Vietnam: The Story I Never Knew

I've published this poem on my blog once before, when I didn't have anything else to share. It was written during a poetry seminar my junior year of college in Boston. I had no accurate information, so I made up what I thought could've  possibly happened when my father left for Vietnam. The only true information I had was that he and my mother were married, and based on my birth date in May 1971, I had to have been conceived sometime in August of 1970. I can guarantee you that my father never wore a leather fringed vest and bell-bottom jeans. My dad hadn't yet graduated from what I recently learned was called Wisconsin State University in Whitewater.
Recently I went through several photo albums in my parents' basement, one which was devoted to my dad's life shortly before and during his time in Vietnam.
I was born two weeks before he left for Saigon. Mom was pregnant with me when she and my Grandma Porath, my paternal grandmother, traveled to Missouri to watch him graduate from Basic Training. I'm not sure if they were married yet; their official wedding invitations list their wedding date as 01-30-71 but because my mom got pissed off and called off the wedding, they actually got married on 01-23-71. I was born on 05-14-71 and was baptized at Peace Church in Shawano roughly two weeks later because within days of  my baptism, my father got onto on a military plane and headed to Vietnam for a year.
Here is my baby picture taken at Shawano Memorial Hospital on the day I was born:

Aren't I adorable?? :-) This photo was the first photographic record of my presence in the world. Dad stayed until I was baptized then he left to fight in the war. I can't say this was "his war" with the same sense of national pride felt by both of my grandfathers who fought in WWII; Grandpa Porath in North Africa and then in France on "D+3", three days after D-Day, 06-09-44. My maternal grandfather went to the Pacific courtesy of the US government draft. He spent most of his service in the Philippines, including earning the Bronze Star, but he also served in Okinawa Japan toward the end of the war.

--

So apparently Rog left in early June 1971 to complete his duty as called upon by the US President. Dad also needed more money to complete his undergrad degree in Accounting (with an Economics minor) and he had calculated what the GI Bill would cover and, in weighing his options, he decided to serve and then take every advantage those benefits provided him. Smart thinking on Rog's part as the GI Bill helped him finish his undergrad Accounting Degree, help finance the purchase of my parents first (and only) home in Appleton, and pay for his graduate school at UW-Oshkosh where he earned his MBA while going to night school.

Over the years I've flipped through Dad's single album documenting his time in Vietnam because I'm "the family story teller/genealogist" but this time I took the photos out of the album to copy them via my scanner/printer and I discovered the most amazing thing: on the back of the vast majority of dad's pictures are notes he wrote to my mom. Had I never taken these pictures out of their 40+ year old album, I never would have discovered the brief but informative and touching notes he wrote to her.

Here are my two favorites:

This is my dad "sunbathing" and spending some time doing some light reading according to what was written on the back of this photo:

: 

Needless to say, this is generally something a daughter wouldn't have interest in reading about her parents and despite my father's handwriting always bordering on "doctor level" of illegibility to a lay person, I'm thankful that I have no understanding of the second paragraph after the first sentence and I am completely fine with that!

This puzzle has hung in my parents' basement since I can remember. Now I know it's origin story and why it's been hanging in the basement will all other Packers gear. This puzzle made it home from Vietnam... just like my dad.

Although there are approximately 40 photos I could post in this blog, there's only one more I want to share:

This is my dad in his existential, questioning the purpose of the world pose, and of course there's a message on the back:

And to end this discovery of my father's life as a soldier in a foreign county, I leave you with some lyrics from Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" as I image my Grandma Porath asking herself these very questions during that year from 1971-1972:

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded with hatred
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Love to my father, Roger Porath, Vietnam Veteran, Old Glory Honor Flight EAA:

...and so 45 approaches

Man, the older I get, the more I dislike the weeks before my birthday. It's not because I have issues with aging, it's because I have issues with remembering. It only makes sense that with each passing year, I have another 365 days of memories to ponder: good, bad or indifferent. Parts of my past slip just a bit further away. Sometimes I'm happy to have memories fade into a whiter shade of pale, sometimes I'm sad that milestones of my life are even further away from my present, like watching a boat cross the horizon that is that much harder to moor back at shore.
When I graduated with my Master's degree 5 years ago, I had developed a "five year plan" for the first time in my life. That plan was to apply to PhD programs when I turned 44 and starting a Forensic Psychology PhD program the fall semester of 2016, just months after my 45th birthday. Well, let me tell you: Shit happens and five year plans fall by the wayside. Priorities change, career opportunities present themselves (or not), your grandmother becomes a full time nursing home resident, the home where the absolute best of your childhood memories gets sold and you feel as if the planks that make up your life begin to separate and float away so you cling to whatever you find  just to prevent yourself from drowning in life on life's terms-not your own terms.
Which brings me to today: four days from my 45th birthday.
Some spectacular things have happened to me professionally this year: I got a promotion to be LSS's School Based Mental Health Coordinator. I spoke at a WAFCA (Wisconsin Association of Family & Children's Agencies) training about what it's like to be a licensed professional counselor in recovery. Today I received news that I am going to be a key-note speaker at the state convention for speech therapists and pathologists in February 2017 about trauma informed care-I'll be presenting for 1 1/2 hours to approximately 200 people. I've been interviewed by a local reporter about state government support for school based mental health. A colleague I worked with as an Older Adult Counselor published a book which includes my interview about depression and older adults. I've never felt more satisfied in my career as I do now. This is significant for two reasons:
1) I really thought that working with psychopathology in the state prison system was one of my "dream jobs" and working there would fulfill me intellectually so I tried that for six months in 2013 and discovered that it was not the place for me, for a number of reasons I've outlined in previous blog posts; 2) When I was in grad school, I completed a paper on the population I'd least like to work with, which was teens and adolescents and here I am, five years later absolutely in love with the students I counsel two days a week at a local high school and working to develop and expand school based mental health services at schools across the state.
Personally I've faced challenges this year, as everyone does. The two most significant being the only income provider at home due to my husband's depression and anxiety which has prevented him from working since January 2015. He's in the process of applying for SSDI due to PTSD. The second may sound somewhat trivial, but rocked my world when I checked my Linked In account in early February and discovered that "Paul G, MD from Montana" had recently viewed my profile. Sometimes I view him as a bad penny that won't go away and leave me the fuck alone and other times I long to re-establish any type of contact with him, "knowing" that we'd somehow reconcile, despite the fact that we're both married to other people. In therapy I refer to these thoughts as "Julia Roberts movie moments" which are completely unrealistic, but drag my heart into believing it's possible. These thoughts fuck with my mind in a major way despite the amount of time that's passed since we've spoken, much less were in a romantic relationship with each other. It's the nagging thoughts of "what if" that I'm finally processing in therapy. I've danced around it for decades (I know, it's a crazily long amount of time) but my counselor kicks ass and keeps me on task to finally deal with whatever I need to do to come to terms with this relationship.
So as my 45th birthday approaches, here I am: focusing on all of the achievements I've made this year and acknowledging what I need to work on to live a more balanced life. I know there will be more achievements and more challenges during the 365 days between 45 and 46, but for the first time in a long time, I feel prepared to welcome them both.

My "official" LSS website photo.

The Dichotomy of Loss & Connection

My great-aunt Barb passed away in late March of this year. This was completely shocking to me as I had seen her last summer at my Auntie Eleanor's 90th birthday. (I don't know why I refer to my paternal grandmother's sisters as "auntie" when I don't refer to any of  my other aunts that way, but I can't remember not referring to them as "auntie".) It was such an inclusive event; my second cousins, Carrie & Audra included all of the family who attended in the processional and recessional at the start and end of the church service. My dad, my uncle Tom and 2nd cousin Scott were pall bearers. I gave the Easter card I had already signed and addressed to Auntie Barb to Carrie & Audra. I was told of her passing on Sunday and I was going to mail out my Easter cards on the next day.
It was a "good" funeral service which I define as one not focused on sin and damnation but rather was focused on the love and goodness Auntie Barb exemplified during her life. It was a celebration of her life rather than a condemnation of those left behind.The best funeral I've ever attended was my Grandpa Porath's at Peace Church in Shawano. That ceremony was truly a celebration of his life and how that a life well lived is an example to those he loved, a sort of template of how to live a full and meaningful life even though my Grandma Porath had died in 1977 and Grandpa passed in 1995. After Grandpa Porath's funeral we all gathered at my aunt Sue & uncle Tom's house - the house my dad and his younger brother, my uncle Tom, grew up in. I remember my Grandpa Porath watching "The Lawrence Welk Show" and turning his wheelchair so his back was facing the television when one of the cast members, the tall, blond handsome guy, was singing because although Grandpa enjoyed his voice, he couldn't stand the sight of him. When I consider the family traits that inhabit my personality, Grandpa accommodating his need to enjoy this singer's voice and his inability to actually see the singer performing is one I identify with. There are plenty of  books I've read, poems I've read, and songs I love listening to whose authors and performers I absolutely cannot stand to view. Grandpa wasn't a Taurus, but I am and this strikes me as a particularly Taurus characteristic. Or maybe we're both just stubborn? Who's to say?
One of the ironic benefits of funerals is that it can bring together family who haven't seen each other in years...decades for that matter. Such was the case at Auntie Barb's funeral. I hadn't seen my second cousins Carrie & Audra since we were elementary school age. I sat across from my uncle Tom and shared with him that two summers ago when I was "borrowing" my dad's Corvette, I got it up to 132 mph on Hwy 41 just to see what that felt like. I'm certain this information will not be shared without my consent. My dad has no idea how to access my Facebook page much less my blog.
During the lunch after Auntie Barb's funeral and before her interment, Carrie & Audra told everyone present to take flowers from the displays at the funeral. I picked several white roses because I love them and they're not really "white", they're more cream colored.
I was surprised that after the interment ceremony, Dad drove to the cemetery where his parents, my Grandma and Grandpa Porath are buried. I had never been there. I was seven years old when Grandma Porath died and bringing kids to the cemetery was not a popular practice back then. When Grandpa Porath died, the funeral was in Shawano but he was buried in Wausau, next to Grandma Porath, days after the funeral and I had returned to my life in Milwaukee.
Now I know where they have been laid to rest. I can help my siblings and cousins locate them if necessary. I learned that Grandma Porath had a brother named James who died at age 11 due to running into a rope that was neck-high. He died as a result of the brain trauma from falling back onto the ground after his body hit the rope. She also had a brother, Myron, who died within a day of his birth. Prior to seeing their headstones, I had NO idea of their existence. I've been so focused on the Native Americans of my maternal side of my family that I couldn't even imagine that there were family members on my paternal side that I wasn't even aware of.
So the old adage holds true: we see  most of our family at weddings and funerals. Unfortunately I've reached the age where the funerals out-number the weddings. Although the fact that I've got plenty of family members still alive, despite the likelihood that the next time I see them may be at a funeral gives me pause. At the next funeral, there will again be the dichotomy of the loss of a loved one and connecting with those who are there to celebrate that life; relatives I likely haven't seen since the last funeral.

My Auntie Barb

What Is Love?

On September 30, 2015 Mark & I celebrated our 10 year wedding anniversary. I have never been in a relationship with a romantic partner for such a long time. My first marriage can be measured in months. The first relationship after my first marriage lasted about 3 1/2 years, which was about the same amount of time I spent in total with my first husband, including dating, engagement and all of that. And now I've been with the same man, day in, day out, for a decade; 11 1/2 years if count our time dating and being engaged.
God, and anyone who has been following this blog, knows that it hasn't always been unicorns and rainbows. There was about a 4 year period where Mark began drinking again. I knew without a doubt that I loved him enough to stay with him and be with him when he finally had enough and entered into recovery. I never once considered divorce. When we both stood before God and a bunch of witnesses and vowed to be together through good times and bad, we both took that vow literally. I've had issues with incapacitating depression and he stood by me and I stood by him during times when his alcoholism was incapacitating.
Currently, he's once again battling his depression. He's been out of work on FMLA for almost 6 weeks. I'm trying to support him as best I can as his wife, not his counselor, which is a challenge for both of us. My role as a counselor is such an intrinsic part of who I am as a person, it's hard to separate that out of how I interact with him. I've made tremendous strides in keeping my "counselor-self" out of our marriage and I think he sometimes understands that and yet sometimes he expects me to be his counselor and direct his behavior or "tell him what to do" which is not something I do with my actual clients; I don't dispense advice, that's what friends are for. Overall I see my role with clients as someone who walks the path toward recovery, healthier decision making, and boundary setting with them.
Sometimes spouses get the brunt of all the emotions our loved ones don't know what to do with. They come spewing out at odd times and in odd circumstances and in odd ways. That is something I'm currently experiencing in my own marriage.
So that's the background for what hit me like shit-load of concrete swallowing me whole when in mid-January I decided to check my Linked In account. I hadn't logged in to that website since I posted my promotion in late October so I thought it was a good time to see what any response was to that post. This website offers the "opportunity" to see who has looked at your profile. So I clicked to see who had been checking me out when I saw that "Paul G. Doctor from the area of Missoula Montana" had checked my profile on 12-28-15, his 57th birthday.
My first response: "WHAT THE FUCK!! I HAVE WORKED SO HARD TO MOVE BEYOND OUR RELATIONSHIP, FUCK YOU FOR TRYING TO FUCK WITH ME AND SUCK ME BACK IN!!" Then I realized that any head games I played with myself from that moment on were of my own creation and had nothing to do with him. So, being the cognitive behavioral therapist that I am, I immediately began challenging my distorted cognitions, interrupting my ruminative thinking patterns and tried to radically accept that him viewing my profile was likely nothing more than a) sheer curiosity and/or b) he was doing a life review on his birthday.
That was all well and good until I saw my own shrink, Freudian that he is, who told me I had "unfinished business" with him and this relationship. My first response: "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?? THIS ENDED ALMOST 20 YEARS AGO!" My shrink's response: "You still love the idealized version of him you have created in your subconscious, regardless of how long it's been since you've have contact with him." My first response to this bit of analysis: "FUCK YOU AND YOUR FREUDIAN SUBCONSCIOUS BULLSHIT!" Which, because I have a great therapeutic relationship with my psychiatrist, I actually said to him and he was totally accepting of. He's a shrink that doesn't have to be right in the eyes of his clients and is willing to accept challenges to his analysis. At least he is that way with me, I think because he respects my own knowledge of myself and as a counselor, it's tricky treating someone "in the same biz" so to speak. When he goes Freudian on me in session, I call him on it and he understands. Sometimes he's right and it's what I need to hear, sometimes he's right and I don't want to hear it, and sometimes he's wrong and he can take that.
I shared this with a colleague whom I have tremendous respect for and she wisely pointed out that this is another time when I need to grieve the loss of that relationship before I start moving into my CBT thought challenging, cognitive restructuring, and "opposite to emotion" behavior. She was right and I think I've done plenty of journaling and yada-yada-yada talking about it with my own counselor so now I can begin to think about this with some emotional distance and challenge my cognitive distortions and recognize when I start playing mind games with myself.
So back to my original question, "What is love?" I really have no idea. I think that's something answered individually by everyone who experiences it. Is Mark my "soul mate"? No, I know that for sure. Do I love him enough to stand with him through good times and bad? That I can answer for sure: FUCK YA! Do I still wonder, "What might have been?" Yes, I do that too.

An Old Thanksgiving Tradition Made New

I'm not sure if my Grandma Krause ever used the 12 piece fine bone china set my father sent back to her from Vietnam for Thanksgiving (I never ever remember eating off of these dishes or watching the serving bowls and platters being used) but I've got all 12 place-settings in my kitchen this year, and tomorrow my husband and I will eat turkey from the dinner plates and eat Cranberry-Pear Crisp dessert from the dessert plates. I will serve the green bean casserole from one of the serving bowls and serve dinner rolls from a small serving platter. The gravy will be served in the china gravy boat. The silver we use will be my great-aunt Kootchie's which I spent several hours cleaning today and ended up looking like a chimney-sweep after this task was completed. While the green bean casserole and dessert were baking, I hand washed the china pieces Mark and I will use tomorrow by hand. This is serious china, people-there are finger bowls for Pete's sake! I decided to skip using them because explaining how to use them to Mark would be way too complicated. Neither one of us drink coffee or hot tea, so that negated the need to wash the teapot, tea cups and coffee cups-which are actually different vessels. Who knew?

Obviously this china cannot be washed in the dishwasher, so this evening I sat on my living room floor and hand washed the china and silver in one plastic-bin container, rinsed them in another and hand dried them. They are currently sitting on my kitchen table, ready for use tomorrow. 

Although it was initially an inconvenience that my mother "refused" to dine with us on Thanksgiving, this is actually the second year of what will now become "our Thanksgiving tradition." Moving forward, Mark & I will plan on a Thanksgiving dinner for just the two of us; sorry family, but there will be no invitations to attend Thanksgiving dinner at our home. We will dine on an amazingly cooked dinner by yours truly alone; just the two of us. No expectations, no disappointments. 

I just took the Cranberry-Pear Crisp out of the oven. It smells absolutely amazing and I'm sure its taste will match. To my family who has deserted this feast, you only have yourself to blame and no matter what you eat tomorrow, it will suck compared to the feast I create. You have no one to blame but yourself.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

At elementary schools around the world, one question will be asked in hundreds of languages and dialects within the next coming week: "How did you spend your summer vacation?" Note: This question will only be asked in countries that don't mandate year-round school attendance and where "summer vacation" actually takes place, which is primarily a benefit of first-world nations, like the US.
I've seen so may episodes of "The Simpsons" that start this way as fall approaches, I kind of take it for granted that kids everywhere get to report on uncomfortably long car trips, fighting with siblings for juice boxes to visit family/amusement parks/national or state parks/local campgrounds.
I spent my "summer vacation" healing and rehabbing from surgery on my right wrist that occurred on 06-10-15. I tore my right TFCC ligament in April 2014 when a large chunk of ice fell from a restaurant sign 100' feet in the air and landed on my right wrist. (TFCC is short for triangular fibrocartiliage complex ligament, located on the side of the wrist below the small [pinkie] finger.) There are 26 bones in the human hand and keeping the wrist stabilized is the job of the TFCC ligament, so when it's injured or damaged, the stability of the entire wrist is at risk. Of course before my worker's compensation insurance would pay for surgery I had to "fail" at other interventions including physical therapy, occupational therapy and cortisone injections. And I had to have an evaluation by an independent medical examiner chosen by my worker's comp carrier. And I had to have a series of x-rays and one MRI. So with all of that testing, therapy and injecting, surgery was scheduled after the public school year ended; I was working three days a week at local high schools and there was no way I could step out of seeing those kids and have them meet with a substitute for the final weeks of the school year. School was out for the summer on 06-05-15 and I had surgery five days later.
This is a photo of the first cast/splint/restraint my right arm was in:

I checked into the Rog & Shirley Porath Rehabilitation Center after surgery and this photo is particularly telling of my initial post-op experience: you can see the box of Lovenox 100mg/1ml injections I gave myself starting 4 days pre-op and 7 days post-op. I still take an 80mg aspirin daily until the end of October. This is thanks to the Gallbladder Disaster of 2006 when I ended up with a right pulmonary embolism (blood clot in my right lung) and a right-sided pleural effusion (fluid collecting between my right lung and chest wall). I also draw your attention to the 38oz bottle of Miralax with funnel so I could keep regular peristalsis while taking pain meds. Ok, no one freak out here. Getting drugs out of the DEA has got to be easier than getting them from Rog & Shirl. They managed my pain medication, asked me all the questions I would expect them to ask before reluctantly offering one, maybe two pills if I was really hurting, such as: "Have you tried Tylenol?" "Have you tried a heating pad or ice pack?" "Have you tried to lay down and think about something else?"
(That one was a kicker for me; when the hell did my parents start watching Oprah?)
My first post-op appointment was on June 23rd and the hideous contraption was removed and replaced with a more traditional cast:

My elbow was still kept at a 90 degree angle, but at least I could put on one of the extra-long plastic gloves that looked like cattle-insemination gloves, wrap a rubber band around the top and take a shower!!! God bless running water when you've been without it for almost two weeks. My parents have a totally kick-ass walk-in shower with a seat at the far end and glass doors which is quite luxurious for Rog & Shirl who tend to lean toward the practical side. 

On 06-25 I was allowed back at work for a maximum of 4 hours per day, doing only left-handed work. It was awkward at first because I was still naturally reaching for things with my right hand, but when my elbow wouldn't bend to allow me to grasp what I was reaching for, I began the transition of relying more on my left hand. I won't get into the TMI details, but trust me, you don't want to start stabbing at your eyes with an eyeliner in your left hand if you don't know what the hell you're doing. I call this period my "forced mindfulness" time because I've always wanted to become more mindful of what I was doing and thinking and being forced to pay attention when using my  non-dominant hand definitely helped me be much more mindful of whatever I was attempting to do.

On 07-14 the cast came off and I was placed in a customized orthosis. Unfortunately I don't have any photos of my orthosis, but here is the gist of it: 

Ok, this is the closest image I could find on Google images, but it doesn't really do my orthosis justice because 1) this is on her left arm and 2) mine was white and molded to my arm, keeping my right elbow at a 90 degree angle. I wore a compression stocking underneath it and had Velcro straps I could peel off from one side to get some time out of the thing, which was ONLY supposed to be when I showered. I followed every rule they gave me because I did NOT want to have to deal with side effects of this surgery for the rest of my life. Despite the "quasi-rebel" I was in my younger days, I've become quite compliant with whatever professionals who know more than I do instruct me to do. The coolest part of my orthosis was my choice of alternating green and gold strips of Velcro. (Green Bay Packers colors, get it??)

On 08-18 the portion of the orthosis above my elbow was cut off, freeing my elbow to bend for the first time in over two months!! This was landmark because now I could take the orthosis off to shower without using the large insemination gloves. This is also when the serious physical therapy work began. I started very slowly with range of motion exercises with one or two exercises added every week that I saw my therapist. This is the final version of my custom fitted orthosis:

I decided to stay with the green and gold Packers theme, because that's just who I am. My most recent appointment with my surgeon was on 09-01 and I was given the "all clear" to spend more time out of the wrist restraint than in it. I'm also slowly introducing strengthening exercised into my physical therapy routine. That appointment was last Tuesday and I've been able to function fairly well without the restraint until today, when I woke up feeling sore and knowing that I likely overdid it. I wore it most of today, but as I'm typing this, I'm not wearing it because I feel pretty good. Unfortunately my four-hour work days came to a rapid halt on 09-01 and as of Wednesday, 09-02, I'm back at the office for 8 hours a day. My surgeon told me on 09-01 that my wounds were healing "beautifully" which I took personally, indicating that I have the capacity to have beautiful scars. A photo of the surgery site from today:

Part of my therapy includes massaging the wound site which is a nice way to practice self-care while using lotion and gently rubbing the area. I continue with my range of motion and strength building exercises as well. I have a follow up appointment with my physical therapist on 09-15 and what will likely be my second-to-last appointment with my surgeon on 10-13. At my last appointment he indicated that he'd see me one more time in mid-November and then likely cut me loose if I continue to progress as well as I have so far.

This medical tale runs well over my summer vacation, but healing from surgery, as I've learned since the Gallbladder Disaster of 2006, is never a rapid process. At least not for me. 

I have been able to binge-watch several movies and TV series I've always wanted to see, such as all 5 seasons of Downton Abby, 3 seasons of Mr. Selfridge, all 5 seasons of Friday Night Lights, 3 seasons of In Treatment which I recommend to all of my therapist friends as "must see TV", 3 seasons of Boardwalk Empire, the movies Behind the Candelabra, Angels in America and A Most Wanted Man which I believe was Seymour Hoffman's last film.

I've also been journaling, writing snippets of what I hope to develop into full poems, reading for pleasure (and NOT for work!!) and I've been painting with watercolors and drawing with colored pencils, both of which are new interests for me. 

As this Labor Day Weekend slips away and what is considered "the fall season" takes its place, I've had a pretty good summer. I saw some clients, my work schedule wasn't completely out-of-control, I had some time for personal reflection, relaxed through watching the lives of others played out on my smart-TV, and discovered interests I never knew I was interested in. That ain't bad.

To Everything There is a Season

I think this is the first time I've quoted scripture in my blog, but if there was ever a time for me to lean into the arms of my Creator for comfort, that time is now.
As you are likely aware, my maternal Grandma Krause, whom we lovingly call "Auds" when she's not around, broke her right femur picking rhubarb in her yard the weekend before Memorial Day earlier this summer. She was picking rhubarb to make rhubarb bars for me; because she knows I love them; because she knows I really only love her rhubarb bars.
So she had surgery at AMC in Appleton and because she was progressing so well, her surgeon discharged her to a rehab facility (nursing home) two weeks earlier than he usually does for most of his patients. The nursing home of choice in our family has always been Birch Hill, however they had no available beds, so she was placed at Maple Lane; a little further out of town and closer to Clintonville, but not a placement the family considered outrageous.
Initially, I'm talking for her first week there, she was a rock star in physical therapy twice a day, using her walker versus her wheelchair, and she was told she may be discharged home as early as 4th of July weekend. Lesson #1: NEVER give an elderly person a deadline because they will hold you to that commitment tighter than Donald Trump holds his beliefs about the character of Mexican immigrants.
Five days after my wrist surgery on 06-10-15, my parents and I drove up to see her and she happened to have a "care conference" meeting scheduled that day. My parents didn't attend, although I certainly did because I've got a little medical knowledge which is a dangerous thing. Plus, I spent two years working as an Older Adult Counselor, so I'm much more knowledgeable about Medicaid, Medicare, Family Care and IRIS than anyone my age should be.
The nuts and bolts of the meeting came down to this: If Grandma continued to make progress in her twice-daily physical therapy, began using her arms to help lower herself into her recliner as opposed to just "flopping down" into the seat, and got some appropriate footwear (which my Aunt Margie was already working on) so she could take off the orthotic boot on her right foot, a 4th of July discharge may not be possible at this point, but maybe they would consider mid- to end-of July. Of course an Occupational Therapist needed to make a home assessment first, so equipment, grip bars, handles, etc.could be installed before Grandma's move home. She had a similar assessment after a brief stay at Birch Hill in January 2013, yet nothing changed in her house, which I found kind of odd.
This past week has become "A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance" for me; heavy on the weeping and mourning. The reports my aunt (my grandma's power of attorney for health care) had been receiving from Maple Lane were not encouraging for my grandma to ever be discharged to home. 1 1/2 weeks ago she had a "set back" in physical therapy which I have yet to get anyone to provide me with any details of. My second cousin, who is an RN in a nursing home, stopped by to see Grandma today and it took significantly longer for Grandma to recognize her, but she did! That's one in the win column. Apparently last night  Grandma had an "accident" in bed which is not uncommon in this population, but isn't an indication that a resident is ready to be discharged to home, that's for sure.
I admit that I'm probably the one holding out for Grandma to eventually come home. I can't imagine living in a world where she cannot can peaches, make lemon meringue pie, because Grandma make the best lemon meringue pie and my dad loves it. Where she can't bake an Easter ham. That she can no longer live in the home where my dad would come to on Thanksgiving Day for a hot meal before heading back out deer hunting with his friends and where my mom, Jan, Chad & I would destroy the kitchen while decorating Christmas cookies with our cousins. Where I've eaten the best cherry tourte on the planet and something so delicious she named the dessert "Robert Redford" because nothing is as good as Robert Redford. Well these chocolate/pudding/graham cracker crust bars were the closest thing on earth you could get.
As a child, Christmas at my grandparents' was magical. The presents wound their way from the tree all the way to the front door. After dinner our Uncle Norton would play Bingo with us kids on the freshly-cleared dining room table. During the Fair (Labor Day Weekend) some family member would inevitably call Grandma & Grandpa Krause's house looking for a ride home because the cabs in Shawano didn't run at 2am.
I know Grandma's not going to heal well enough to the point where she can live at home again, even with daily or every-other-day visits from a home health agency. I thought I've felt my heart break before, but nothing compares to this. It's like part of me, part of  my childhood and my memories and who I am as a person is moving out too. It's being disassembled and packed up in boxes and spread out among my aunts and cousins. And it hurts. It hurts like someone is plucking pieces of my heart right out from my chest. I don't know when it will happen and I don't know when it will stop. I'm waiting for the other part of Ecclesiastes chapter 3, verse 4 to kick in: when I have a time to laugh and a time to dance, because I'm just too sad for any of that right now.