Lessons from the Shar Pei....

I stopped by my mother’s retirement community to drop off her laundry and groceries a couple of days ago. I arrived as she was finishing lunch with a few other residents. To be entirely honest, I time my visits after their meals because if I don’t I get repeated invitations to join in, and frankly, that just isn’t my idea of a good time. I’m not really into Jello salad and food that has, from all indications, been pre-masticated. And while I know they can’t help it, a lot of the residents have issues keeping their food in their mouths. It is, in general, a scene I prefer to avoid so I arrived as I knew she would be finishing her meal. I couldn’t stay long, and I thought I’d just sit down at the table for a few minutes as things were wrapping up.

I learned a long time ago that it is always prudent to wear a nice heavy emotional armor in the company of Mommie Dearest. But, I admit that even up until a few years ago she had the ability to occasionally undo me with her comments. These days, though, I take her jabs and ‘helpful advice’ as comic relief. Rarely does she say something that I regard as a serious insult. And more often I just laugh at whatever outrageous and offensive thing comes out of her mouth. Not food, mind you. Words.

But, apparently I have laughed too much.

Or, so my mother said. As I sat with her, she sweetly offered me one of her cookies. I declined. She offered a cup of coffee. I declined. Again she offered a cookie. I declined. This exchange went on for a while and then she looked at me, patted my hand and said, “I bought some wrinkle cream and I think you should try it. I have been using it a week but it doesn’t seem to be making any difference for me. Maybe it will work for you.”

I chuckled at her comment and said I thought possibly, having spent 83-years developing those wrinkles, a one-week turnaround was a teeny bit unrealistic. And I offered my typical suggestion that, after 83-years, maybe it was time to stop worrying about wrinkles and just embrace life. She, of course, ignored that suggestion and decided instead, to focus on my need for the miracle wrinkle cream that, clearly, doesn’t work miracles. I lightheartedly asked if she was suggesting that I had too many wrinkles and she bluntly said yes. She said, and I quote, “You have lines around your eyes from laughing too much.”

From laughing too much?

Can one laugh too much? I mean, yes, I do laugh frequently and occasionally inappropriately. Well, all right, maybe the inappropriate laughter comes more than occasionally, but, for me, the idea of laughing too much conjures up images of the maniacal Mrs. Rochester locked in the upper rooms of Thornfield, crazy as a loon. To my knowledge I don’t fit that description.

I do laugh freely and with a good bit of abandon. And yes, loudly. I have, on more than one occasion been called out for laughing too loudly as though I have some magical volume control that measures the decibel level and allows for only an appropriate amount of sound. But too much? Too often? Is that possible? And did my mother really just tell me that I have lines around my eyes because I am too happy?

Yes. Yes she did.

Of course, her comment made me laugh….probably incurring more wrinkles…and I told her I thought I’d be fine without the miracle wrinkle cream that, clearly, doesn’t work miracles. Especially if the reason for the wrinkles is laughter.

In truth, my facial lines are because of life. Because of age. Because of laughing at the funny things, crying at the sad things, squinting because I can’t see things, and because of the natural depletion of collagen or whatever it is that keeps people from getting wrinkles.

Like everyone, I’ve developed lines around my eyes because I’m alive. But, I have choices in how I deal with them. I can choose to fret over those lines. I can choose to pay a huge sum of money to a plastic surgeon to lift my eyes in the hopes that I’m not left with a look of perpetual surprise. Or, I can pay a huge sum of money to have Botox injected into the skin around my eyes to paralyze the muscles thus ensuring I’ll never be able to achieve a look of surprise. Or I can pay a huge sum of money to cosmetic companies for the miracle wrinkle cream that, clearly, doesn’t work miracles.

Or I can be content.

Content in the knowledge that who I am really doesn’t have anything to do with wrinkles. Content in the understanding that there is more value in focusing on the interior than the exterior. Content in knowing that if I laugh, I’ll get wrinkles. If I frown I’ll get wrinkles. If I live another day, I’ll get wrinkles.

I think I'll take more wrinkles.

Sounds of Life

Sometimes I’m hard of hearing. Not, because of age (just yet) but because of the amount of noise all around me. There seems to be a constant stream of sound almost everywhere. Go to any restaurant, grocery store, shopping mall, dentist office...pretty much any public place, and the barrage of music is unavoidable. Go to a doctor’s office and there is a television running. In fact, there is a gas station near my home that now has a TV playing at the gas pump. Really? We can’t pump gas without watching TV?

It makes it hard to think.

Now granted, I’m not thinking all that deeply about life’s meaning while I’m comparing prices on spaghetti sauce but sometimes the clamor agitates me. I’m a non-violent person but I admit to wishing that someone would shoot the speakers nestled inconspicuously in the ceiling, because I can’t tolerate another moment of listening to Celine Dion wail about lost love. Celine, sweetie, get some therapy or something but please, stop yelling at me in the grocery store.

Occasionally I do hear a song that I enjoy, which I cheerfully accept, but then the serendipitous moment is marred by the shrieking or whining of a child who really should be home taking a nap. Or maybe it is me that should be home taking a nap. Either way, I get a little edgy when I’m happily singing along to Maggie May for the millionth time and I get interrupted by a disgruntled toddler.

I’m really not sure why we need all that noise.

And then, in addition to all the ambient noise, we have the cultural din of doomsday, and the shrieking of uncivil discourse, and those who feel that their perspective on politics or religion or what-have-you is the only correct one which gives them the right to rapidly speak over another rather than listen respectfullyandoffergracetoadifferentopinion.

Yikes.

This makes me sound grumpy but I am not, by nature, a grumpy person. Nor am I quiet. My family has maintained, for years, that they don't look for me in a crowd….they just listen. I believe boisterous is an appropriate descriptor, so it might seem incongruent that I would be lamenting the level of noise that surrounds me.

Perhaps the issue isn’t the amount of noise, but the elements of the noise that agitate me.

So much of it is a meaningless cacophony. Bedlam that drowns out the sounds of beauty and joy and life. Sounds of laughter and nature. Genuine human interaction. Even the barking dog or the crying child offer wonderful sounds of life when experienced without the underlying benign static.

Of course we need political debate. Most certainly we should embrace the right to voice our opinion. A bit more civility in the discourse would lend more credibility, I think, but I in no way believe those rights should be removed.

I’d rather not have music everywhere I go. But that is because I would prefer not to sanitize human interaction so much that if you and I are the only ones standing in an elevator the music drowns out the sound of our breathing. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe, if I don’t hear you breathing, I don’t have to think about your humanness and if I don’t consider your humanness, I don’t feel the need to offer you respect and civility.

Even dissident opinions offered with decent, polite, civil, passionate interaction are beautiful sounds of life. Unlike their destructive counterparts; dominant, caustic, mean-spirited, and strident put-downs.

It seems our culture has forgotten how to communicate with grace and genuine concern for one another. How we communicate says a lot about who we are.

And yet, just when I think the level of destructive noise is causing our culture to ‘go to hell in a handbasket,’ beautiful sounds of life rise above the discord and remind me not to take it all too seriously.

Last week I was walking down the street when my friend, Monica, drove past. She didn’t have time to talk just then, but how she communicated, in that moment, says everything about who she is. Without even slowing down, she rolled down her window and yelled, “I love you!”

In a blur she was gone. In one whimsical moment her exuberant expression of affection reminded me that I can choose which sounds have credence and meaning. I don’t have to be distracted by all the noise. Her words penetrated the quiet of my walk but they offered a welcome sound.

A beautiful sound of life.

Early Evening Fever

Generosity comes in a variety of forms. And sometimes generous gestures make all the difference in someone's day. No matter how many they have left.

Now that my mother has decided to live a while longer, she seems to be staying busy by participating in a variety of events in her retirement home. She called me late yesterday afternoon to say that she was attending a party where there would be dancing and she wanted to know if Parker would like to attend the party and dance with her. Well now, sure. What adorable, nearly 21-year old, wouldn’t love to go hang out at the Octogenarian Ball with his grandmother?

First and foremost on Parker’s mind these days is not, honestly, his grandmother but his upcoming birthday celebration in Las Vegas. He and his friends, Jesse and Taylor, purchased airline tickets and have big plans for making his 21st memorable. They seem to be imagining it as The Hangover although I sort of think it might really end up being more Three Amigos. Regardless, they are psyched. I hear about all kinds of plans to walk the strip decked out in suits, reveling and celebrating and attracting throngs of women who will find their charm irresistable. So, when my mother asked for an escort to the ball, I suggested the three of them go and practice their women wooing skills. Now, granted, the women to woo at this party were in their 80s and 90s but there was the added incentive of University of Denver sorority sisters who were also scheduled to attend. Apparently old people are considered a sorority and fraternity ‘service project.’ Nice.

I fully expected the boys to say no to going but, instead, they asked what time the party started, got dressed up, and set off to wow the masses by busting out their dance moves. I suspect the prospect of sorority girls influenced their decision somewhat but as it turned out, there were only two sorority sisters in attendance. And neither seemed terribly invested in the dance. Or the residents. Or the boys. They arrived late, left early and apparently had no intention of dancing with anyone. So much for the service project. The boys were greatly underwhelmed by the sisters but forged ahead to do what they went there to do….get jiggy!

Wit’ 80-year olds.

Arguably three of the most adorable young men around, Jesse, Taylor, and Parker are accustomed to a fair amount of female attention so it was a little shocking when, at first, they faced repeated rejection from a less than appreciative audience. Several women said no to their dance invitations. A crushing blow, no doubt. Some women refused to dance by telling the boys they were married. Hopes dashed again. One woman exclaimed, rather indignantly, that she was 100-years old. To which Parker responded, “Then let’s celebrate by dancing!” She refused in a huff. But eventually they found some takers, including my mother, who took full advantage and danced as often as they could manage. One woman even wanted Jesse’s phone number. For her granddaughters, she said. Sorority sisters and grumpy old women aside, there were plenty of opportunities to dance the night away.

Well, at least until the party ended at 8:30.

The boys came home happy and smiling. No grumbling, no complaining, just joyful spirits having done something out of the ordinary. I’m pretty sure they could have found a million other things to do on a Wednesday evening than hang out with the elderly. But they didn’t. They came home and regaled us with stories about the inebriated geezer in a Hawaiian shirt who didn’t speak but just went up to women and thrust his thumb at the dance floor by way of request. Charming. And the 90-year old couple who didn’t dance because they were mackin’ in the corner, too busy to come up for air. A room, maybe?

If I listen to the news today I’m sure to hear stories of people who lack generosity. People who believe their opinion or way of viewing a situation is the only correct one. People tossing unkind generalizations around like a beach ball, unconcerned with the consequences of where their words will land. People unwilling to put aside their own wants for the sake of another.

But I don’t think I’ll listen to the news today. I think, instead, I’ll replay the images of three charming young men, full of life, and joy, and immense generosity. Three young men who infused a couple of hours of life to those with little of it left.

Gracious. Generous. Giving.

Lock up your grannies, Las Vegas. These boys are on the make!

Saying Goodbye....

I had a funny little exchange with Mommie Dearest yesterday. I called her to say that I’d be over in a while. I added that I wouldn’t be able to stay for the weekly ‘happy hour,’ and she said, “Oh, you mean the party?” I replied, “Yes, happy hour. I won’t be able to stay for happy hour.” She got a little irritated and snapped, “Why do you keep calling it that?” I was puzzled and said, “Because…that’s what it’s called?” She then said, “That is the name of a man who lives here, you know.” I started to laugh. My mom says lots of crazy things and often I just let her comments go. But this one, I couldn’t. Through my laughter I said, “You do NOT have a man living there named Happy Hour!” She said, “Happy Hour?” I thought you were saying Javier.”

We both started to laugh.

It was nice to share an affable moment with her when she was happy and present and lucid and that we both found funny. It has been a long and arduous few months juggling her health issues. From April through August she was shuttling from the emergency room to the hospital to rehab and back to her apartment on a regular basis. Her returns home lasted a day or two and then, inevitably, something calamitous would happen and she’d end up in the emergency room again. By late August, Mommie Dearest came to the realization that her quality of life was being compromised. She wanted off the medical rollercoaster.

The next step was to begin palliative care.

I met this decision with mixed emotions. The upside was no more trips to the ER. The downside was submitting to the reality that there isn’t much more to be done for her, medically. There was poignancy for me in this step, although I felt it was the right decision. It seemed more challenging for Mommie Dearest. For several weeks after coming to this conclusion, she refused to get out of bed, get dressed, or leave her apartment. I began to prepare myself for the end.

A palliative care nurse came to visit with my mom and I attended the first meeting. My job was to fill in the gaps of history that my mom either forgets or just makes up in some sort of revisionist strategy to make our family’s past fit what she wants it to be rather than the dysfunctional mess it really was. Regardless, the process for care was set in place. My mom’s physician had told me that sometimes when patients go on palliative care they rally for a short time. There seems to be some type of emotional release that goes along with knowing they aren’t going to be hospitalized repeatedly. I have been pleasantly surprised that, following the nurse’s visit, Mommie Dearest does seem enlivened.

She is tiny and frail. She naps frequently and can no longer walk but, every day she musters the energy to get up and dressed and go to the common area of her retirement community to kibbitz with her friends. I know she could continue like this for a while longer. And I know it could all change overnight. So I choose to embrace the time I have with her.

When my father died, I had no warning. I never had the chance to say goodbye. In retrospect I recognize the point at which he said goodbye, but I wasn’t able to understand what was happening and offer my own farewell. My soul was troubled by that until a few years ago when I was given a second chance. The day before my dear friend’s father died I visited his bedside to say goodbye. His name was Bill and his previously large and powerful body had withered, but his massive hands were still strong. He took my hands and held them firmly in his. Because he could barely see, I put my face within an inch of his...and said goodbye. He locked his eyes deeply into mine. Everything and everyone in the room faded away. It was just the two of us and then, his weakened voice said, “Goodbye isn’t forever, you know.” We stayed suspended in that intimate pose for some time before I was ready to let go.

The healing effect that exchange had on me is inexplicable. At that moment when Bill griped my hands and spoke those words, it wasn’t just Bill I was saying goodbye to. It was also my own father. I had been given the opportunity for closure and I felt the soothing balm in my soul immediately.

Actually saying goodbye to my mom in words may or may not happen. She won’t really talk about her own death much. Just a flippant comment here and there. But it doesn’t matter because I’ve learned, there isn’t a formula for how to do these things. Each situation has its own unique process. Every time I see my mom, or serve her, or laugh with her, I experience a part of the process of saying goodbye. Not with sadness, but with peace. This time, I’m being given the opportunity to prepare. This time, I get to say goodbye. Mommie Dearest wouldn’t be comfortable with me coming right out and saying it. And it feels like forcing the issue lacks grace. But doing the best thing for her is my way to say I love you. My way to say goodbye.

Each step of her decline reminds me that our time is short. But the truth is, time is short with everyone. We never know if we’ll be given another day. Another opportunity to laugh or serve. Or forgive. But we’re given the chance today.

The chance to say, “I love you.”