mimicry

We have a problem on our hands.



 It's hard to explain, so I'll just show you.

The grandson enjoying his bouncy chair.

What the??.....someone appeared in the bouncy chair doing the 'bichon wave'. Notice she strapped herself in for safety.

The baby experiencing his first try in the jumper.

Really Sophie??! How did you get in there?





The waving Bee-shawn Free-say is totally outta control.

Can her behavior be an extreme case of animal mimicry? Just like this clever owl?



Can you see him? I didn't snap this photo BTW.

 Don't tell the Sprout I found Soph swaddled in the crib with the pacifier. Come to think of it....was her barking episode telling me of her preference for pureed lamb?

Send. help. now.

Love to all.

pie happiness

Wind has been been blowin' in West Texas. On days when the wind is whistlin' out here on the High Plains, it's nice to have an indoor activity prepared. My activity yesterday was making lemon meringue pies for a special in-law birthday. #6-0!!

Consulted the old Betty Crocker cookbook. Do you have one of these relics? This is circa 1975-before feminism.

Wanna see my pie? Of course you do!

Used a Pioneer Woman pie crust recipe, but I adjusted the fat ratio to 2 to 1 butter to crisco. This recipe had a little bit of vinegar in it. The food processor is the only way to go in mixing pie crusts, but pie crust is always a messy proposition for me. You should've seen the flour and the parchment paper flying around the kitchen.

Hot heaven in a pan.

The filling. This is where I consulted Betty Crocker. Lots of egg yolks, sugar, cornstarch and freshly-squeezed lemons. I might have licked this pan clean with a spatula...by myself since the Texan was at work. Sorry, Texan.

Beating, beating, and beating egg whites until they are stiff and glossy.

Ta-dah! The paaahs. Aren't they gorgeous? See why I was excited to show them to you? The in-law was very happy to have these for his birthday....oh, and the taste! The taste was lemony sweetness surrounded by a flaky crust and topped with a heavenly (not too sweet) meringue. The textures were sublime and the flavor sensations amazing, even if I do say so myself! ***patting myself proudly on the back*** Fun times with the in-laws.

In case you were wondering about my security...making pies out in the rural-ness of West Texas and all, you needn't have feared.

Can you spot the guard dog on her couch perch?

Roxy Doxy was looking out the bedroom window keeping constant vigil making certain our house is protected and I can make pies in blessed peace.

She keeps her squeaky squirrel nearby in case she gets bored.

See? I'm very well-guarded.

Do I smell pie?

A sleepy Roxy Doxy:
What does Lin-sanity mean?

An exasperated me:
Knock off watching Sports Center, will you? Come help me clean the kitchen...I might have a sticky pan you can lick!

Lemony love to all.

pure unadulterated joy: crossing

This will be the last in a series about my mother. February 20th, 2012 will be the one-year anniversary of her passing.


The source of her constant pain that forced her into a nursing home? My fear of recurrent cancerous tumors was WAY off. She had multiple fractures in her spine. Maybe caused by taking steroids for years for her COPD, who knows?

I recall her last trip away from the nursing home. She was to go to the local hospital for an MRI of her spine. I could no longer transport Joy because her pain was intense and she couldn't make it from the wheelchair into my car. Arrangements were made for the nursing home van to take her to the hospital and I would meet her there. I waited in the large lobby as sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The van approached the door and the driver got out, went to the back and slowly lowered the silhouetted figure in a wheelchair to the ground. He wheeled her into the bustling lobby as I met them. Mom was severely hunched in her chair and she donned a pained smile when she saw me. In her hands was a large manila folder containing the doctor's orders for the procedure she would undergo today. Her name was written in large print on the outside of the folder. The thing I noticed most about the folder were the 3-inch tall letters, written in bold black on a fluorescent green sticker DO NOT RESUSCITATE! 

Mom....you look like a school kid holding your report card.

Joy glanced down at the folder and replied, Yeah, and it looks like I failed!

The inscription inside the Big Book of Alcoholic's Anonymous Joy gave to me in 1980

We tried to control her pain. Joy was on a cocktail of meds to regulate her failing systems; any change was a high-wire act performed without a net. The pain patch didn't help much.


Two other developments lowered my spirits to their nadir:  Joy kept having bouts of pneumonia requiring treatment with strong antibiotics. One morning she pulled me close to her face as she lay propped on her bed. In desperation she revealed,


Kath, I can't see!


I squeezed her hand.


I know Mom.....I'm so sorry.

I sat with her as we both absorbed the cruelty of Joy being deaf and now blind. Freakin' macular degeneration...they say if you live long enough, you're gonna get it.

I won't go into details of her last days. Made the decision to call hospice, as she had given me her medical power of attorney. She trusted me to make the right decision and I did the best I could. Maybe we could have gotten her through this episode, but I didn't see the point. It was time to let go and let Joy move on.

A letter I cherish, written to me after a girl's trip to Dallas. We saw an art exhibit 'El Greco of Toledo'.

One of her last lucid moments was talking to the hospice nurse. He got close to her face and told her he was from hospice and they were going to take good care of her. She was resigned, but she was definitely not HAPPY to see hospice and she told him as much. The nurse thought she was hilarious and full of spirit. Said he loved her spunk.

Thankfully, Joy wasn't in hospice care for long....only 2 days. Not sure what I expected from a dying person. Maybe I thought there would be lots of hand-holding and Joy would slip quietly into the night. That turned out to not be her dying 'style'. Joy fought tooth-and-nail for every last precious breath and moment on this earth. I really didn't expect this, but her dying was like her living:  she'd overcome many setbacks and she wasn't going west without a good fight! She didn't need or want any hand-holding or hair-stroking.....the battle was hers to wage. I was simply an onlooker. Good thing we hadn't left anything unsaid.

What did I learn from Joy? Here are some things I keep in my heart.

1. It's never too late to start over.
2. Never....ever....stop learning.
3. Don't judge a person on their possessions or lack thereof. It's a gift to be comfortable around all sorts of people.
4. My children are extraordinary.

One of my last little notes, written in Joy's increasingly shaky handwriting.

5. The Texan is a Saint, and I am never to bad-mouth him.
6. Surviving awful experiences can make one stronger.
7. Always trust your Higher Power...this is the path to true serenity.

Thank you, dear reader for sharing my remembrances of my mother. I wanted to write some truths of her life to help myself and hopefully shine a light on the difficulty of alcoholism and addictions in general. Seems no one is untouched these days. Redemption is always out there. Joy found it through God and Alcoholic's Anonymous. I spent many-a-day in Al-Anon trying to find answers for myself.

This has been a difficult, but ultimately triumphant series, I hope.

Please check back, as I will be posting some lighter, more humorous blog posts. Oh...and lots of pictures of a certain grandson and an adventurous wiener dog! Did I mention I caught Roxy-Doxy Tebowing after a spectacular tennis ball catch the other day? Oh....lawd-eee, that dog!

Redemptive love to all.

pure unadulterated joy: dancing with skeletons

Everyone has skeletons in his closet, but not everyone has taught them to dance....my pastor, Burt Palmer in church last Sunday.

Joy's big moving day dawned cold and clear. The Texan, the Sprouts, the in-laws and anyone else we could throw a lasso over helped us with the move to the nursing home. Mom remained stoic even though the move was complicated for her. While the nurse reviewed Joy's condition and talked with me about her medications, the others dutifully brought in her precious belongings and beloved family photos. Faded photos of her parents, brothers and sisters, and lots of shots of the grandchildren were hung close to her bed.

A favorite photo of Joy's mother and her twin sister

Joy's hearing had deteriorated to basically 'non-existent' in recent days. Her hearing loss was profound, but she took pride in being able to read lips when a speaker was standing in front of her. Now, macular degeneration was robbing her of the ability to read lips. I was her lifeline to the world. I brought some wide-tipped, black magic markers and a note tablet to the home and asked the nurses to write a note and hold it in front of her to aid communication. She was different, but not demented.

If any one's family tree had been stunted and wrecked by the disease of alcoholism...it was surely Joy's. I experienced firsthand how the sinister disease had touched the lives of her brothers and sisters...even how it had wreaked havoc on their families. Many novels are waiting to be written filled with the unusual exploits of my family. Think Angela's Ashes (by Frank McCourt) times 10. Once in a great while, I'd ask Mom about her childhood and she would clue me in.

She once told me of how abusive her father became when he drank. By all accounts he was a brilliant, perfectly civil man, but drinking brought out his dark side. Joy said she and her brothers and sisters hid in a bathroom when they heard their daddy hit the front door drunk. They lived in an upscale neighborhood of Oklahoma City called Nichols Hills. Seems Joy's father did pretty well for himself during the Depression years. They often took in relatives and helped feed the neighbors and others struggling at the time. Mom recalled her dad coming home one evening and all the kids scrambled to the bathroom to avoid the destructive fallout. They could hear shouting, their mother crying and objects flying around the house. The episode must have gone on for some time and the children fell asleep in the locked bathroom. Joy's memory was of getting up the next day and getting ready for school. As she walked from the house to the sidewalk, she saw the lovely curtains gently blowing out all the broken windows. Bits of destroyed furniture were scattered on the lawn. She said she cried as she went to school that day thinking of her beautiful, destroyed home. The incident was never spoken of again.

Another favorite Joy-story involved her preparing a speech for the Woman's Christian Temperance Union meeting. She was about 12 and she was entered in a speech contest for the WCTU to decry the dangers of drinking alcohol.

Early WCTU poster

Young Joy set her keen mind on writing and memorizing her speech. One afternoon, her father and a neighbor-friend asked Joy to recite her speech for them. She recited her speech on the front porch as her dad and the neighbor drank liberally from an open fifth of bourbon. She recalled walking over the passed out neighbor as she went back inside the house. The competition occurred a few days later in front of a large audience inside a packed church. Joy remembered hearing some of the youth delivering passionate speeches and scathing remarks about the evil of drink. Readying for her turn, she rehearsed the lines in her head. She stiffly strode to the podium. Silence. Throat-clearing. Nothing came to her. She looked at the packed house. She looked at her family beaming at her in expectation. Still nothing. Young Joy stood alone for an uncomfortable while trying to collect her thoughts and gather up the opening words to her finely prepared speech. Still nothing. She left the podium....unable to recall a single word.

It was getting late at the nursing home. The busy-ness of the first day was almost complete. The sweet nurse asked us if we would like to eat with the residents in the dining room.

Joy in her room meeting a sweet, sweet baby. This visit raised her spirits.

Might as well jump in with both feet, Kath. Let's give it a try. Will you eat with me?

I wheeled Mom to the dining room where we sat at a nicely decorated table. Joy furtively looked at the other residents. One impeccably coiffed lady was dangerously close to falling headfirst into her mashed potatoes. Another man constantly chattered to himself and struggled to find his mouth with his fork. There were helpful aides feeding some of the residents. Everyone wore a large bib....some of them made of big pieces of molded plastic to catch the run-off. Joy and I weakly smiled at each other and tried not to notice how different this dining room and it's residents were from her previous residence.

We ate quickly and hightailed it out of there to finish up some chores in her room. The Florence Nightingale-of-a-nurse who tirelessly helped us all day approached Joy in the hall.

How did you enjoy your dinner and the dining room? she chirped.

It's not baaad......if you don't mind eating in a morgue! was Joy's acid reply.

Right then and there, Joy became one of Florence Nightingale's favorite residents. Me?....my heart was racing and I promised myself I'd call the cardiologist in the morning.





pure unadulterated joy: alcohol

(the third in a series about my mother)

The honest depiction of your past may be the courage for another's future.  Danny Gokey

Mom....would you like to go see the new, beautiful nursing home I've been telling you about? The Texan's mother is out there and she ADORES it!

Joy about age 14

Nice try. No old, dying person really wants to see the inside of a nursing home no matter how avant garde you promise it to be. Joy was a practical realist, so we scheduled an appointment. Wouldn't you know I had some very important business out-of-town with the Sprout on the day of the nursing home visit.  Who do you guess wheeled Mom around on her fun nursing home tour? That's right...the steadfast, rock-love of my life....the Texan! Mom loved the Texan and she trusted him completely. The Texan reported Joy took copious notes and inquired as to the cost of everything. How much were meals? Did they charge extra for the oxygen? Did they charge to give her a bath? Could she bring her computer without an extra charge? Was toilet paper in the bathroom included in the price? Could she get her diabetic meals and what would they cost? The Texan finally got through to her that everything was included and she didn't need to worry about anything....she could be right next door to his mom. We placed a deposit and scheduled a move-in day.

Joy had always been smart. She had a good head for figures and business, too. But during my growing-up years, Joy didn't always make good decisions. You see, for my formative years....as far back as I can remember, Mom was an alcoholic. Of course, when I was little I didn't know what 'alcoholism' was. I had no name or way of communicating what was wrong with my mother. Call it a progressive revelation.

Me with broken arm as a baby. Something about a run-in with my 2 older brothers.

circa 1962

I knew she was able to work her job OK, but when she came home in the evenings, she passed out on the couch. On weekends, she might pass out earlier. I knew she and my dad argued about what was wrong with her. (My dad was an alcoholic as well, and died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1978. That's another tale and beyond the scope of this story).

Dad and Mom early 1950's

One of the earliest recollections of realizing my mother was sick was when she checked into the Oklahoma State Mental Hospital. It was the early 1960's and I'm not talking the Betty Ford clinic, I'm talking One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. She was gone for weeks and I remember going to the foreboding place for a visit. Never went back. Guess the adults in my life figured it was too much for a youngster. They were right. The clenching fingers of fear gripped my young psyche and held tight for decades.

When Joy found sobriety with the help of A.A. in 1980, she began the task of turning her life around, making amends and building a new, productive life for herself. I was a young mom with small children as Joy embarked on her journey and I was hedging my bets. I'd witnessed many 'recoveries' and she'd have to prove she could be trusted. Her attempt at transformation felt like turning back a freight train speeding towards a cliff. I'd never known a sober mother and I would reserve judgement, thank you very much. Jump forward to her funeral in 2011....she celebrated almost thirty-one years of sobriety.

We enjoyed our sober Joy so much, we moved her from Oklahoma to Texas 1985. We loved her and yes....we needed an extra baby sitter for our three rug-rats. The raging freight train had turned.

Now....back to her smoking addiction I told you about. She knew I detested her smoking. I'd grown up with it. Gone on endless road trips in an old station wagon with the windows rolled up...both parents smoking. I have allergies and asthma and become ill when exposed to cigarette smoke. Wanted to become a sleazy lounge singer, but I couldn't handle the smoke. My lungs have spoken.....ENOUGH!

In our conversations over the ensuing years, Mom told me giving up drinking was the hardest thing she EVER did. Alcoholics always crave a drink and that's just the way it is. She honestly and boldly told me after giving up alcohol, there was no way in hell she was ever gonna give up cigarettes. She simply could not do it, no matter my pleading. No matter the lung cancer. No matter living in a smoke-free retirement home. No matter needing oxygen 24/7. Mom had spoken.

She almost made good on her promise. She was about to move to the nursing home. I would gladly have handed her a smoldering cig if it would relieve her pain...even for a moment.

pure unadulterated joy: 2

(The second in a series about my mother)

The emergency room doctors and nurses were kind and concerned in dealing with Joy's eight day-no poop issue. Some scans were conducted looking for intestinal blockages. When those came back negative, we were sent home but Mom continued to complain of intense back pain. She was having great difficulty walking around her small apartment.

It's the tumor! Where is the freakin' hiding tumor?

I was the Nancy Drew of tumors after Mom's last lung cancer surgery. Isn't lung cancer one of the most metastasizing cancers? Doesn't it show up in your brain or your bones...or somewhere? Her beloved brother had died of cancer some years earlier.

The cause of her reoccurring bladder infections? A tumor. Frequent lung and breathing difficulties? More tumors. The cause of her recent back pain? A giant tumor in her spine. How many people do you know who've survived lung cancer surgery and who have NOT had a recurrence somewhere else? That's a highly exclusive club, for sure.

Mainly I was convinced I would again come face to face with another cancerous tumor, because....you see (cringe).....Joy still smoked. Yes, I know it shattered every retirement home rule. She was gonna light the place up like the 4th of July, smoking while she was on oxygen 24/7! Her smoking felt like death by a thousand cuts to me.

Mom, is grandma smoking? Her apartment smells like cigarettes!

On our weekly Walmart forays, she bought air freshener by the case. I upchuck at the cloying fragrance of lavender clinging over menthol Kool smoke. When did she smoke? How was she not discovered by the retirement home police? Did she think I was an idiot? (you don't have to answer that one!)

One day the Sprout visited her grandma with me, and she remarked the bathroom smelled smoky. I donned my sleuth hat and entered the bathroom. I opened her shower and the intense odor assaulted me like a smoky bandit. Dammit! She's smoking in the shower with the shower vent on! I was too upset to do any yelling or pleading that day. I returned the next day and talked with her...too loudly, like always.

Mom...they're gonna throw you out of the home! Then, where will you go? You can't live with me....you'll be a homeless, old deaf woman on oxygen meandering the streets looking for a handout! Please don't do this...I'll get you chewing tobacco, more nicorette....anything.

Never knew for sure how she obtained the cigs. She couldn't drive, so I suspect she bribed a more able-bodied oldster to secure them for her. Maybe some sinister resident who took the bus to the supermarket every Wednesday? Perhaps she bartered with Dulcolax or Poligrip...who the hell knew?

Don't remember having another conversation on this topic, however I do recall searching her apartment while she was at bridge group. (Sick, I realize. Don't judge.) Found the pack of cancer sticks concealed in a box stashed in the way back of her desk drawer. I took them out. Don't know if she smoked ever again, but her large purchases of Glade morphed into grand purchases of Nicorette gum.

For now, Joy was in pain and couldn't care for herself. Me? Nancy Drew was preparing for battle with the phantom tumor.

pure unadulterated joy

(The first in a series about the days and events leading to my mother's death in February 2011.)

'Kath....I haven't pooped in eight days',
Joy confided to me in an embarrassingly loud whisper inside the retirement home restaurant. She'd worn bulky hearing aids for fifty-plus years and the woman lost her inside voice eons ago.

Meeting for lunch after the bustle of the 2010 Christmas and New Year's holidays, I was ready to re-assume the mantle of more dutiful daughter. Other commitments of family and visitors relegated Mom to the back burner for the week between the big holidays.

Joy at the 2010 retirement home Christmas party watching her elf lead the singing. She's ready to ring her jingle bells on cue.

Most of December found us visiting her myriad doctors to maintain our balance on
her health tightrope. Our three-ring circus included regular visits to a pulmonary physician for management of COPD (emphysema) and congestive heart failure, the nephrologist to keep tabs on failing kidney function and the weeping edema in her lower legs, and visits to the endocrinologist to keep her late onset diabetes under control. The required medications overflowed from several desk drawers.

Christmas 2010 at our house. One of the Sprouts thought she needed her IQ challenged.

Most days were salt water taffy moments for me-lots of pulling and stretching on my time and energy, but the combination failed to produce a sweet, tasty morsel.

Joy living in the retirement home was a godsend. A lifelong smoker, she had surgery for lung cancer some years previously. Until that time, she lived alone in a precious cottage the Texan provided for her. After the removal of a portion of the upper lobe of her lung and the follow-up radiation, we both knew her days of living alone were numbered. She stayed with us as she recuperated from her lung surgery. That mostly went well, except for the times I came home and found her smoking with her oxygen on. What makes a soul stubbornly continue to smoke when his life has been heroically spared by a highly skilled surgeon? Stupid addictions....I had the second fiddle music memorized.

'This is totally unacceptable. I can't work to save you while you simultaneously try to kill yourself!'

She proudly but weakly gathered her things.

'Take me home, then.'

This arrangement did not last long. Mom was unable to care for herself. The retirement home was our answer.

Joy's years at the retirement home were filled with friends, shared dinners, and bridge groups. Since she couldn't hear, she studied the resident roster daily and worked diligently on learning names. She kept meticulous notes on people she met during lunch and dinner. She observed whose wheelchair was outside whose apartment and she reveled in stories of 'rest home trysts'.

'Why don't you get in on the action?' I asked.

'Who says I haven't?'

Before long, Joy was known as a happy resident who played a wickedly competitive game of bridge. She raced around the halls of the home like she was driving the Indy 500 fueled by her special oxygen pack. The home subsequently implemented a mandatory safe-driving education program for those residents using scooters. There had been a number of incidents. Although she denied it, I'm certain Joy was the cause of a mandatory safe-driving program. I had the tire tracks up my ankles to prove it. Sometimes Joy bristled when I christened the retirement home 'God's waiting room', but mostly she chuckled.

In a week's time, we would give anything for the happy laps and the friends of the retirement home. Today, we were off to the hospital.