Pretty much a whole day wasted on bills, errands, to-dos, and miscellaneous, mindless meddling in necessary life’s mundane activities. One planned trip around a corner branched off into two more “why not since here?” scurries to other “whys?” in the road where, of course, another destination awaited.
It’s not those payments, plans, and preparations didn’t need to be done. Today, however, wasn’t the day designated for such fun. It was to be hours of relaxation after a short commitment this morning at a local school. We are to be the masters of our time, not the other way around?
Convenience took over. I know of no other explanation. A “why not?” theme took over my symphony of serenity. I stepped up to the podium expecting to conduct one small errand. Considering the well orchestrated list of bills and preparations on a list – well scored in my portfolio sitting quietly to my right – I had no choice but to lift the convenience baton and begin directing.
All my players were close and within cooperating distance. So, “why not?” … without regard to the time it was going to take. This was, in retrospect, not a little minuet as it turned out. More at hand an extended, multi-movement opus including multiple stops, some electronic communications, busy traffic, many players of varying expertise, and time … lots of time. A rather complicated score to handle with little preparation.
For one who was only prepared for calm and relaxation, quite a change.
As the coda came to a close around six-thirty this evening, a curtain of relief came down on the stage. The orchestra quieted down to a welcomed silence. No more traffic. No more time. Done.
And so nothing like getting no relaxing in … and nothing like that feeling of getting a lot done when not expecting to.
Is this a paradox? So says google: “A situation that appears self-contradictory or illogical at first, but actually reveals a hidden or deeper truth.” I thought so at first, but not really.
Nothing happened I wanted to do, but a lot got done I didn’t want to do … but am glad got done – after all was done.
Maybe it falls along that procrastination fine line? You know you “should” do a thing … keep putting it off … glad it’s done when finally finished?
Don’t want to read too much into all this. Find it mildly entertaining I spent valuable time being slightly irritated – giving into impulses to satisfy non-urgent obligations … only to be happy about it later. The self-diagnosing psychiatrist in me would simply like to know what condition this is.
If there isn’t one, that’s fine. I’ll just go back to the refrigerator, crack open a pack of chocolate chip cookies and a diet soda. Life can be more easily understood under a sugar high, anyway.
Good news. The next few days I have less bills to pay, less planning to do, and just a little prep. work for next week’s partial work schedule and hopeful relaxation carve-out.
After all, if Bernstein and Karajan were allowed breaks from their prestigious podiums, I should be given respite from my life’s directorial responsibilities once in a while, too.
It’s not uncommon to see a family of deer in our neighborhood. Usually four – a mom, dad, and two fawns. They wander about in back yards, a local graveyard, grassy areas surrounding evening walkabouts, and an elementary playgrond. During this particular evening, an after dinner stroll was, apparently, necessary near our high school. The “kids” were playing with each other as mom and dad paid particular attention to slow moving dusk traffic. I was part of that as my Mitsubishi took a u-turn up a block to make a return trip. A wooden fence provided just enough of a photo distraction between my parked car and these cervid creatures to avoid any nervous movement from them for a few seconds. Within a minute, it was time for another family adventure across the way … and they were gone.
Like I mentioned, this encounter isn’t unique for our neighborhood. Within a four block radius (+/-), deer are spotted on the regular. Sometimes there can be an octet of brown beast-ettes roaming lawns, minding their lives. Nobody really pays a bother. Once in a while, a garden takes notice as one of its vegetable or flower residents is, unfortunately, relieved of its residency. Such goes the “neighborhood”.
What do we expect when eighty years ago one lonely house stood alone four blocks away? This deer family’s ancestry had free, unobstructed reign over acres of land. Before two schools and dozens upon dozens of houses were built, this area was, yes, a bit swampy … but it was their home. Now they are still free, yes; however, dodging hundreds of over the speed-limit cars, skirting over paved roads, and avoiding as much human interaction as possible…
… even those pesky Mutsubishi pull-overs who insist on that one “please hold still” picture. The comment, “They’re so little, little”,… came across from my passenger side. I laughed. A much needed smile.
Why bother mentioning, right? Well, I needed it. Sorry, cute deer family. You were needed.
Seven hours of unnecessary, frustrating, aggravating, over-the top technological indignation precipitated this deer, oh so dear, encounter.
My phone died during lunch while I finished off a left-over Subway sub from the day before. It just went blank. No warning. No. “Hey, Doug .. guess what? I’d like the rest of my life off now. Please make sure you have everything in order. Let me know when it’s a good time for you and then I’ll sign off…”. Yeah, no.
You’d think a trip to the phone store – in the middle of an already $%*&^ busy three days – would be easy?
“Hey, my phone decided to check out…ideas?”… I felt was a timely, honest question to ask the sales representative who inquired why I stopped in.
“There’s one customer ahead of you now. Would you mind waiting?” I’ve had no issues before, so, no. Thirty minutes later finally at the service desk, the system doesn’t recognize my pin number I’ve AWLAYS used to reach my accout. I, obviously need a new phone. (Data storage – or some such conflagrational contraption corruption is the issue) … They can’t access my account. One more attempt, I’m toast. So off to a corporate store to use picture ID.
Corporate. Wait forty-five minutes to be told ID can’t access a business phone. Yeah, me!! They need to call another corporate line for voice authorization. The representative was kind, however, her tablet had spinny circle unkind issues going on and couldn’t connect IN AN INTERNET PHONE STORE (to add emphasis to my rising blood pressure issue at this particular time). In the mean time, two older church ladies in line behind me – who waited just as long – were anxious to get to a church function. I graciously allowed them to take my spot because God didn’t want me to stay in this situation any more… I am very sure of this.
Back to store #1. Stuck. Suggested I go back home to my PC email. That I do. Second floor, through the garage up the steps. My sales rep. wanted to send an email verification to that email, but IT wanted to send a verification code to my PHONE. Why? Because at this most unfortunate of times, my email decided to log out. In order to log in, of course, it wanted to send a two-step verification code to my freakin’ PHONE! Locked out of email. Locked out of my phone.
Locked out of any sense of sanity.
Oh, and everytime I come into the house now, I have to take off my shoes because there’s new carpet. This is a separate issue. Never mnd.
George Gobel once said, on the Tonight Show, “Did you ever get the feeling the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”. I felt that way in the middle of all this yesterday. Unconnected with the world. No cell. No email. No help. No texting…. And, this is sad, angry, and kinda upsetting at the same time. Something for all of us to look into. So connected to our electronics. Ugh.
Anyway.
I had to navigate through a zero-sum gain for over seven hours. Tried an office computer away from the house where, apparently, they changed the password?… No luck. It was an afternoon where an additional cell phone “could” have helped to coordinate codes, but it was tied up at, ironically, a funeral. I finally got into my email through another cell phone four hours later, called store #1 to re-send an access approval code, and walked out with a new phone. That process was an hour.
Another battle has ensued since with all downloads, password changes, email configurations, and just old guy problems with new technology. Yesterday was ridiculous. I know it became necessary. A pin number couldn’t open my account. Four simple little digits turned into multiple trips and a stir pot of frustrated stew. I, truly, had better things to do yesterday. Unfortunately, this is where all of us are. Technology in our hands. I need a phone.
These phones are getting better and faster. My new one has twice the memory. Couldn’t get a trade value for the old one. Not sure why? At this point, don’t really care. Has little, little value to me now. After all, it is dead to me.
It isn’t possible to write every detail from yesterday. I am fortunate no medical team was necessary to assist in my hours-long ordeal. I, truly, didn’t know we had so many masons capable of building that many brick walls so quickly in our small community. Gives me hope for the trades around here.
They’re so little, little in the long run. These problems. At the time, boy do they seem monumental. I guess this is the lesson from yesterday. Seeing that family – and the comment which followed – forced me to think. Was I over-reacting? Probably. Yet, the situation required frustration. I could only stay patient for so long. I didn’t yell at anyone who was trying to help. That’s completely unnecessary. When it comes to technology, I guess they only did what they can do. If a button says, “do this”… that’s all they can do. Step A has to happen before step B?
My multiple car-alone conversations yesterday, however, …well. Let’s say they weren’t sermon material and leave it go at that. I do hope my church ladies made it to their event and the little, little ones had a pleasant evening with their family.
As for me, I hope to the deer, dear heavens I don’t need another new phone any time soon. If I do, hide all the bricks, please.
There’s not a vinyl bench back seat from a 1970’s era paneled station wagon anywhere, I figure, without the question, “Are we there, yet?, immortalized in its seams. Far rear-facing, or middle seats, those words ran upside the back of many father’s necks either every twenty minutes, upon seeing exit ramps, or a mother waking up from her passenger side nap.
I was just as guilty as my siblings on long trips to the beach. As our seven-plus hours stuffed wagon began its final leg, I, more than my siblings, uttered those four annoying words. More out of excitement, probably, than as an enticement for punishment. Boredom after hours in the brown stretch box could have been a reason as well.
Funny how it always worked for every child who did speak these words. It never seemed to happen coming back home. Silence ruled the hours. Human nature ruled the time. For us, school was fast approaching because our vacation – most times – was at the end of summer. If, some years, it happened to be near the start of June, coming back to summer work schedules (even as young kids) weren’t something in our bag of exciting things.
So, “Are we there yet?” .. was a thing. I’m going to presume it still may be? This I don’t have any personal experiences because I’ve had no opportunities to be a back of the neck listener. No chance to turn around and say, “Don’t pick on your sister, young man!”… Not being a dad has afforded me no opportunity to hear that four word phrase.
I do have a dad still – and was recalling that particular phrase when he and I were out and about the other day. Side by side, fifty years later, in a less rickety automobile, minus three humans, a dog, and polyester brown and orange shorts. Yes, just the two of us talking the day through when he asked, “Where are we going?”.
This question caught me off guard, but only a little. With his limited recall and short-term memory loss, I wasn’t surprised. It was only a few minutes prior when I did say we were headed out to shop at Sam’s Club. Leaving his facility shortly before that conversation, however, was a trigger to new stimulation, … new brain input. This is how dementia works. I find it fascinating.
I do enjoy watching how dad navigates his way around (and through) this remarkable time in his life. He adapts. He survives. He gets frustrated and calls me to connect, but disguises it as a need he wishes to be fulfilled.
“Where are we going?”, still hung out there.
The question was asked and required a quick response as we sat at three cars back in a construction zone. I could sense his eyes looking over at me with excitement. After all, he was happy to be out with me – in the sunshine – somewhere other than staring at the same tan walls he’s been accustomed to for a while. My reply came swift with little forethought:
“Well, I guess when we get where we’re going, you’ll know where we are, Dad.”
“That kinda makes sense, in a way, Doug. I don’t know what you just said, but I believe you.”
There’s a lot there … in a few words. We laughed the whole way to Sam’s Club – and, I don’t know why. Both of us found this exchange to be hilarious. Honestly, I was on the same mental track as dad. We connected and every second escalated into more simple moments of fun.
As is my dad’s personality, once arriving at Sam’s – in the public square (as it were), his demeanor change … back to business, “helping his son” by pushing the cart for some exercise. I got that and was more than willing to meet him where he landed, mentally. All good.
I write this to give hope to anyone helping a loved one with dementia. They are still driving their car. Yes, it’s quite different. You can still be in the back seat wondering, “Are you there yet?” with them? Are they safe and healthy while on their individual destination?
Just now, as the adult with them, patience, humor, love, and compassion rule the day. Also, the trip isn’t only hours, it’s years.
Along the drive, though, are rest stops when you can laugh with them – unexpectedly – while heading somewhere.
It’s a wonderful experience for me. Mainly because I never know what tomorrow invites in with my father/son relationship. All I know is …. if I could ask him, “Are we there yet?”, one more time … and have him answer, “Almost, the beach is just over the bridge …”
Hidden among hills in Western Pa is this waterfall. Not far off Rt 22, heading west from Altoona – about halfway to Pittsburgh – is Buttermilk Falls. Down a bumpy cement road and through only a few rural, tree-shaded intersections, one arrives at this quaint park. It is serene. Mere minutes from the Rt 22 metal melee, a small parking lot invites all to park life away from all its problems.
This is Fred Rogers’ place by extension. Several remains of his grandfather’s (Fred McFeely) estate are visible at the park while Mr. Rogers life and times are memorialized in small wooden plaques along a simple walkway toward the waterfall. The falls themselves are in the Hires Run Valley which is a tributary to the Conemaugh River.
A recent visit here was necessary. Weeks of unexplained delays of plans, expected overlaps of multiple schedules, and usual busyness required something – anything – to free myself from all of it. A 4-day planned vacation fell through. Family matters prevented one day from happening. A personal medical issue, another day. Home repairs and maintenance another. Just did not end.
I know this isn’t only me. Life happens. One drop at a time of little issues then all of a sudden the bucket is full. We’ve all had it happen.
These mind-heavy issues didn’t immediately disappear once my car door closed over a small, shale parking space under a small grove of trees; however, a few deep breaths of forest air during the first ten minutes’ paces sure did help. Allowing the time – between each Mr. Rogers plaque – to empty my bucket by a few drops. Reaching the waterfall forty-five minutes from the start, I can say my bucket was a little lighter. Not much, but a little.
One can walk under the waterfall to meditate, take pictures/videos, or stand there and get relief from a hot, sunny day. Visitor’s choice, as could be said,
The four hour round-trip visit ended with a return back to my normal: Preparation for a busy event week coming up and four church organ services (including a funeral Saturday) this weekend. Life as I’ve known for so many years
Life as I’ve known it ..
… without mentioning, to this point, caregiving for a family member with dementia. “Caregiving” as an umbrella term to cover five years of in-home care and then then, most recently, sixteen months in an assisted living facility.
Yes, I wanted four days away. The emotional struggle dealing with a day-to-day overflowing bucket of emotional ups and downs had reached its crest. I’ve done the best I can meeting his needs. His health and safety are always on my mind. Beginning with a simple wrong turn in his car leading to a dementia diagnosis five years ago, this slow river of mental decline has eroded his solid rocks of reason.
It, really, isn’t any different from thousands of other experiences caregivers have when walking side by side, day by day, hand-in-hand with one walking down dementia’s path. Over the years, we’ve shared all the steps -together. The initial diagnosis and subsequent frustration, loss of driver’s license with understandable disappointment, confusion over simple tasks, and momentary blank stares.
..also wonderful, complimentary words that were rare during those rough teenage years. Frequent phone calls from the assisted living facility stand as a testament to our solid relationship. He has my number firmly implanted in a small brain cell … not to be forgotten at present. We have a connection.
So, this dementia path, for us – for me – is rough. It isn’t ever intended to be an easy one, I believe. It is taken on as an unpredictable, day-by-day, who knows, let’s see what tomorrow brings … and hold each other’s hand path to somewhere. (Ironically, as I type, he just called needing white medical tape – an obsession of his. No worries. We will go out in a few hours and find some).
Four days and an almost full bucket. I did lose a few drops with the help of my good neighbor, Fred Rogers. By all accounts, Mr. Rogers was a great dad. Plaques leading to the falls testify to this fact. He was a wonderful man – as everyone knows.
I wouldn’t trade my dad in for him, however. As things are, I always say we are losing him a little at a time every day, but the other side of reality is getting a great guy. I wouldn’t have said this years ago. We had a tough time.
Being his caregiver and sharing this path with him has been a joy. We’re not at “his” falls yet and I am finding my bucket to be, maybe, a bit bigger than anticipated with him as we walk together.
When alone, however, I have to be mindful of a full bucket. All of us who take care of .. and love those who suffer from dementia, need to provide self-care.
Our path is different from the one shared with our loved one. The old saying, “you can’t take care of someone else if you don’t take care of yourself first”, is so true. Spiritual, physical, and mental health are so important first-and-foremost.
There us a sign at the beginning of the Buttermilk path: “Be the kind of person Mr. Rogers always knew you could be”. I take this to heart.
There are two paths .. two falls. Two destinations. Being at Buttermilk Falls reminded me of this.
