Tag Archives: Parents

The Comeback Kid

23 Wednesday Sep 2009

Posted by in Life at Home

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Oh how I was tempted to add a question mark to the end of that title hovering above!  Sometimes a question mark can become a handy hedge against false assumptions or even tempting the fates of  good fortune; it’s sort of a gramatical way for me to knock on wood.  

Can Dad really be the comeback kid?  Amazingly, the last two Tuesdays offer a positive report.  Last week we witnessed a spark of good news when we found Dad had regained the five pounds lost in his most recent health scare.  And for the first time since coming out of the hospital eight weeks ago, Dad chose to stay in his recliner at the end of our visit rather than asking us — with a point of his finger — to be tucked into bed at 5 pm in the afternoon.  Yes.  Dad is coming closer to Dad’s old diminished self.  And as I shake my head to clear the fog, I have only to go back to the series of posts I’ve written on Daddy to see that it was only August when I wondered if it was ready to bring in Hospice. 

So now I find myself wondering whether Dad’s comeback has anything to do with Jon’s good idea to get Dad an IPOD Shuffle two weeks ago.   Dad has always been a lover of music.  And Dad’s new IPOD allows him to listen to seventy of his favorite tunes — mostly vintage Frank Sinatra — any old time he wants to.  And from the reports we received from nursing home personnel, it appears Dad wants to quite frequently, because Dad’s ears have grown sore from plugging in to get his daily dose of Frank.  

The most amazing proof of Dad’s recovery came last Sunday when my sister Christi was cornered by Nurse Patty’s question:  “Did you or other family members bring in food for your father to eat?”  Dad has been limited to receiving food by feeding tube —  in order to minimize the risk of aspiration — since returning from the hospital.  And as far as we knew, Dad had no interest  in  eating.  But after Christi assured Pattty that we had not, Patty reported catching Daddy eating some applesauce, which helped remind Christi of my applesauce purchases of  late June.  By my count, twelve servings were left two weeks ago.  I ran across them when searching for Dad’s lost dentures; and rather them packing the containers up, I opted to leave them in the hope that Dad would one day enjoy the taste of food again.  Apparently, that day arrived without anyone’s knowledge.  Because the drawer that held 12 half-cup individual servings is now mysteriously empty.    

But wait.  There’s more.  The worst of Dad’s food-by-mouth crimes came when nursing home personnel caught Daddy with his hand in the dining hall popcorn machine, scooping up a handful of freshly popped corn.  Not only did Dad break nursing home law to serve himself, but Dad has been unable to eat solids without choking since late May; and it will be at least a few more weeks until Dad’s lost dentures are replaced so that Dad will have the upper teeth he needs to chew solids.  What was Dad thinking?  With Dad’s inability to talk, we’ll never know for sure.  But this I know:  When we asked Dad about the popcorn incident yesterday, Dad just sheepishly grinned.  It seems Dad is endearingly proud of himself.   

And we’re proud of Daddy too.  Sometimes one just has to take life into their own hands.  And Christi, Jon and I all regard Dad’s sneeking and thieving of food as life itself.  So with Dad finally showing us his caught red-handed hand — that he can survive food consumption by mouth — I spoke with rehab yesteray about opportunities for Dad to safely consume food while working on his swallowing exercises. 

That life can be both fragile and strong at the same time is one of life’s mysterious truths.  Which Daddy will we find next Tuesday?  Or even today?  Either way, Daddy’s keeps us dancing as we all shuffle to meet Dad’s changing needs.  And I ask — what better music to dance by than that  of ‘ol blue eyes himself?  And what better song than “That’s Life” to summarize Dad’s year so far?  Join me on the dance floor as we allow Frank to take us out…will you?  Oh, look.  The spotlight is on Dad.

Sunday Dinner

13 Sunday Sep 2009

Posted by in In the Kitchen

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My mother-in-law invited us to Sunday dinner today.  There was good reason to celebrate.  Miracle of miracles:  All three of her children are in town.  And this just doesn’t happen.  One lives in San Francisco, one splits time between the Middle East  and Asia and my husband, except for the last three years, has spent his entire adult life on the Texas Gulf Coast.   So what better way than a Sunday dinner table to gather everyone together?

In my family, whenever someone hosts dinner, all the women bring a dish – or two – or three.  I don’t know where or when the tradition began, but Sunday dinner always meant a shared work load.  Granny would prepare the meat and potatoes and maybe her mouth-watering fried corn.  And the rest was up to Granny’s daughters — my mother and two aunts.

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Home-Grown Tomatoes Galore

So in that share-the-labor vein, I asked my husband what dish we should bring.  And when he shrugged his shoulders, I asked what his mother was serving.  And with a big grin, he said, “Well, you know, it is Sunday.  And Sunday Dinner means only one thing. Roast beef.  But call Mom if you want to know what to bring.”

Jan wanted to keep it simple, so I offered to bring a yellow cake topped with my favorite peanut butter frosting.  And, just for good measure, to help Jan keep it simple, I offered to bring a package of Sister Shubert rolls; and then without asking, I used up some of my home-grown tomatoes on a side dish of macaroni and tomatoes.  Though none of these contributions took much effort, I hope I did the Taylor women proud.

It was great to have a ring-side seat at the dining table to watch  these four relive old family memories, especially the hilarious stories they told on Grandma Max.  No use mincing words; this lady had a bit of a mean streak.  And if it’s true what they say about only the good dying young, it may explain why Mammy lived to be ninety-six.  We laughed through story after story; and what made the stories so rich were the outrageous things she would say to people.  For instance, the poor innocent Meals-on-Wheels volunteers  would get:  “When are you going to get a real job?”   And this included the sacrifical lamb who had Max on his daily route; before he retired he was a prestigious OSU music professor.  No fiction writer could make up stuff as good as what Mammy created with her everyday life.

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Almost Gone Cake w/ Peanut Butter Frosting

After the stories were told and the kitchen tidied up, we sat around the table for a good old-fashioned visit over a slice of cake.  And by the time the visiting was done, I had two slices of cake to bring home.  An empty cake pan always provides the best testimony as to why this recipe is my favorite frosting.

While I don’t have Jan’s recipe for roast beef, I have one of my own that’s worth sharing.  And in the spirit of God, when he sent two times the manna to Moses and the Isralites to take care of Sunday dinner, I’m throwing in a second recipe just because.  Try one or both for your next family gathering.  From my life to yours.

Roast Beef

In a crock pot, set on high, cook following  for 4 to 5 hours until fork tender:
 
2 cups water
2 tsp salt – 1 tsp rubbed on top & bottom of roast
3 to 4 lb chuck roast
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp thyme
1 tsp rosemary
1 bay leaf
4 to 5 whole peppercorns
 

Variation:  French Dip

Leave out salt and add 1/2 cup reduced-sodium soy sauce.  All other ingredients and instructions the same.  Serve meat on crusty rolls & use broth as sandwich dip.

Peanut Butter Frosting

Bake your favorite yellow cake in a 9×13 pan.  After removing cake from oven, combine following ingredients in a medium sized sauce pan:
 
1/4 cup milk
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup peanut butter (crunchy or smooth)
1/2 cup brown sugar
pinch of salt
 
Bring ingredients to a boil and boil for one minute, stirring constantly.  Then cool to lukewarm without stirring.  Once cool, add to sauce pan:
 
1/2 cup of sifted powder sugar
1 tsp vanilla
 
Beat with electric mixer until spreading consistency.  Immediately spread on cake.
 
 
 

Peek-A-Boo

06 Sunday Sep 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, Soul Care

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Mystery Guest under the Roses

A few weeks ago I ran across a mystery plant hiding beneath an antique rose bush.  This pretty little plant bearing purple tinged foilage was growing where I’d sown no seed.  What was it?  And where did it come from?  

Days later, in another part of my garden, I found my answer.  Through a quick match of garden gin rummy, I learned it was the Peek-A-Boo plant.  Living up to its name —  with its small ‘eyeball’ blooms peeking out from  some sweet potato vines  —  the Peek-A-Boo wore the same purple tinged leaves as my mystery plant. 

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PEEK-A-BOOS - Spilanthes, Acmelia oleracea

Once named, other answers soon fell into place.  I recalled that it was growing there because I had planted the Peek-A-Boos in both garden locations.  In April under the rose bush;  and then in May, when the plants appeared to languish, I transplanted them elsewhere in the garden.  Or so I thought.  Now, almost four months later, I see  my late spring transplanting left behind roots — and once the environment became friendly, up grew more Peek-A-Boos. 

Outside the garden gate, playing peek-a-boo and rummy match games are not just for babies and toddlers.  I am learning just how often I hide my own real feelings, by either ignoring them outright (hoping or pretending them away) or by not calling them by their proper name.

I do this without even noticing.  Just recently I’ve talked to friends about how my father is no longer interested in my visits.  But rather than talk about the hurt from rejection, I pretend it’s not there and instead focus on this fallout from Dad’s dementia.  It’s easier to face reasons that feelings, even with myself.  Quick.  Cover it up.  Don’t speak about the hurt.  After all,  Daddy can’t help it because Daddy isn’t Daddy anymore. 

Most of my friends or family give me a free pass on such inconsistencies — on those times when my emotions don’t quite match or fit the circumstances.  But not my trusty spiritual director.  Instead he said something like, wow, that must have hurt.  And in response, my eyes uncontrollably teared up.  The feeling, with its deep roots hiding just beneath the surface of life leaked into reality.  Once the feelings found a friendly environment to live, no longer could they stay under wraps beneath their big beautiful bow of understanding forgiveness.   

Why do I play these games?  Am I afraid people will laugh?  Or worse, not care?