Please help me ...

This is an excerpt from my 'work in progress' ... Chapters of Goodbyes ... stories of my experiences while I was a Hospice nurse.

My father-in-law was a doctor in Oklahoma for over 50 years. He, himself, discovered that he had prostate cancer in the early 80’s. J. P. had a very healthy ego, but he also knew that to treat himself would be foolish, so he consulted with an oncologist promptly. Over the next six months he underwent radical surgery, radiation and chemotherapy. All this took a toll, forcing him to cut back on his patient load, as he continued to practice medicine. The cancer spread to the colon, requiring a colostomy. J.P. refused to learn how to care for the colostomy, again the head in the sand attitude. My mother-in-law became quite proficient with changing the bag, a feat that surprised even herself. It was after this last surgery and the resulting chemotherapy that he was forced to retire. On more than one occasion, he would remark how much a person would endure “for a few more days on Earth“. He was often philosophical, saying ‘one must play the cards they are dealt’. Sadly, though, he would not or could not talk about his dying with my mother-in-law. Whether he was trying to shield her, or unable or unwilling to discuss his death, we will never know. He preferred to talk about the past, and there were some wild and funny stories to tell. He had taught my mother-in-law to play golf, after she was 50 years old. They discussed shots and what she was doing wrong, watched golf on the TV for hours on end, but tuned out the rest of the world and its problems. They chose to block out any ‘unpleasantness’, be it on the evening news or a movie or the fact that J.P. was failing more each day. They could spend hours with a crossword puzzle and J.P. was quite proud that he didn’t cheat with the dictionary. He often told her that he had “saved the best for last”, referring to the fact that she was his 5th wife. They had been married 17 years when he died.

The cancer spread further to his spinal cord, he would attempt to sleep in a recliner chair, but could never really get comfortable. The oncologist was the first to mention ‘hospice’. Both of them said no, it wasn’t needed, they didn’t want strangers in their home. My mother-in-law finally allowed a nurse to visit, I think more for company than for any other reason. The nurse didn’t push hospice, she chatted with both, encouraged them to talk about themselves, made a few suggestions for his comfort. Could she return next week, always calling first to see if the day and time were convenient? My mother-in-law told me later that they initially thought hospice just meant visiting, the nurse didn’t seem to do anything else. But slowly, changes were occurring. First an aide was brought in to help with the personal care of my father-in-law three times a week. This allowed my mother-in-law a respite and, again, someone else with whom to communicate. A hospital bed was brought into the home, not only allowing him to rest more comfortably, but making it so much easier to tend to his needs. Clergy visited, social workers, some old friends, even some former patients would come to see J. P. Always, he was charming, but stoic, never letting down his guard. My mother- in-law would respect his unwillingness to talk about the future, but she began to open up to her family.

Hilda was a breath of fresh air in that house!! Hilda had been a nurse in her homeland of England, but could not practice in the states. When her husband had been transferred to Oklahoma, she volunteered her time to Hospice. She had the patience of Job to listen to all those tired tales of his youth, but the eye of a trained professional to see and hear what wasn’t being said. J.P.’s mother was in her 90’s, still living by herself, just a few minutes ride from his home. She would visit only rarely, but she talked with him on the phone daily. My mother-in-law would pick her up and no sooner had Jenny sit down beside the hospital bed, than she would announce that she needed to return to her home. My mother-in-law and I could not understand this seemingly cold behavior. Was she so self-centered that she couldn’t put herself out for a few minutes, or was she so afraid that she would break in half at seeing her only child dying. Later when J.P. was in the hospital, I made one final attempt (in a driving rainstorm) to go to her home to take her to the hospital. She wouldn’t come to the door, I had to let myself in with the spare key and then hunt for her. I found her sitting quietly in her darkened bedroom. There was no sign of emotion on her face, but her hands were in a constant twisting motion. I pleaded for her to come with me, back to the hospital, while her son was still coherent enough to know her. She refused, shaking her head so that her upper body swayed back and forth. “ I cannot go, please, no...I can’t....please, go.“ I left, furious with this old woman, angry about the rain, not understanding why a mother would not go to her son’s death bed. I was later told that Jenny had not gone to the hospital when her husband, also a doctor, died from a stroke. I wondered if she had been afraid that she might ‘catch’ something if she had gone to the hospital. While we never learned why Jenny behaved in such a manner, I was finally able to realize that this was the only coping mechanism Jenny had to buffer the loss of her beloved son. My mother-in-law tried to replace J. P.’s attentiveness to his mother, after his death. Jenny’s physical and mental health declined rapidly; she refused to let anyone stay with her and she was unable to live by herself any longer. My mother-in-law reluctantly was forced to have her admitted to a nursing home; Jenny died less than 24 hours after being admitted, her heart simply quit beating, she no longer had her son or the will to live.

When I returned to the hospital without Jenny, J.P. only smiled at me. While my mother-in-law, The Duck and I stood around his hospital bed, confused and frustrated, J. P. seemed to understand and accept his mother’s absence. My father-in-law was too weak to speak, slipping in and out of consciousness. One of the last forms of communication was when he pointed to the wrist watch on my husband’s wrist and smiled broadly. Several weeks earlier, J.P. had given the watch to his step-son; he was so proud of his wife’s son and wanted him to have his prized watch. He lifted his right hand slightly from the bed and gave the “O-K” sign. My mother-in-law broke down in tears, exhausted from the previous nights. J.P. had been so restless, unable to sleep and seemingly uncomfortable. She talked with the nurse and doctor; both assured her that he could be made comfortable enough to stay at home and die. She never confided in us about her decision to have him admitted to the hospital to die. Several months earlier she had told us that J. P. wanted to stay home. Ironically, 7 years later my mother-in-law requested that she be allowed to stay at home as she was dying from lung cancer. With the help of hospice and with her family at her side, she died peacefully in her own bedroom.

My husband took his mother home that first evening, as I had agreed to stay with J.P. at the hospital. He lay quietly in the hospital bed, comfortable with the medication being infused slowing through the IV. The oxygen tube hissed ever so softly, and his catheter tube showed only a few droplets of urine. I had tired of reading and felt the television might be an intrusion to his rest. The nurses checked his vital signs routinely, as well as the fluids he was receiving. Only when they disturbed him, turning him or raising his arm for the blood pressure cuff, would he flutter his eyes open slightly and moan. In the wee hours of the morning, as I lay my head on my hands on the side of his bed, I thought I heard a noise. I opened my eyes and realized that I had fallen asleep, his huge hand was resting on my elbow. I heard the noise again, it was his voice, muffled and slurred, but definitely repeating over and over “ Please help me....help me....Please help me!” I raised my head and looked into his blue eyes, the dim lighting only magnified his gaunt facial features. “J.P. , it’s Sandy, what do you need? Are you in pain, how can I help you?” His eyes filled with tears, his hands picked restlessly at the linen and one last time he asked me, “Please help me”. In my heart I knew he was asking for help to leave this world, how he thought I could help him to die I can only imagine. I took his hand, so cold and lifeless and yet still so large in mine, and pressed it to my wet cheek. “ I will help you, please close your eyes and rest now.” I closed my eyes and prayed that he would be released from his pain and his tired body soon. I went out into the hall and summoned a nurse to give him some pain medication. Together, the nurse and I freshened his mouth, repositioned his body in the bed and tried to make him comfortable. J.P. did not open his eyes or speak again. My mother-in-law and husband visited the next day, both were aware of the changes and knew that death was near. I argued that I should stay again that evening, but both were insistent that I come home to rest. It was my mother’s birthday, June 8th, we went by her home to have cake and celebrate both her birthday and the birth of my brother’s daughter the day before. I fell into a fitful sleep that night at my mother-in-law’s home. I continued to hear my father-in-law's raspy plea “Please help me”. My eyes were wet with tears when the telephone woke us at 4 am. We could not hear what my mother-in-law was saying, but we heard her soft sobs as she hung up the phone. He was at last free from his pain, having died shortly before the doctor had called. For many years I regretted that I had not been there with him. I felt he had died alone and that was so sad. Only after working with so many hospice patients do I now feel that J.P. was not alone, perhaps he felt his mother was sitting there with him, perhaps his dad, too, helping him to ‘cross over’. I have had it repeated so many times, “Those that are suppose to be there, will be there.” The only thing I could do for him was pray for peace, to try and make him comfortable, and to let him know that he was loved. And in that manner, I was able to answer his plea.

My Many - Many - Many Blessings

Happy Birthday to Me !!! I'm 64 years 'young' today

and I am very blessed!!!!!

just a few of my blessings ....

Christmas Fruitcake

On April 1st of this year, I wrote my initial post for the "It's never too later for a happy childhood" blog. My first post was entitled A Fruitcake Tradition and it went on to explain why I chose Fruitcake Sandy as my signature.

Today is November 15th and I have just completed the Christmas 'tradition' for another year. It is a two day minimum undertaking. One day to sort pecans, to dice the ingredients, chop nuts, mix thoroughly and bake. The second day consists of basting the cakes in brandy and wrapping each cake in plastic wrap ... and cleaning the kitchen. Door handles, faucets, utensils, cabinets, counters and the floor must be cleaned. I don't know how I manage to get so much of the sticky stuff on everything, but I do. It's always with a sense of relief ... and accomplishment when the last cake is wrapped and the floor mopped.

I finished the task a little earlier this year ... with mixed emotions. Our daughter is 7 1/2 months pregnant and I was trying to 'clear my schedule' in case I am needed to start 'Grandma duty' earlier than expected. The sadness I'm feeling is because of my aunt who always wrote with great affection "the fruitcake arrived today!" My aunt passed away on the 17th of September. We had visited her just a month earlier and reminisced about the past; about families, memories, and especially about my stepmother's incredible fruitcake. My aunt was one of only a few members on my dad's side that really enjoyed the fruitcake. It became a tradition for the three J's (Juanita, Jan, and Jeanne) to enjoy the cake on Christmas Eve at a family gathering. My older brother absolutely loves the fruitcake and has repeatedly 'begged' me to continue baking them.

Thus I've been baking 16 cakes each year for 20 years. Many ... too many ... family members have died over the years and the 'Fruitcake list' to family has gotten much shorter. But somehow we've managed to 'adopt' others ... friends and neighbors who happen to love fruitcake. When I decided to write a posting about the fruitcakes, I went online to find some clip-art. While 'surfing the net' I found several sites dealing with the apparent universal dislike of fruitcake! One site is called The Great Fruitcake Recycling Project!

I shouldn't be surprised that so many people do not care for fruitcake ... I managed to grow up not liking it ... well, I actually can't remember ever eating any. When I was older I did see some around Christmas time, but it usually looked like cardboard with green and red gumdrops glued to it. Our family fruitcake is not like that ... it is quite different, no citron, no raisins, very moist ... yummy! I have several 'converts' who now say it is the only fruitcake they will eat. Only last year did The Duck and I keep two cakes for ourselves ... without any guilt!!! Nevertheless, I have found unbelievable propaganda maligning this Christmas cake. The opinions that follow are not shared with this author.

If fruitcake were even remotely popular, you'd find it on the menu at your favorite restaurant. Or your least favorite. For the record, have you ever seen it on a restaurant menu, anywhere?

Planning to travel this holiday season? In 2005, CBC News announced that fruitcake is a security threat. In fact, they said if you try to bring a fruitcake on-board an airplane, expect it to be xrayed because they are dense and could hide a weapon. This restriction is still in effect today. No kidding? I've always believed that the fruitcake itself was the weapon. In fact, you could kill someone with a fruitcake, easy.




It’s not “democracy,” “freedom,” Larry Flynt, or even a hundred years of imperialist adventure ... it’s, it’s ….. FRUITCAKE!!! Who can blame ‘em?

Fruitcake: The Other White Wood

Good Friends Don't Give Friends Fruitcake

Fruitcakes Recycled: 633192

Making a difference, one fruitcake at a time

For the record ... I LOVE fruitcake ... MY fruitcake .... and NO, I'm not sharing the recipe. I'm still holding out hope that my granddaughter will help me make the cakes each year and we can make some memories with our family tradition!

p.s. ... Katie, Bollocks to the those PC people ...

Merry Christmas !!!

Geseënde Kersfees; Glædelig Jul; Fröhliche Weihnachten; Nollaig chridheil huibh

Purchasing Real Estate

The Duck and I bought some 'real estate' a few weeks ago ... it's a small lot here in our little suburb ... a 10' x 10' lot that will need improvements and is only big enough for two!

I finished an exhausting work out that morning at the recreation center and before crawling out of the hot, smelly, room, I told the instructor that I was going to buy a burial plot that afternoon. Where is my camera when I need it??? Her jaw actually dropped ... I've heard that expression several times, but believe me, it is something to see in person!!! I hadn't been feeling great for several weeks, my friends/'partners in crime' were aware of my health issues, but I continued to attend the strength training classes ... always on the back row, so the instructor won't call me a 'slacker.' She did not utter a word for a moment ... just a 'deer in the headlights' look on her face, with the jaw dropped. When she finally blinked, she stammered "You ARE joking, aren't you?" I smiled and as I hobbled away ... "No, I am very serious." Her furrowed brow was priceless ... Yeah ... I know, it was a 'cheap shot', but when you are exhausted, sweaty, and feeling like you've been 'rode hard and put up wet' by a young 'hard body' in a thong ... you resort to whatever gets you through the day!!!

The Duck and I stumbled upon a cemetery on the outskirts of town one evening when driving around. We have lived in this beautiful 'hill country' hamlet for nine years this month. We have talked about buying burial plots for some time; not that either of us is in poor health ... it's just one more thing that we wanted to check off the "To Do List." We have wills, medical directives, powers of attorney ... all that sort of thing ... we both feel taking care of such decisions is really a gift to our loved ones. We thought we had found what we wanted a few years back and yet we never seemed to find the time to do it.

Then we found this 'new' cemetery within a few miles of us ... right 'under' our noses, so to speak. I knew it was there, but thought the IOOF was the address ... I didn't know that meant The International Order of Odd Fellows. I suppose I could 'pun' endlessly about the name "Odd Fellows" and any connection to The Duck and me, but that, too, would be a cheap shot as this is a very old and honorable 'fraternity.' In 17th century England, it was odd to find people organized for the purpose of giving aid to those in need and of pursuing projects for the benefit of all mankind. Those who belonged to such an organization were called "Odd Fellows." Odd Fellows are also known as "The Three Link Fraternity" which stands for Friendship, Love and Truth. The Independent Order of Odd Fellows was founded on the North American Continent in Baltimore, Maryland, on April 26, 1819.

The cemetery is very old ... it was founded in the 1840s and it is beautiful. Okay, maybe thinking a cemetery is beautiful is going a bit overboard. I find it is a peaceful and comforting thought to know my final resting place will be under those stately old trees and among so many friends. I've always like to walk among headstones and read the dates and unusual inscriptions. One old cemetery in Colorado has several markers with the date 1918 on them; that was the year of a terrible flu epidemic. On another grave of a local young musician, you will find guitars etched on the stone and it is not uncommon to find unopened beer cans sitting on the grave. There are the occasional 'pun' headstones, but most display love for their lost loved ones. Please understand, I am not into Goth or macabre/morbid fetishes ... although I do wear a lot of black, but it's a camouflage thing, you know, the hips ....

A few days after visiting the cemetery, The Duck and I bought 'our little piece' of real estate. We have included the 'deed' for said property with our other important papers. Check that one off the list! We decided to go looking at headstones on a Wednesday 'date' afternoon. (does this tell you anything about our exciting lives???) Not as much fun as going to an afternoon movie, but with lunch thrown into the deal, I was a happy camper. I should not have been surprised that our 'headstone' could be computer generated ... we now have a photo copy of a polished granite stone with our last names engraved on both sides. I had been the one who wanted to go ahead and have our first names and birth dates placed on the stone. The Duck had been quick to say "there's no reason to rush things" ... uh, so who else would be occupying my half of the 10' x 10' plot??? Always the thrifty shopper, The Duck insisted we visit at least two monument companies to get 'comparison prices.' When he learned it would save money to have the names and dates etched on the stone at the same time the FAMILY name was done, he readily agreed to having it done that way. I, on the other hand, had started 'back tracking' ... seeing our name on the headstone on the computer photo hit me like a ton of bricks. It was unnerving to say the least ... the plots without 'improvements' was one thing ... but my name ... my birthday date ... etched in stone. I think I actually had a mini-panic attack ... the heart racing, the head spinning (no, not an 'Exorcist' thing) but I did find myself questioning why we were even thinking along these lines, let alone, buying plots, looking at headstones. We thanked both representatives of the monument companies and told them we would be in touch.

I had lunch the following day with a 90 year old woman friend (she's incredible ... feisty, opinionated and youthful) ... she wants to be cremated, have her ashes scattered over her husband's grave or "whatever my daughters want to do with them." I kept thinking, I've spent my entire life trying to stay out of HELL ... why, then, would I want to be cremated?!?

I'm once again talking about the headstone with The Duck ... you see, the estimate of costs is only good for 30 days ... I told you he is nothing if not thrifty. But I'm wavering on the vases on both sides of the Family headstone ... we do not have anyone living close around to place flowers anyway!!! I think there is really only one thing to do about all of this 'pre-planning' ... I'm just not going to die!!!

A Selfless Act ...

I would like to introduce my 'baby' brother, Steve, and his wife, Kim. Kim and Steve live in Oklahoma when they aren't driving a truck across the country for Panther Expedited Services. In February, the couple was honored with the Open Road Foundation's first Hero of the Highway Award for rescuing an injured driver from a burning vehicle.

In the June 2009 issue of Reader's Digest on page 31, the story of these two 'heroes' can be read. I'm not trying to 'steal' any of their 'thunder' or trying to pump myself up with "hey, look what my brother did" ... I just wanted to tell you about them and a selfless act of bravery ... I'm not sure that I could have or would have done what Kim and Steve did last November 25th in Kentucky on Interstate 75.

Kim was driving, they were in route to Detroit, Steve was asleep in the sleeping quarters of the cab. Kim noticed a bright glow reflecting off the blacktop. She first thought it was a grass fire, until she got closer and saw an 18-wheeler had run off the road into a ravine. The cab was engulfed in flames. Kim screamed, waking up Steve, while pulling their truck over to the shoulder. Steve began descending on foot to the truck, which had settled at the bottom of the 60-foot ravine, He could hear the truck driver's cries for help, but as traffic began to back up on the highway, a car unable to stop careened over the embankment toward him. Steve managed to jump up and skid over the car's hood. The car came to rest dangerously close to the burning truck. Kim ran toward the car and help the passengers who were not injured move the car away from the truck.

When Steve made it to the burning truck he found the driver hanging from the truck's passenger side door. The man's legs were on fire and he was trying desperately to free himself. He had cut himself free from the driver's side seat belt only to get his boot caught in another. Steve said there was no bravery involved, he just knew he had to get the driver out of there ... he didn't stop to think about it. Steve finally pulled the driver out after attempting to get him free three times. The driver's legs were still burning, Steve beat the flames with his shirt and began dragging him away. He managed to drag him about 20 yards before the truck's fuel tanks exploded, raining fire and debris all around. Kim grabbed towels and a blanket from their truck, poured water over them and placed over the driver's legs.

Kim and Steve continue to say that the driver was the real hero! Ronnie Sanders, 38, from Indianapolis, Indiana had been hauling a heavy load of tractors from Georgia to Indianapolis when a car directly in front of him suddenly came to a complete stop in traffic on the icy road. Ronnie saw children in the back seat of the car, he realized with the speed of the truck as well as the weight, his truck would kill all of the occupants in the car.

Ronnie purposely jerked the steering wheel sharply to the right, the truck plunged into the deep ravine, where rocks pierced a fuel tank, which ignited. Ronnie lost consciousness when a tree smashed through the windshield. When he awoke a few minutes later his legs were on fire.

Ronnie Sanders suffered severe burns over nearly half of his body; he spent two months in the hospital receiving skin grafts. It will take up to two years for Ronnie to fully recover from his injuries.

Steve suffered minor burns and smoke inhalation; he has had surgery for some broken teeth from the debris in the explosion.

Steve and Ronnie have become close friends, albeit it through emails for the most part. There is one phone call that Kim and Steve will not forget ... it was from Ronnie's 6 year old son, thanking them for "saving my daddy's life."

An Old Farmer's Advice

The minute I saw this photo and especially the accompanying 'advice' I thought of my dad's father, Daddy Buck. My grandfather died when I was about five years old, but thankfully with family photos and stories retold repeatedly I knew Daddy Buck. Daddy Buck was a 'no nonsense' kind of guy, but with a heart of gold. He believed in hard work being it's own reward. He and 'Tillie' raised 5 children on a farm in Missouri. The next to the youngest was my dad. Dad had a 'miniature' farm in Oregon and he was happiest when he was outside, preferably with his hands in the dirt. The following advice is 'right on' ... and as you might guess NOT just about old farmers!

* Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong. *Keep skunks and bankers at a distance. *Life is simpler when you plow around the stump. * A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor.

* Words that soak into your ears are whispered...not yelled. * Meanness don't jes' happen overnight. * Forgive your enemies. It messes up their heads. * Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.

* It don't take a very big person to carry a grudge. * You cannot unsay a cruel word. * Every path has a few puddles. *When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

* The best sermons are lived, not preached.* Most of the stuff people worry about ain't never gonna happen anyway. *Don't judge folks by their relatives. * Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.

* Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you'll enjoy it a second time. * Don't interfere with
somethin' that ain't bothering you none. * Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.

* If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin'. * Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got. * The
biggest troublemaker you'll probably ever have to deal with, watches you from the mirror every mornin'.

* Always drink upstream from the herd. * Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.

* Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin' it back in. * If you get to thinkin' you're a person of some
influence, try orderin' somebody else's dog around.

* Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to God.

It was only yesterday .....

In an earlier post I remember telling you about Bz and her "blankie" (this remembering thing is getting harder to do these days!) In the above photo taken around 1975 Bz and I are sleeping on opposite ends of our sofa with Lilly (the Easter kitty) somewhere in the middle (and Lilly is the only one with her eyes open). If you look closely you will see the infamous blankie wrapped around Bz' arm as she dreams. Moments like these in the photo are priceless. I am blessed!!

Loyalty ... in defense of The Duck

I posted a story about my Teddy Bears yesterday. I made a couple of comments about The Duck's grumbling concerning my bears. Our daughter (Bz) commented in defense of him ... and she's right ... he does not give me any serious or mean spirited static about the bears. He even put several shelves in one of the bear rooms where the bears reside now in an orderly fashion. The bears are not The Duck's thang ... nor are they special to anyone else in my family, but that's okay. I adore them, I enjoy them and that's okay as well. I've managed to 'cut back' on them, haven't bought a new bear (or an old one either!) in several years and as I mentioned I am giving some away.

But this is not about the bears really ... it's about loyalty ... and that is nothing to joke about or be clever or sarcastic. Being fiercely loyal to one's family is but one of the many admirable traits that our daughter possesses. She takes after her daddy in that way ... and I could not ask for anything more.

A is for Arctophile

I am an Arctophile … I developed this ‘malady’ rather late in life. You see, Teddy Bear collectors are known as Arctophiles from the Greek words 'arcto' (bear) and 'philos' (lover). That pretty much sums it up for me … I am a Teddy Bear lover and a Teddy Bear collector.

I have no memory of Teddy Bears when I was a child. I lived with my maternal grandmother for several years … until my mother married for a third time and we moved to Oklahoma when I was almost ten years old. My grandmother was very frugal (that's a nice way of saying she was a 'tight-wad'!) We did not have 'frivolous' things. I truly did not want for 'things' when I was living with my grandmother, though.

Fast-forward to having children of my own … my children did not have a lot of stuffed toys either ... our son had allergies, Bz was attached to a' blankie' until we accidentally (Honestly!!!) left the wee scrape of material home one Christmas when we traveled to Oklahoma. Besides she was really only interested in live critters ... dogs, cats, hamsters ... and finally horses! But I digress… Bz did, however, have a blue teddy bear, obviously given to her by some 'distant' relative.

Around that time I was working the 7-3 shifts in the cancer unit of the hospital. One of my patients was an elderly woman without family. She was an admit from a nursing home and, of course, I became very attached to her. Another post later, perhaps, about my penchant for the elderly ... do you realize that when one of our elderly die, it can be equated to a library burning to the ground ... oops, more digression) This poor ole soul would cry when I went home in the afternoon. One morning shortly before she was being transferred to a hospice bed in the nursing home, I brought Bz' silly blue bear to the hospital. I went into the room with the bear in my arms; her face lit up and she reached for the bear. She immediately dubbed it Sandy and cuddled the little bear close to her heart. I learned later from the hospice nurses that when she died, the little bear was with her in the casket.

And so I became known as the 'Teddy Bear Nurse' ... I often gave special bears to my patients, but the collecting of them started after I went to work for hospice. One of my first patients was a 16-year-old girl, Joy, dying with cancer. I have a touching story about Joy concerning a horse, but that, too, will have to be another post. On my visits to the home, I admired a very unusual beige bear with chocolate brown eyes and suede paws. When Joy passed away, her mother insisted I take the bear, but only IF I would name it Joy. 'Joy' now sits on a bed in the Bear Room in Colorado. That was the first bear back in 1987 ... I now have two 'bear rooms;' one out in Colorado and another here in Texas. Family and friends have gifted me with several of my bears and I've purchased many from eBay. I am very fussy about my bears ... no 'Snuggle' (fabric softener type) bears; no Koala bears; no Grizzly bears; no foo-foo bears with wedding dresses or ballerina tutus ... and the facial expression and eyes are very important. No ordinary run of the mill bear will do. My bears ‘talk’ to me … okay, call the guys with the straitjackets ... that is what I wrote … the bears speak to my spirit. These are but a few things that my Teddy Bears give me: they offer complete and total acceptance. They don’t require batteries. They are energy efficient and non-polluting. They don’t bark, bite, scratch or snore. They keep all your secrets. They don't tell you that you are fat or have bad breath. They are the perfect fit for an empty spot in your heart. And they are always ready for a hug!

The Duck has given me some ‘static’ over the years concerning my bears … he complains the ones in Colorado are creeping out of the ‘bear room’ into the bathroom and kitchen. He remarks I should sell them (they are silly for a grown woman!) … they take up too much room. Our 13-year-old grandson doesn't want any bears ... maybe Little Someone will enjoy them one day. If not, I plan to leave them to a children's hospital … I’ve already given some away to our Blue Santa Claus drive (police program) and the Relay For Life (Cancer) events. When The Duck gets a little cranky about the bears, I remind him that I don't smoke, drink, or do drugs (yes, I am boring!) I don’t run around on him … I don't even play Bingo … The Teddy Bears Stay!!

P. S.

The Duck is soooo clever ... he's taken the slides from the summer in Colorado, August 1975 and made a 'slide show' complete with John Denver singing "Rocky Mountain High" and "Sunshine on my Shoulders"!!! It is absolutely beautiful ... even through my tears, I watch my 'ducklings' playing, laughing and I drank in the scenery. Celine Dion sings the theme from Titanic ("My Heart will Go On" ) as I watch one slide melt into another of the mountains, the trees, flowers and the flowing Rio Grande. I am once again young ... transformed to another time.

Memory Lane ...

The Duck got a new toy recently … and I must say that it is true … the only difference between a man and a boy IS the price of their toys! This 'toy' is very cool, though ... with its software it allows the Duck to scan slides and put them in digital format. We have about 1,500 old slides from our nearly 44 years together. This arduous task is quite time consuming … he’s done approximately 100 slides so far, but those have taken him three or four hours. The prospect of getting rid of all those carousels of slides and emptying a couple of boxes out of the closet is reward in it’s self. But it’s this journey down ‘memory lane’ that has turned out to be so special.

Some of the first slides the Duck found were of the four of us taken 34 years ago in Colorado. It's August 1975, we were on vacation, camping out in a large tent with a catalytic heater in a campground in Ouray, Colorado. Several of the photos were taken on the Narrow Gauge Train in Durango. 34 years ago … truly the time has flown by us … we are young and so full of energy, there is no grey hair, no glasses, our bodies are stronger and slimmer … it was only yesterday!! NOT!!!

I am taken back at seeing myself with dark auburn hair (my natural color!) I have blue jeans on, my shirt is tucked in and I'm wearing a belt!!! It feels like I’ve been on some sort of diet all my life … but in these photos, I am slender. I remember never being pleased with myself ... my hair, my shape, hobbies, clothes, whatever. I always found fault, however small the imperfection. I look at these photos now from the past and see someone different and I realize that I was so hard on myself, rather than enjoying the moment, all those important times with my husband and children … if I had only known then what I know now.

The Duck decided to send both offspring ‘pics for today’ and now not only are the ‘children’ and their spouses enjoying the photos, but our grandson is able to ‘see’ his dad from so many years ago. Grandson is looking at photos of his dad riding a motorcycle in the beautiful Colorado Mountains. There is one photo by the side of a dirty yellow motorcycle … grinning with dirt (and surely bugs!!!) on his teeth. Both ‘ducklings’ are going down their own memory lane.

I love the one of adorable little Miss Bz (with her Dutch Boy haircut) helping her big brother hold a string of fish that they have caught with their dad. The fishing poles are standing at their sides like miniature knights holding their lances. This was taken just moments before Bz dropped the fish back into the icy water at Lake San Cristobal in Lake City, Colorado (accidentally) and then proceeded to jump into the water to retrieve the fish! She looked like a drown mouse when she was pulled out of the water, but she had that string of fish clutched tightly in her fist.

We’ve just gotten through 1975 … son would be 9 years old, Bz is 6 years old. The Duck had Bz riding on top of the gas tank on his motorcycle; wearing goggles and a white helmet covered with ‘flutter-by’ decals. Son rides behind me on a purple 100 cc Yamaha. We ride off-road to areas not visible from cars. We remember one such ride … it was July, but it had started hailing; sharp, stinking pieces of ice on the top of one mountain … Bz’ hands are not covered and to this day, she tells us that she remembers being so cold! Oh, there will be more photos of her snowmobiling years later in Colorado … her dad’s mustache frozen with ice … she says she never thought she’d be warm again. All those motorcycle trips/vacations in Colorado … all those photos of a sometimes motley looking crew … all those memories. We’ve been tiptoeing down a wonderful memory lane … and I'm looking forward to more.

All Aboard !!!! Durango, Colorado

The Duck has been taking our plethora of slides and 'digitizing' them on a scanner one by one. Got the neat new 'toy' which makes the process so easy. He was working on 1975 slides and found this one of us when we were in Colorado August 1975 in Durango. I love the sheepish grin on our son's face ... the 'Bz' is a serious little camper ... we camped in a tent with a catalytic heater, drove from Ouray to Durango early to catch the Narrow Gauge Train. Where did the time go??? I know it was only yesterday .....

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall ...

... I am my mother after all. I've seen that phrase in cartoons and on tee shirts ... conjuring up all sorts of negative feelings, criticisms usually ... "Good grief, you ARE just like your mother!!" When we're young, especially, we do not want to be anything like our mothers ... all we see are the harpy habits, the inadequacies, the faults, the annoying characteristics, perhaps even the shape or size. Oh no, we do not want to be like our mothers. I certainly fought any comparison to my mother it seems all my life. And I felt justified ... my mother was a MESS to be very perfectly blunt ... a complicated, unhappy, disturbed MESS!!! The only time I could remember her actually saying 'I Love You' when I was growing up was when she was in a drunken stupor. I think I always loved my mother, but for so many years I did not like her.

Before the confusion and dementia robbed her of so much ... her memories, the names of her loved ones, the person she was actually ... we were able to connect ... we forgave each other ... we liked each other ... we loved each other. My mother died almost four years ago at an Alzheimer's facility in another state. I miss her every day ... I wish that I could tell her how much I love her.

These days when I pass a mirror, I'm often caught off guard ... I will do a 'double-take' because I see my mother looking back at me. Little gestures, mannerisms, the use of a phrase or a look on my face and there she is ... sometimes younger, but more often she has aged, she looks tired. People tell me that my daughter looks like me (poor dear!) ... I don't usually agree, but I'm looking at a photo of both of us at this moment and I see us tilting our heads the same way ... our smiles look alike ... our eyes, although not the same color, we have the same 'lazy' eye. I tell my daughter often how much I love her ... I learned that from my mother.

The last time I talked to my mother was the Friday before our 40th anniversary. Our daughter and husband were giving us a 'surprise' anniversary party ... and it was a surprise, although we knew something was up, we had been 'requested' to come for the weekend. Saturday, August 6, 2005, we were sent to a movie ... (one I dearly love "Must Love Dogs") When we returned we were greeted by both of our children and their families as well as several friends ... it was wonderful evening. I usually called my mother on Sundays, but knowing that the cellphone reception was not the greatest at our daughter's home, I called Friday. I was trying to tell my mother our plans, but she could not remember my name at first. She was very confused and agitated. Apparently talking about the anniversary sparked a memory of her own. She remembered that she and my step-father would be celebrating their 50th anniversary on the third of September. Suddenly she was my mother again .. she laughed and retold stories about her 'children' going to her wedding! She remembered that Pops had bought her a new dress so they could renew their vows at the nursing center .... and the very last thing my mother said to me was "I Love You."

That Saturday night, we ate barbecue prepared by our son-in-law, we enjoyed a cake decorated with a reproduction of our wedding picture and opened a gift of a King size quilt that our daughter had transferred photos onto ... photos of our lives together ... births, graduations, weddings, vacations. It was the hit of the party as we would unfold more of the huge quilt to find even more 'memories.' The next morning, Sunday, the 7th I was sleeping in ... I do not drink alcohol, I was just being lazy, lying there half asleep thinking about the photos on that beautiful quilt ... marveling about being married for forty years ... it didn't seem that long, it was only yesterday that the four of us rode motorcycles in Colorado over rocky passes and camped in the 'Beverly Hillbilly pop-up camper' ... when the phone rang. It was about 8 AM, the others were up ... sitting out on the porch having coffee and visiting. A few minutes passed when I looked up at the bedroom door ... my husband and daughter were standing there ... they didn't even have to say what I saw in their eyes. I asked "she's gone, isn't she?" Yes ... my mother had passed away in her sleep, the nursing home staff found her in her bed that Sunday morning. My mother was at peace at last ... she had known who I was and her last words to me were "I Love You." Happy Mother's Day, Mother ... I love you!