I do have a few rules, though. One of them is that fish gets eaten or frozen on the day it is purchased.
Ack.
It’s been one of those days, though, where cooking dinner was looking like a “bridge too far”. I spent much of the afternoon out in the rain; trying to wear out the beast before a therapy dog visit. We had an exhausting, evening visit to a local nursing home. Then we got home just in time for me to drop my backpack, wash my hands and dial in to a conference call for work.
Dinner was very nearly yogurt, and Chees-Its, and jelly beans.
Alas, I had gone shopping today. Today, I bought fish…
…and it was fabulous!!
Now I am not knocking the yogurt/chees-it/jelly bean option (I consider it one of the perks of being a spinster), but if you happen to have a serving or two of cod, or any white fish, lying around and some fresh tomatoes, this (Roasted Cod with Bruschetta Sauce) is way better. And it is simple and healthy. Hard to beat.
(Editors Note: The author regrets that there are no photos. She was hungry.)
If you find yourself with a spare four minutes and would like a little bit of guidance on how to live this life…
What would you do if you had a million dollars? Two million? A hundred million?
In yesterday’s post I confessed to being an occasional Lottery player. I confessed to knowing the odds and playing anyway. I confessed to, for all practical purposes, throwing my money away in the pursuit of a couple of intangibles; the euphoria of holding a ticket that would make me a millionaire and the insight that playing out those “what if” scenarios brings into who I might be if I had that kind of cash.
What if I won? And who would I be?
I suspect that first-time what-if players lean toward the fast car, fast lane (quickly broke?) lifestyle. If I could remember back to the first time I held a lottery ticket, maybe I would find that I leaned that way, too.
Lately, my what-ifs, lottery or no, are much more grounded.
Several years ago, I was interviewing for a full-time job. The job was in management, in the field in which I had worked, with a fair amount of success, for twenty years. It was likely that I would get an offer and it was likely to pay well. It would certainly pay well enough to live; making my retirement income somewhat disposable.
Ultimately, I decided that I didn’t want to leave my family. I decided that my “work” here at home was more important. After 20 years of roaming the globe, I decided that, for now, I would stay put. I put conditions on my employment and ultimately the company did not make an offer; to me or anyone else, as it turns out.
Even knowing that I had done this to myself, I was still disappointed. Some of that is ego. It would simply have been nice to have been wanted.
More disappointing, I found was that the one balm I had offered my conscience, while contemplating selling myself into a soul-sucking daily grind, was the opportunity to use my retirement income to write a check every month to the charity of my choice. My mind played over the options; a healthy chunk to Alzheimer’s research, to international relief work, to local support agencies. Some of my planned “good works” were a little more frivolous. April’s check might have gone to sponsoring a Little League team. September’s to sponsor a class trip.
That’s what I thought I would do if my current income became disposable income.
In more recent years, as my lack of employment has caused me to nibble away at savings, all while watching the cash flow in the care of my mother, I have become even more frantic about saving a proper nest egg. As, genetically, it appears likely that my demise will be long and humbling, I am ever more conscious that a long goodbye is also quite costly. For someone who wishes to have choices about end-of-life care, the price tag comes in at somewhere around $600,000.
So forget living the high-life. I need to win the lottery to die well.
I think that makes me officially old.
It’s an old cowboy proverb; probably born of long observation of an unfamiliar culture faced with the age-old challenge of surviving in a sometimes unforgiving world. As they say:
Timing has a awful lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.
There are many times when timing is the razor-fine difference between seeming to possess the power to change the landscape and looking like a crazy-ass fool, shucking and jiving out in the mid-day heat under clear blue sky.
There are times when the difference seems less fine.
In my little village there are a number of organizations with ongoing activities for which the members find themselves in need of raising funds. Most are youth groups of various sorts. Growing up going to catholic school, I have first-hand experience with hawking raffle tickets, and saving soup can labels, and selling magazine subscriptions.
My wonderful neighbor across the street where I grew up had a firm rule; if a child is selling something, you buy it. These days, given the fact that a 7 year-old may very well be running crack cocaine, I retain the right to suspend that rule under certain circumstances, but, for the most part, I have adopted that as my rule, too.
I buy Girl Scout cookies, Boy Scout popcorn, class trip wrapping paper and science club cookie dough. I’ve had my car washed… by the football team… in the rain. It’s for a good cause, after all. Spending a few bucks to support these activities is usually a foregone conclusion for me.
I’d worry about my neighbors reading all of that here and learning precisely what an easy mark I am, but it’s too late already. The cat is already out of the bag.
Other times it is even easier than opening my wallet to support school and extra curricular activities. Occasionally, I get requests just to save my recyclables for collection by one or another group.
On one such occasion, there was a knock on my door on a Friday afternoon, asking for a contribution of bottles or cans. I was unable to help. The village’s regular recycling pick-up had come by that morning.
Ack.
Last Friday I came home to find a flyer stuck in my storm door once again asking if I could save my recyclables for pick up. At first I was a little disappointed that the notice came on Friday. I only noticed the flyer as I was walking back up my front steps carrying my now empty blue box.
Ack…again.
Reading more carefully, though, I saw that I had a few day’s notice to save what I could for them. The scheduled pick-up was today. Today, being the Monday after Super Bowl Sunday, I couldn’t help thinking that a number a folks might have a few empties lying around the house.
I couldn’t help thinking that timing does, indeed, have a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.
Any guesses which group was collecting cans and bottles today?
This morning I received an email from a friend of mine from a previous tour, asking me for a favor.
S. was the IT expert at my last command. She not only kept our system running, but managed all our information when we moved aboard ship. Then she tested and evaluated the systems of every deploying strike group for robustness against weird shipboard power and for vulnerability to everything from hackers to nuclear attack.
The woman is brilliant. She is also tougher than nails.
Do you know what favor she asked for on the eve of her own deployment to Afghanistan?
This is what she said:
One of my shipmates, Clayton Kendrick-Holmes, who is deploying to Afghanistan is a football coach for a Division III team. He has been nominated as “Coach of the Year.” With this title the winner is given $50K to donate to a charity. He said if he wins he plans to give it to “The Wounded Warrior Project.”
It does take a few minutes to sign up, but I’d like to ask you all to vote early and vote often by clicking here.
My mind seems to have made a huge leap past Christmas and New Years; bypassing my trip to Iceland and Paris; skipping over the better part of February altogether. Today, I began planning for March, and you know what that means, sports fans.
It’s Iditarod!!!!!
Pray god – you didn’t think I was going to talk about basketball did you???? I’d sooner pay my own way to Alaska to sleep on a cot, answer phones all night long, wade out into subzero temps to feed dogs I don’t even know, wrangle crowds, or stare at a spreadsheet or an empty trail for hours on end. That’s what I just volunteered to do anyway.
Pathetically, I think I spent more time on my volunteer application than I did on my last resume…and with any luck will have a better outcome.
The beast and I are heading out for our very first “official” therapy dog visit.
At the moment, Schiffer is napping quietly upstairs…or perhaps she is chewing on shoes. I’m not entirely sure what she is up to, but at least she is quiet.
Me? I am pacing…
I have a touch of the first day of school, starting a new job, prepping for a big presentation nerves; anxious that our first visit go well. I have reviewed Therapy Dog International’s policies, ironed the beast’s uniform, and carefully laid out our ID badge where I can’t forget it.
Over the last few hours I have scanned copies of Schiffer’s pedigree, health records, and dog license. I have printed off the record sheet for tracking visits and put together a binder of what I believe are all the necessary documents. I also have included a few puppy pictures for those who might be interested (and seriously, how could they NOT be interested???).
I have packed a bag with her water dish and towels, handiwipes and poop bags, and, earlier, I spent an hour out in the drizzle throwing the beast’s frisbee attempting to tire her out.
I don’t think I did this much preparation for my last deployment.
Wish us luck…
Although it is bright and sunny out today, the temps are only in the 60′s and the evenings have been quite cool. Definitely soup weather, in my book.
Today, I am making a Tuscan Bean Soup. I wish I could give you the recipe.
Alas, I do not have it.
The contents of the pot simmering on my stove were largely assembled by women I don’t even know. I added the water, and some garlic and a bay leaf, but the contents of the spice package are a mystery to me. Given my love of cooking, using a “mix” would hardly be satisfying for me, you would think. In this case, though, my “mix” comes from a local organization that is doing a lot of good in my community.
My pre-packaged soup comes from Healthy Sisters’ Soup and Bean Works. This is what they do:
Our sole purpose is to provide a nurturing work environment for women who come from backgrounds of chronic unemployment, poverty or displacement. Healthy Sisters’ Soup & Bean Works is an innovative work experience program where women earn a steady paycheck, develop self-confidence and learn job skills needed to enter or re-enter the workforce.
Read more and order some of your own at healthysisters.org
I wrote several days ago about receiving our official paperwork from Therapy Dog International (TDI). It was a big day, but, like many of those big milestones, just when you think you are done, it turns out that you have simply opened the door to the next big thing…and that’s OK. It’s important to keep learning, growing.
Last night’s email brought the TDI newsletter filled with all the mundane news of the organization; reminders to get our annual renewals in, clarification on vaccination requirements, list of agencies requesting therapy dog team visits. The usual stuff…
This month’s newsletter, though, also contained an article on the work of therapy dogs in Disaster Response. The dogs provide a little bit of love and maybe a little home to those folks who have been displaced by disaster; those folks having the worst day of their lives. The Disaster Stress Relief Dogs are also frequent visitors to the camps of folks who show up to help and who, collaterally, bear witness to unspeakable injury and horrific damages.
The nice thing about the dogs is that they don’t need for you to tell them about it. They would just like to know if a good snuggle or a hug or, perhaps, some slobber might help take your mind off it.
We don’t have a history of natural disasters around my hometown. (Knock on wood) We don’t get hurricanes or tornadoes or serious floods or forest fires. I would consider the likelihood of some kind of terrorist attack centering here highly unlikely (again, let’s knock on wood). Where there are no disasters, there can hardly be said to be a need for a Disaster Stress Relief Dog, and I am uncertain if I would want to bear the cost of travel with the beast to get to where we could do some good.
Still it was an appealing opportunity to me.
I started the online training courses last night…
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