For My Grandmother

For My Grandmother                                            by Krissy Sack

Dry your eyes; please no more tears,                                               Listen to my words carried on the wind.

It may now seem we are so very far apart,                      But my tender syllables arrive with the summer breeze.

You are entirely a part of me.                                    And I of you.

Though time takes us apart,                                      The distance between our hearts could not be closer.

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.

It's a Cold and It's a Broken Hallelujah

It's been a hell of a week. If you've seen some of my Facebook posts from the week, you're aware that the husband of one of my best friends in the world died of cancer one week ago.
Mike was the kind of guy that slid right in to our circle of friends. Had he gone to high school with us, we totally would have hung out with him. He would've been one of "us", that's how closely he matched our general vibe, interests, music & "recreational activities". If I have to explain to you why recreational activities is in quotes, you didn't know us in high school. The "us" I refer to know who you are & anyone else from the 1989 class from Appleton West knows who comprised "us" as well.
I think I have a unique perspective on Jeanette & Mike's relationship, at least the budding beginning of it. She came out to Boston to visit me my senior year in college and reported that she was "interested" in this guy who worked with her mother (of all people) and they had gone on one or two dates by that time. Nothing serious, no expectations, but she was hot for him - girlfriends know these things about each other.
After she returned to Fond du Lac, she kept me updated on when they spent time together.
Then there was the week that went by when he didn't call her. She called me sobbing that he was "a thoughtless mother-fucker" and she was pissed off at herself for "thinking that it would work out." I had not laid eyes on Mike at this point and I was obviously totally loyal to my friend, so I concurred that he was indeed a "thoughtless mother-fucker" for stringing her along.
Then he called.
Then they had sex. Sorry Jeanette, but this is a crucial part of your history with Mike & this story. Her update about the sex was, "Man, I think he was going through the stats of the National League" (baseball) because it wasn't over in under two minutes, as is a common phenomenon for men in their early 20's. We were women in our early 20's and had plenty of experience with "the two-minute magic" but Mike is, was, 13 years older than Jeanette. He had moves. He had experience. He knew how to turn the two-minute magic into the twenty to thirty minute magic, which is very appealing when you're in your early 20's.
They eventually married. Her "g-ma" hand-made her wedding gown. She was stunning and he was majestic. The look on his face said, "Oh yeah, she kicks ass and she's mine." And he was right. He surprised her with a horse drawn carriage ride at the end of the ceremony. One of her attendants was our friend Eric J who told me at Mike's funeral that when he was standing up at the altar during their wedding ceremony he thought he was going to pass out because everyone in the church was staring at the wedding party and this was the first wedding he'd stood up for.
I remember our friend Steve taking communion, which generally isn't a remarkable event except that he's Jewish and "just got wrapped up in the crowd" that was heading toward the altar.
This was way before digital cameras and every time I snapped a photo my camera made a hideous "rrr-rrr-rrr" sound as the film advanced and wrapped around the spokes. Our friend Robb was seated in the pew in front of me and eventually got fed up with the whirling of my camera so he turned around to me and said, "If you take one more picture and that camera makes one more sound, I'm going to snatch it out of your hands and NOT give it back to you." This explains why I have photos of the first half of their wedding ceremony but none of the second half.
One of my pictures from their wedding was on a photo display at Mike's funeral. It includes Mike, me, Kate and Carrie. That photo captures a glorious moment in all of our lives and includes some of my favorite people in the world. I'm truly honored that it was chosen to be displayed as a testament to Mike's life.
I also have the dubious honor of making the first toast at their wedding reception. I was drunk off my ass, rambled on completely aimlessly for several minutes, raised my glass of whatever liquor I was swilling in large quantities and weaved my way back to my seat. My father and my sister were in attendance and after I returned to my seat, my sister immediately walked me out of the reception hall, plunked me in the backseat of my car, gave me a can of Sprite and said, "Just pass out and be done with it." I stupidly said to her, "But they must have liked it (my toast) because they were applauding when I was done." Her response: "They were just being polite."
A few years later Jeanette told me that the hotel where most of the guests stayed (not me as my sister drove us both back to Appleton that night, which I have absolutely no memory of) complained because by the end of the night, there was a large portion of a cheese and sausage platter floating in the hotel pool. I love those kind of weddings.
By the time our 20th class reunion came, Mike had been diagnosed with cancer and had undergone his initial treatment at Beth Israel Hospital in Boston. He and Jeanette showed up at my parents' house as I had invited "all of us" to reunite there. We spent many a weekend night in my parents' basement engaging in all sorts of debauchery that I won't describe in detail here; if you were there, you know what I'm referring to. At one point Jeanette asked my mom where I was and my mom's response was, "She's downstairs with some of you kids." At Mike's funeral Jeanette's mom Elaine referred to us as "you kids" as well.  My dad's assessment of that reunion evening was, "there are still cars lined up and down Lynndale Drive, but the cars are newer and in much better condition." My friends actually brought beer and liquor to my parents' house instead of drinking what had belonged to my parents at the time.
Mike was a huge Packers fan and during their run up to Super Bowl 36, or whatever the number was when Brett Favre took us to the Super Bowl and we actually won, Eric, Mike & Jeanette, Hays and I would get together at one of our apartments and watch playoff games. I again brought my camera and have wonderful snapshots of those playoff weekends.
Throughout Mike's past six years of treatment, he was a fighter. He would absolutely go to work on the days he was feeling up to it; likely he went when he wasn't feeling up to it because that's how loyal and dedicated to commitment he was. As a result of witnessing Mike's treatment, Jeanette went to graduate school and got her Master's Degree in Nursing and has become a huge advocate for cancer patients, cancer research and the care cancer patients receive.
For those of us who knew and loved Mike, our lives were made richer and better for it. Rest in peace my friend. Tell Jack-Dog and Peanut that we all love and miss them and take good care of them as they will take good care of you.

After 168 Hours Have Finally Passed

So maybe it's not exactly 168 hours since the Packers defeat by the New York Giants, but I know 168 hours ago I was sitting on this very couch, watching this very TV, likely wearing these very pajamas, and my heart broke.

Not because my family wouldn't be going to Super Bowl XLVI in Indianapolis (which, in all honesty, is not a very exciting town). No, my heart broke for those 53 players on the Packers roster. My heart broke for Donald Driver who played like the team's life depended on him, and for a good portion of that game, it did. There's just something magical that happens when Driver catches that rocket and rides it for 10 more yards and another first down. My heart broke for Aaron Rodgers. As a team captain, much is expected from him and generally much is delivered, but not on this given Sunday. And for the dozens of coaching staff, the trainers, equipment personnel, travel staff, and everyone else affiliated with the team that would've been eligible to travel with the Pack to Indy, my heart broke for you too.

But my heart was really breaking for the family of Offensive Coordinator, Joe Philbin. Michael Philbin was 21 years old and drown in the Fox River. The portion of the river where his body was found runs parallel to the UW-O campus and happens to be right in front of my office at the Oshkosh Seniors Center.

Had the Packers lost without the trauma of a death affecting their Offensive Coordinator, without several players likely experiencing thoughts of their own families suddenly popping into their heads, and without someone likely taking a step back from all of the hype, the spread, and questioning what was really important, would the loss have been any more or any less disappointing to us, the average fan?

Sometimes something very horrible has to happen in order for a group of people to gain a deeper understanding of life. As much as I love my Green Bay Packers, the week they spent before last week's game had to be dreadful. Traditionally men aren't very good at expressing their feelings, much less deep, sad emotions. It's never better to say nothing, no matter how awkward you feel about approaching a grieving person or someone you know who has just lost a loved one. Say something, do something, but don't just stand there and do nothing.

Maybe ask that person if he'd like to go toss the ball around. Who knows? Maybe that's just the out he's been looking for.

Memory of You Haiku

Motherfucker. What
I thought, given. Unwrapped presents.
Only left: burnt remains.