#254 In which our hero discusses a small cabin in the woods, and the deteriorating condition of the same.

“My family owns a cabin in the Allegany National Forest Reserve.”

I’ve spoken this phrase probably a thousand times in my life; always in response to the question, “Where are you going this weekend?”

This cabin has been in my family for more than 60 years. While that’s not a huge amount of time, big-picture wise, it far exceeds my lifetime. I’ve never known a time when we didn’t vacation at “the cabin.”


That’s the only name it’s ever been called; “the cabin.” And while there are plenty of little hunting cabins in the region with fun names, like “Termite Tavern,” “Aces Wild,” “Bob’s Whispering Pines” or “Hole in the Fall”… this cabin, our cabin, has never had any other name.

I never thought it strange that my family owned a cabin in the woods. I did think it odd that it was smack-dab in the middle of a national forest reserve, though. I don’t think most people know that there are tiny dots of private property sprinkled throughout the thousands of square miles of virgin forest. I’m not sure if the land was purchased before it was declared a forest reserve, or the state sold parcels to help finance roads or whatever... but there are a lot of private cabins. In fact, there are probably 50 other cabins within a short walk of our cabin. So that kinda destroys the remote cabin in the woods imagery, I know.

But remote or not, it is primitive. One big bunk room, one big kitchen/dining room/living room. No running water--the outhouse is a short distance away. There is electricity, however. At one point we had a phone line (a party line, remember those?) but we cancelled the service years ago. Just not worth the price for the one or two calls that ever came in. And now, you can actually get a cell phone signal if you walk up to the road.


The cabin is top-of-mind for me right now because we were just up there a couple of weeks ago. I loved this place as a kid (and still do) and I want my kids to love it, too. They seem to… they enjoy running around the cabin, playing in the leaves, collecting acorns, and all the other dumb stuff that I used to do.

While the cabin has hosted dozens in the past (complete with tents and campers to house those that couldn’t fit in the actual cabin), this was a low-key affair; only me, The Scientist, the girls and my mom. In fact, this is what the gatherings have been like in recent years. All the regulars are getting too old to go, or are dying out.

My Aunt Joyce died last year. Uncle John, who can’t drive any more, comes when he can. Aunt Joan is in Florida and has had both hips replaced. Uncle Frank refuses to return since his wife died. Dad’s been dead for 15 years. Mom’s the most able-bodied person to go, and she’s 76.


This is a different generation than mine, of course. My sisters are spread out all across the country, and only get up every few years. My cousins come sometimes; but no-one goes up on a regular basis, like this older generation used to.

And it shows on the cabin. Built by amateurs, it was never any sort of feat of engineering to begin with. And the harsh winters take their toll. Chipmunks have free access to the attic through any number of holes they’ve chewed through the eaves. Spiders nest in every corner.

I’ve seen cabins literally fall to pieces up in those woods. For years, there was a cabin down the road from ours that slumped lifelessly, roof fallen in, walls bowed outward, utterly unsalvageable. And there was another cabin--a really nice one, in its day--that did the same thing. Uncared for, it collapsed into a heap of rotten timber and memories. It was eventually cleared away, and the plot of land bought up by a neighbor. This sign is the only reminder that it was ever there.


This makes me sad, because I fear a similar fate for the cabin. I’m not at all handy, so I don’t really possess the skill or know-how to make real repairs to the structure. I’ve re-tarred the roof many times, and repainted the wood, but that’s really about the extent of my ability. And, honestly, there’s so much work to be done that I’d guess that it would be cheaper to raze the thing and start new.

And that’s my dream. Build a brand new cabin, one that will last another 50 years, a hundred years… so that my kids and their kids can still go up there and enjoy roasting marshmallows around the fire, playing cards late into the night, and laughing and catching up with friends and relatives.

But I don’t know if that will ever happen. Maybe if I win the lottery. But Lord knows I detest the idea of this wonderful get-away simply sinking into the dirt; unused and forgotten. I hope my children can always tell their friends, “We’re going to a little cabin in the woods that my family owns.”

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#234 In which our hero unexpectedly attends a party wearing pants of a most unusual nature.

Mom came up to visit last weekend. Since we went to visit the in-laws for Thanksgiving, she asked if she could come up this weekend because it will have been so long since she saw the girls. Being that we had nothing planned, I said sure.

Little did I know that I was walking into a trap.

Mom came up Friday and it was nice. The girls are always insanely happy to see grammy, due in part to the gifts she always brings. Generally speaking, I’m happy to see mom for the same reason. No! I’m kidding. I love my mother. And her gifts.

So Saturday comes and The Scientist has to work, which is a pain in the ass. But I’ve got nothing to do all day, so it’s play with the girls, run to the store for stuff to make dinner, and just hang out. The Scientist comes home, we eat and all is well. Around 6 o’clock The Scientist tells me that her friend is coming over to pick up some food we have stored for her in our chest freezer. But when M. gets here, she has a sheet cake.

ME: Why’s M. have a cake with her?
THE SCIENTIST: Because we’re having a party.
ME: Who’s having a party?
TS: We are.
ME: What, now?
TS: Yes, now. Go upstairs and get changed.

So yeah… my wife, who is a terrible liar and absolutely can’t be trusted to keep a secret from me… threw me a surprise birthday party over the weekend.

My birthday isn’t until next Monday but, wisely, she threw it this past weekend so I wouldn’t expect it. And man, I did not expect it. Frankly, I’ll still a little taken aback that she pulled it off. I mean, my wife is really bad about keeping secrets, and folds like a cheap table when under examination. But she not only arranged food, games and activities, she got my mother into the action, too! Behind my back! And she invited a dozen or so of my friends over! And everybody even played along with the theme.

Theme, you ask? Oh yeah. Hell, yeah.

A little background first. About a year ago I discovered the music of Jonathan Coulton. He’s a geeky guitar guy, and his songs are really fun dorky stuff. I have three of them on my iPod right now. One of the songs that caught my ear was “Mr. Fancy Pants” (scroll down the list, you can hear the entire song for free).

It’s a funny, catchy little ditty. Sometime after hearing it, I told The Scientist that I thought we should have a fancy pants party. With a trophy for fanciest pants (not unlike the song). This idea percolated in both of minds for awhile, before we both agreed that it just wasn’t going to happen this year. Too much going on before the end of the year. Then it would be too snowy to have a party. So, maybe we could do this in the Spring. We were both onboard for this timeline.

Or so I thought.

Little did I know that shortly after I said something, my wife began planning a surprise fancy pants-themed party for my birthday. And she did it this year (I’m turning 39 next week) because she knew I’m be expecting something for my 40th. Which I totally would be; especially considering how much I bitched and moaned when she planned a surprise party for her friend’s 40th (the same friend who delivered the cake--wearing some seriously fancy pants, I should add) and I had never had a surprise party, even though I’ve always really, really wanted one.

Something else you need to know.

On the way back from Thanksgiving, we again started talking about a fancy pants party (we had eight hours to kill, afterall). I’m all geeked about the idea. I’m thinking about what kind of fancy pants people would wear… what kind of fancy pants I’d wear. I’m thinking it has to be something outrageous, something no-one else would think of. “You know what would be awesome,” I said, off-handedly; “A pair of transparent pants. And I’d wear a thong under them! Ha!”

Lesson #1: be very careful of what you ask for.

So, M., my mom and The Scientist start dashing around the house, getting everything ready for people to arrive in less than an hour. But first, my wife takes me upstairs and says, “Here. Put these on.”

In one hand she has a pair of transparent pants. In the other, a tiger stripped thong.

Holy. Shit.

ME: Where the hell do you even get transparent pants?!
TS: I made them.
ME: You did not.
TS: I did.
ME: What’s this material?
TS: It’s a shower curtain. And let me tell you, my sewing machine did not like it.

Transparent pants. Well, in all honestly, mostly translucent pants. Unless I bent over and really stretched the material. Then there was no hiding nuthin’. I was a little hesitant about the thong--it’s not my normal mode of underwear. Actually, I’m a boxer guy, so even tighty-whities are a little constricting. But, good Lord, she went to all the trouble to make me see-through pants… and I did sort of ask for it. So I put them on.

Me and mom. She's clearly never been more proud of her son. From the front, not so bad, huh?

From the back? Dear God, my eyes! My eyes!

Unfortunately, these are the only photos we took. Because there were some fancy fancy pants at the party. Everyone made an effort, which was very cool. Other people had cameras, so I’m hoping some of those pics come my way. I’ll post them when they do.

After eating, drinking and general mingling, there was pants trivia (written by The Scientist. Again, how cool is my wife?) M. won with a total of 9 out of 11 possible points. Actually, she tied with the lovely Miss Kate. I asked them both to pick a number between one and five for a tie-breaker: M said one, Miss Kate said seven. So, M. won!

By the way, Miss Kate came all the way from the frozen north to attend. She’s also awesome (albeit slightly less so than my wife--sorry Kate). It was fantastic to see her, and a wonderful surprise. Her flight home was cancelled, and she was stuck in Cleveland an extra night, which sucks. I feel responsible. But, she blames it on the general suck-assiness of Chicago, and not me. But she might just be saying that because it’s my birthday.

Thanks again for coming, Kate!

Lesson #2: pants made of shower curtains do not breathe. At all.

Even though I loved my see-through pants, they started to get a little swampy after a couple hours. fortunately, my friend B. brought me an alternative pair of fancy pants. Blue with fur cuffs. And suspenders (and we all remember my unfortunate past flirtation with suspenders).

Then, there were also several categories of pants to judge. I wasn’t expecting to have to judge other people’s pants and, frankly, I was ill-prepared after several piña coladas. But, the winners broke down like this:

• Pants with the most things on them: K., a co-worker of The Scientists for green pants with a bunch of gold buttons sewed on.
• Sexiest pants: L., The Scientist’s horse trainer for her tight leather pants (I actually wanted to pick my wife for the skin-tight plaid bell-buttons she found at Goodwill; but she wouldn’t let me vote for her).
• Most colorful pants: My friend J., for multi-colored clam-diggers (this award probably should have gone to M. for her Napoleon Dynamite-inspired jeans, but she had already won the trivia contest).
• Grand Master of Pants: My friend S., for his authentic lederhosen. It’s just though to beat lederhosen, y’know?

The Grand Master of Pants was awarded a trophy, which was one of The Scientist’s co-workers old softball trophy with the figure sawed off above the waist. I nearly peed myself laughing when I first saw it.

Also in attendance that night were a beautiful kilt, flasher pants (i.e., pants that only extended from ankle to knee), clown pants, an especially esoteric graffitied pair of jeans (I got most of the jokes, Kate), girl jeans (on a boy) and others I’m forgetting. Like I said, everyone wore something (even L’s husband, who I think really would rather not have bothered) and it was super cool.

I’m lucky to have good friends. And a cool mother who completely went along with the joke. Thanks mom.

But I’m mostly lucky to have a great wife to plan and execute all of this… even though keeping her mouth shut all this time nearly gave her an ulcer. I really appreciate it, sweetheart. You’re the best.

And I’m already planning my pants for next year’s party.

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#227 In which our hero is all out of sorts.

I'm feeling terribly ill at ease today; nothing specific, just out of sorts.

Quick background: the guy who sits next to me has a girlfriend who’s mother is sick. She (the mother) had a pain in her side, and when she went to the doctor she was told she had a cracked rib. Then, upon further testing, it come out that Hey! Y’know what? That’s not a cracked rib at all. It’s lung cancer. She was told that it was isolated to one lung. Not good, but treatable. But then, Hey! Y’know what? It’s not really isolated at all… it’s all through your body! And your brain!

Final diagnoses: she has maybe a year to live.

This only tangentially affects me, of course. I don’t know this woman, but I do know my neighbor’s girlfriend (she worked here briefly). I feel really bad for her, naturally. But I suspect that the out-of-sortsness I’ve been experiencing today is memories of what I went through when my own father was dying of cancer.

But, to make this situation all the more convoluted, I think contributing factors also include my mother and my wife’s horse.

My mother.

First, she’s doing fine. She seems to have recovered well from her last bout with pneumonia, and is back to her old self. But mom is 75, and even though she doesn’t want to slow down, her body is sending off clear signs that she must.

But most of all, what has me down is that my sister is riding my ass to contact mom’s doctors and ask a bunch of questions. She thinks we should be much more proactive about mom’s care. Which I agree with, in principal, but I hate having to go around mom’s back and speak to her doctors, just to make sure the rosy story mom is telling us isn’t utter bullshit. Which is could be, because mom doesn’t want to worry us.

And since I’m the one with medical power of attorney, they won’t talk to anyone else. Honestly, I’m not even sure they’ll talk to me. I have emergency medical power of attorney, so I can make decisions about mom’s care if she’s incapacitated… I don’t know if that extends to just talking to the doctor when mom’s fine.

But, like a good son and brother, I called the doctor. On Monday. Left a message. Never heard back. Called again on Wednesday. Never heard back. Now I’m just pissed. I’m forced to do something I don’t even want to deal with, and this jackass won’t even return my calls? I called again this morning, and the nurse assured me that she had pulled mom’s file and left it with the doctor, and she actually thought he had returned my call already, blah, blah, blah. Y’know, I only want 15 minutes of his time on the phone. You wouldn’t think that would be so hard to accommodate.

My wife’s horse.

Is lame again. Or something. Read all about it over at her site.

While I know that riding gives The Scientist a great amount of pleasure, frankly all I register is the pain. The pain of dealing with his injuries. The pain of her getting all excited about how well his training is going, just to have him crush those hopes and go lame again. The pain of having to AGAIN go through the tears and turmoil of the possibility that he may never show again. And, of course, the financial pain of stupidly high vet bills.

None of this is aided by what I learned last night: instead of being $100 in the hole every month, starting later this month we’ll be $200 in the hole every month.

So I’m feeling a little stress lately. And it’s about to start snowing. And we’re going to have to start shopping for Christmas. And as the weather turns really shitty, I’m worrying about mom getting sick again. And my fucking head is cold all the time.

I guess I just need to keep everything in perspective: no-one is sick right now, no-one is in the hospital. The girls are great, and a constant source of amusement. I love my wife.

And no-one has been given just a year to live.

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#223 In which our hero damn near kills his own mother.

To make the trip to Columbus for our anniversary happen, The Scientist conspired with my mother to come up and watch the girls. Now, I knew mom was coming up, but I thought she was going to watch them Saturday for a couple of hours while we did dinner and a movie; little did I know that she planned on coming for the entire weekend.

When The Scientist first hatched her devious plan, she called my mother and asked if she’d be able to do it. She had to ask for two reasons: #1 there was a better than average chance that mom would already have plans, and #2 mom’s no spring chicken.

But, even though mom is 75, you’d never know it. She plays on a golf league, a bowling league; she’s in the garden club, she drives for Meals on Wheels… and I’m sure there’s plenty more that I don’t know about. She gets around better than both of The Scientist’s parents, who are 10 years her junior.

So when my wife revealed her plan and told me that mom was going to watch the girls, I wasn’t especially worried. At worst I was afraid that they might have a fit at bedtime and give mom the blues as she was trying to put them down.

As it turns out, they were little angels (according to their not-so-neutral grandmother). They went to bed at night, ate dinner well; Macey even pooped on the potty--something she has yet to do for us. I was more than a little relieved that all went well.

The following Monday, I found out I was going to Chicago that week. Our agency was part of a big pitch in conjunction with our sister agency, blah, blah, blah.

And so it was that I was in a boardroom in Chicago when I got a frantic call from mom’s next door neighbor.

Now, Next Door Neighbor has only called me before on one occasion and it was news that my mother was deathly ill. So, when I saw this neighbor’s name on my phone as the incoming call, I expected the worst. And it was.

ME: Hello?
NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR: Hello, Craig?
ME: Yeah, what’s going on?
NDN: Craig, it’s Carol, you mother’s neighbor--
ME: Yeah, yeah, what’s going on?
NDN: Craig, your mother is very sick.
ME: How sick? What is going on?
NDN: We’re taking her to the hospital in an ambulance!

I was able to finally pull out of her that mom got sick sometime Monday, and it progressed rapidly until she was in a bad way on Wednesday. Vomiting, 104 degree fever. It was at this point that Next Door Neighbor finally drug mom to the doctor. Mom’s oxygen level was so low that they started her on inhaled oxygen right away, and wanted to keep her on it while they transported her to the hospital (thus the ambulance ride).

Of course, this was scary as hell for me, sitting in Chicago and unable to do anything. I mean, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything even if I was there, but at least I could have driven to the hospital if I was home. All I could do was call my sisters who, being further away than me, could do even less.

Turns out that mom developed pneumonia, and at an alarming rate. They put her on IV antibiotics and a nasal oxygen thingie, and she improved quickly. But she was still in the hospital nearly a week.

This is mom’s second bout with pneumonia in the span of a few months. And winter cold-and-flu season is coming. It worries me. However, mom has promised to be good and not over-exert herself and actually go to her doctor when she starts to feel sick, not after she’s been sick for days.

Of course, I’m convinced that it was watching our kids for a weekend that put mom into the hospital. If she didn’t actually catch something from one of the girls (even though I don’t remember them being sick over that weekend) she must have been so run down that her system couldn’t fight off any bugs, and bad turned to worse way too quickly.

So once again I’m faced with thinking about my mother’s health, and her current and future care.

And I don’t want to.

I’m the baby of the family, for Christ’s sake. I shouldn’t have to make decisions like this, I was never the responsible one. But now I have to be. And I hate it. I’m sure it’s thinking about my mom’s mortality that has me down; but Jesus, I don’t even want to deal. But I have to.

More and more often, lately.

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#217 In which our hero finally wraps up his story about a hectic week.

Finally, Mom’s birthday party.

My sisters and I started talking about this thing late last year. Mom is 75 this year, and if that isn’t a milestone, I don’t know what is. Three-quarters of a century. Holy shit.

We originally wanted to do a surprise party, a real surprise party, but it was quickly decided that it just wouldn’t work out. Not considering that we wanted to invite a ton of people. So we told Mom that we were going to have a family party, her, my sisters and I (plus our assorted spouses, children, and boyfriends). We told her we’d have it at the city party, at one of the picnic tables available for rent.

Meanwhile, we started the real planning. I rented the community center at the park (completely enclosed, air conditioned, attached kitchen) for the entire day… for a cost of $200. Which, compared to renting a hall at any medium to large city is laughable. But I didn’t exactly grow up in a booming metropolis. Matter of fact, my home town was downgraded from “city” to “village” with the last census.

Then I engaged into a secret alliance with a friend of Mom’s, and a former teacher of mine. I made a flyer with all the details (including the fact that it was a SURPRISE party, more on that in a moment) for her to distribute to… well, lots of people. Mom may be 75, but she hasn’t slowed down a bit. So we invited her garden club, and her golf league, and her bowling team; as well as everyone from the neighborhood and a few odds and ends of people that were just friendly with Mom.

Then my middle sister and I started thinking about food. Our initial thought was to have it catered. I asked my hometown spy for a recommendation, and she gave me the name and number of a woman in town who did a lot of catering. “She’s really, really good,” I was told.

I let my sister handle the details, since she’s done party planning stuff before and, honestly, I didn’t want to bother. I mean, the party would have been fine if it was hotdogs and potato salad (which was a serious consideration for a time) so I didn’t care. My kids will eat damn near anything, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about that. But, since the caterer was “really really good” I was hoping that we could put on an elegant, exciting meal for Mom.

And boy, was I ever wrong. My sister shared the menu options that the caterer sent her, and it was everything you’d expect at a free, all-you-can-eat buffet at a Motel 6. Baked ham. Roasted chicken. Potato salad. Jell-O salad. Chips. Soda. I mean, Jell-O salad? Come on!

I guess I was expecting something like the buffet we catered for my wedding. We had cucumber-armored smoked salmon, roasted fingering potatoes, hand-carved roast beef, petitfours in three flavors… it was very elegant and really tasty.

But, I tried to consider the environment… small town Ohio is vastly different from Cleveland (not that Cleveland is New York City or New Orleans, but you get my drift). We hoped Mom would be pleased.

And while middle sister was finalizing the details with the caterer (do you provide silverware, or do we have to bring that? How about flowers for the tables? Linens? Will you be there for clean-up? Etc, etc.) I had to buy Mom’s birthday present from all of us kids.

This is something that was discussed at length, too. What to get Mom? Seventy-five is a big deal, we need to get her something more than a gift certificate for Red Lobster. It was decided that we would get her a new washer and dryer.

Mom has a perfectly fine washer and dryer already… but they’re in the basement. And at 75, we’re thinking that Mom doesn’t need to go up and down those steps. Plus, it’s a big ‘ole set from when we kids (well, at least me) were still in the house, so it’s a lot bigger than what she needs now. So we decided to get her a stand-up stacked thingie. Y’know, like this:

There’s a little-used second bathroom upstairs, so we could stick it in there. Plus, there’s already plumbing.

I was going to compare costs and see what was available the week before Mom’s party. Then, I found out I was going to NYC for two days. This accelerated the process, so I basically did a little online browsing, then bought the cheapest one I could fine at h.h. greggs. Now that I wanted Mom to have a crappy appliance, but my surfing revealed that there’s not a lot of difference in stand-up models. Most places even had similar pricing. So I bought the thing, had it delivered on Thursday, and we presented it to Mom on Friday when everyone was up. She was very surprised, and liked it a great deal.

Anyway, back to the party.

So my sister starts getting RSVPs from people (again, she had experience with party planning and I couldn’t be bothered) and it looks like the party is going to be fairly big; about 50 people in the end. So that’s cool. Mom deserves a big to-do.

She also got a fair number of “sorry, can’t come, wish I could” sort of calls, including one from our uncle. Which would have been fine, except that our dumbass uncle also called Mom to say he couldn’t come.

Remember the “surprise” part of the party? Apparently our uncle did not.

I get a call from Mom, and she says that she just got a strange call from her brother. He called to say that he couldn’t make the party--he’s in Florida, so no real surprise there. Apparently the rest of the conversation went something like this:

DUMBASS UNCLE: I really felt moved to call to make sure you knew I wasn’t coming. Because when I get a formal invite to a party, I feel like I have to call if I’m not going to be there.
MOM: Oh, there were invitations?
DAU: Oh yeah! You kids did up these great invitations and mailed them out!

Sigh. Jesus, guy, didn’t I put “SHHH! It’s a SURPRISE party!” in a freakin’ starburst on the flyer? What’s unclear about that?

Mom tells me that not only did she hear this from her brother, but that she had also heard another person, someone who she would never expect to be invited, that “your invitation is on my refrigerator right now.” So Mom says that she thinks she “smells a rat.” I tell her that she shouldn’t look any further into it, and let it go.

Finally, Sunday comes and The Scientist, the girls and I drive down for the party. We go straight to the party center to help set up. Which is no big deal… a few balloons, a cake (which I got in Cleveland and brought with me), flowers for the table, the catered spread on a buffet table.

Finally I drive up to fetch Mom. We’ve really been downplaying things, telling Mom that we’re just grilling out at a picnic table, nothing fancy. For the most part, Mom seems to buy it. When I drive her down to the park I tell her that I left The Scientist and the girls at the playground, which is conveniently right next to the community center. “We’ll pick them up right quick then head over to the picnic tables,” I lie.

Once there, I ask Mom if it would be okay to stick my head into the community center, since I’ve never seen the inside since they renovated it (which was true up until the moment I arrived to start hanging balloons that morning). She says okay, we walk into the room and, ironically, as soon as she sees the caterer she knows what’s what.

There’s plenty of people, and more arrive as the day wears on. Mom is blissfully in her element: surrounded by people, all listening to her tell stories.

All in all, a good day. Everyone seemed to have fun, the food was… well, honestly, even more boring in person than it sounded on paper, but there’s plenty of it and everyone seems to agree that the caterer “always puts on a great spread.” People bring presents, which really surprised me. I didn’t mention anything about presents on the flyer, but at 75, I guess I just assumed people would know that Mom has pretty much all the stuff she’s ever going to need. But still, free loot, so that’s cool. My girls ate a ton of chips and cake, but it’s a party so I don’t care.

We discussed going back to the house to hang out a bit, but Mom dissuades us from this. “Eh, there’s so many damn people in my house already,” she says, “You’re better off avoiding at the ruckus. Just go home.”

So we do.

The girls sleep through most of the trip--including the part where we stopped to get ice cream. Are we bad parents because we were very careful not to wake them, so they wouldn’t ask for some? Yes, probably.

I was really glad we could do this for Mom. She seemed to have a great time.

And I told her that for her 90th birthday, we were going to do something really special.

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#216 In which our hero continues his tale.

My madcap week, continued.

FRIDAY GET-TOGETHER

I returned from New York, then had guests on Friday. Here’s the thing… my sisters and I planned on throwing a surprise birthday party for Mom (more on that in a later post). We wanted it to be a real surprise, but that quickly proved unworkable because we kids live all over the place (I’m the nearest in Cleveland, my oldest sister is the farthest, living in Austria) and had to at least let Mom know that we were going to be there on a specific weekend so she wouldn’t plan anything else.

So, Mom’s house quickly filled up with my sisters and their husbands and their kids. About 20 people, all told. Now, Mom doesn’t have a big house, and there’s no way it was meant to hold that many people, especially when six of them are rambunctious kids. Anyway, my youngest sister (who’s still five years older than me--I’m the baby) wanted to drive up to see my house being that she hadn’t been here since we moved. There was talk about her driving up on her way back to Wisconsin, but I said, “Hey! Why doesn’t everyone just come up on Friday before the party?” I was thinking that it would give Mom a break, and all those kids could spend some time tearing up my house, instead of Mom’s.

Of course, what I hadn’t expected was that I would be in a different state for the preceding two days.

Anyway, The Scientist was a real champ and cleaned the house beforehand. Thanks, honey. Everyone descended on the house, I grilled a bunch of hotdogs and brats, and actually got to spend a little bit of time talking with my sisters. I was afraid that it would rain and we wouldn’t be able to get outside… but what actually happened was that it was 90 degrees and humid, so no-one went outside anyway. But, other than a few cupcake crumbs in the carpet, a good time was had by all.

Also, my in-laws were in town. They were actually there to attend Mom’s party (which was very nice of them, I thought) but while there, my father-in-law planned some yard work in the back; things that would hopefully help the flooding problem we have.

So, I have no problem with that. Matter of fact, he brought some tools that made my life a lot easier. In fact, there was only one problem with that Saturday morning, and it’s name was sangria.

The Scientist was discussing Friday’s party with a co-worker when this friendly co-worker says, “Hey, I have an extra box of wine. Would you like it for your party?” Naturally, The Scientist accepted because, y’know, free booze. But, friendly co-worker doesn’t just bring a box of wine, she makes it into sangria, so “it’ll stretch further.”

Wow. That’s a friendly co-worker.

Anyway, long story short, this fucking sangria kicks my ass. It tastes like Kool-Aid and goes down way too easy. Flash forward to 7 am the next day, when I hear my father-in-law running power tools in the back yard. Ugh.

I get dressed and stumble out there. The easier part of the work is already done by the time I get out there, all that’s left is digging the ditch.

Now, in all fairness, this wasn’t a huge job. And shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, except for the fact that my mouth is full of cotton and evil elves are trying to chisel their way out of my skull. But, I dug a ditch, shoveled dirt, moved dirt, and planted grass… all under the watchful eye of my father-in-law. Here’s hoping it helps with the drainage issues.

NEXT: More family! And lies I told to my mother!

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MOM PHENOM

Before I start, know that Mom came through the surgery with flying colors.

It was a hard thing watching Mom get wheeled off to surgery. This was a fairly common surgery, and Mom wasn’t an at-risk patient, so there shouldn’t have been much to fret about. But every surgery has risks, no matter how small. And with this particular procedure the big fear was that a blood clot could come loose and shoot up into Mom’s brain, causing a stroke. Or worse.

It was with those thoughts in my head that I saw my Mom on the gurney, gowned and ready to be cut open. As I kissed her and told her I’d be waiting for her in the recovery room, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the last time I’d see her alive. Pretty morbid, huh?

Worse yet, I brought the medical power of attorney papers with me. It seemed like the practical thing to do… if something went horribly wrong, the last thing I would want to do is leave Mom’s side and drive back up to Cleveland to fetch some papers that gave me the authority to pull the plug on her life support. But I didn’t have the heart to bring them into the hospital with me… I left them in the car.

But, obviously, I didn’t need them. The doctor came out and told me that everything had gone well, no issues whatsoever. She was in the recovery room (I wasn’t allowed to visit her there) for a long time; turns out that they gave her morphine for the pain and she had a reaction to it. It’s probably best that I wasn’t there to witness my mother puke all over the place. They gave her something else for the nausea, which made her really groggy.

She was placed in a bed in the intensive care unit, which was the plan all along, it wasn’t out of necessity. Well, maybe it was; given my Mom’s age, they probably didn’t want to take any chances. I visited her for a quarter hour or so, but all she wanted to do was sleep and she kicked me out.

The next morning I learned that after I left they gave her something to boost her potassium levels, which made her puke again. Poor Mom. But the doctor released her by 2pm, and she was glad to get home to her own bed.

Mom finally admitted that she had seriously overestimated her ability to snap back from this surgery. She was still weak and a little nauseous after we got home. She dutifully took her drugs and crawled into bed.

The next morning she was doing much better. And she said that once she got some coffee back into her system she felt better yet. She decreed that I had been away from my family long enough and sent me packing. Which is typical.

Now Mom has a horrible scar up the side of her neck. I was under the impression that it would be orthoscoptic, and that she’d only have a small incision. Holy hell was I wrong. She has a jagged six inch scar going from her collar bone up her neck. It’s even worse looking right now because they didn’t suture her, they glued the skin back together! I’m sure it’s some super medical skin glue, but still--looks horrible. There’s something finished looking about stitches; unnatural, sure, but it looks like someone has put some effort into it. Mom’s neck looks like they roughly squeezed the skin together and slathered on the glue wherever it would fit. Hopefully the incision will heal neatly and won’t scare my children.

So it would appear that Mom dodged a bullet, again. She was lamenting that she was basically healthy as an ox for 73 years, then the breast cancer last year, now this. Personally, I think 73 years seems like a pretty good run without major medical intervention. But, Mom is slowly coming to the realization that her health is now a delicate thing, easily upset and not so quick to return to full strength.

It was hard to see Mom laid out on a gurney. It’s harder yet to see the tough-as-nails woman I’ve known my entire life as a fragile old lady.

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NEWS BLUES

And the good news keeps on coming.

My wife’s grandfather is in the hospital. The man is 93 and in remarkably good shape considering his age. But now there seems to be a host of problems. Answers have been frustratingly slow in coming, as The Scientist has noted.

While there has been no official diagnosis of any sort, many problem have been identified, including a partially collapsed lung, general malaise, and more. Nothing seems immediately life-threatening, but those closest to the hospital are starting to say things like “it doesn’t look good.”

We (that is, me, The Scientist and the girls) were actually there in Maryland last weekend for a wedding shower. While I wasn’t really keen on going (no offensive Chris, but we are turning around and flying clear across to the other side of the country in a month) it turned out to be a good thing… The Scientist was able to spend some time with her grandfather. And if time really is limited, then every minute counts.

In other health-related news, my mom goes in for surgery tomorrow morning.

Apparently one of the major arteries in her neck is 80% occluded. Naturally, when she told me this I crapped my pants a little, but mom was very nonchalant about it. “Oh, they don’t really start to worry until it’ more than 90% blocked,” she told said.

Now, that is my mom all over. Last year when she had a small tumor removed from her breast and went through chemo, you’d think we was just having a mole removed. “Oh, I feel fine!” she assured me.

So they’re going to go in and clear the blockage. It’s a relatively minor surgery, and very common… but this is the sort of thing that can result in a heart attack-causing clot. And, despite her outer calm, I think mom is actually worried about this one. She asked me to come down and go with her to the hospital, which I am. Compared to The Scientist’s grandfather my mom is a youthful 74, and in good shape.

But still.

It’s once again forced me to revisit the caretaking role that looms large, not to mention the associated paperwork of being her power of attorney, both financially and medically. If something horrible happened and mom ended up on life support, it’s my legal decision--and mine alone--to pull the plug. Nothing I like to think about, but think about it I must.

But, God willing, mom’s “no worries!” attitude about tomorrow’s surgery will be as justified as it was for her breast cancer. She snapped back from that with flying colors.

Here’s hoping the paperwork can stay in the closet for a while longer.

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#198 In which our hero relates the events of a rather bad week, part the first.

My lack of updates lately have nothing to do with lack of things to update about. In fact, last week was a pretty miserable week at chez Scripturient and, given my well-known love and admiration of Schadenfreude, I know you’ll want to hear about it.

It actually started the Friday before last, as I was driving home. I got a call on my cell from a number I didn’t recognize. Now, you have to understand that exactly two people call me on my cell: The Scientist and my friend Jeff. And Jeff only calls on Wednesdays. So getting a call from a stranger wasn’t a good sign.

I answered and it was my Mom’s next door neighbor. Without preamble she says to me, in a panic: “Craig! Your mother is very sick and can’t be alone! You need to come home right now!”

Now, Mom is 75 this year, but she’s in remarkably good shape. She has emphysema from decades of smoking, but she hasn’t smoked in years and it’s largely under control. She developed breast cancer last year, but caught it really early (thanks to breast self-exams! Which is great, but er, mom, let’s never talk about your breasts again, okay?) had a lumpectomy and a little chemo and is in great shape. However, she also had a bought of pneumonia that put her in the hospital for a week, making me and my three sisters collectively shit our pants. And since then, when she gets sick, she seems to get really sick, and really fast.

I would have worried about this frantic phone call from the neighbor a bit more except for two things: this neighbor is known to be a little crazy, and a LOT dramatic. So I decided to check my freaking-out until I actually got there. But I did high-tail it to the expressway and was home in about an hour and a half.

I found Mom not on death’s doorstep, but not in good shape, either. She had been fighting what she thought was a cold and “just waited too long to go to the doctor.” By the time she did go, her doctor wanted to put her in the hospital, but Mom refused.

Now, Mom was a nurse for all of her adult life, until she retired about 12 years ago. You would think that this would give her some insight into healthcare, and she would appreciate the importance of listening to your doctor. You might also think that a nurse wouldn’t smoke a pack a day, but she did.

So Mom’s usual MO is to diagnose herself with a cold or the flu and forego medical attention. But more and more, she can’t just ride it out like she used to, and it comes back to bite her in the ass.

Her breathing was a little labored when I arrived, and she had a terrible, terrible hacking cough. One of those coughs that sounds like it’s 50/50 that it might end up as puke? You know what I’m talking about.

Since she wouldn’t go to the hospital, her doctor prescribed a home-administered breathing treatment, one of those nebulizers. It took the home health service until 9:30 to deliver it. But once Mom did the first treatment, she said it really loosened up her chest and her breathing was much easier. So she went to bed.

What followed was a long, restless night. Mom was still coughing and hacking every 15 minutes or so, which would jolt me back awake if I did manage to doze off. Then, if the period between coughs became too long, then I’d start to worry that I wasn’t hearing anything. It sucked.

Come morning, Mom was breathing better, and we all felt confident enough for me to go home.

On the ride home I had a lot of time to think about being a caregiver. And here’s the thing about me being a caregiver: I suck at it. I love my wife dearly, but when she’s sick I’m not always as sympathetic or attentive as I should be. Part of this is when I’m sick I just want to be left alone. Frankly, I wish I was a better caregiver, but I’m not.

This has also prompted some long talks with my sisters about the future of Mom’s care. A lot of this falls to me, because I’m the only kid left in state. Not that I’m complaining, but I do wish sometimes that at least one of my other sisters (say, the sister who is a nurse) was closer. Because any of them would be better in this role than me.

That’s the disadvantage of being the baby in the family, I guess. I never had to take care of anyone. But now, those responsibilities are coming full circle. Like it or not, this is going to become an increasingly important part of the role I play in my family. There will probably be more frantic phone calls in the future.

And I’m going to have to answer.

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