Small smiles and a pet peeve

 

Sophie waiting for happy hour

Several things yesterday and today gave me small smiles—I like moments like that. Last night it was far too chilly for happy hour on the patio so Jordan, Mary, and I gathered in the cottage. Sophie sat on the deck and stared at the cottage for the longest time. We couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Much later it dawned on me—she was trying to figure out why we were inside and not outside with her. She loves happy hour when there’s a guest!

Some time ago, Dean Jones, who bills himself as the Well Seasoned Librarian, interviewed me for his podcast. The interview covered the whole of my career and gave me a chance to talk about some of my books and how they came about. Today, I finally got the link and listened. At first I thought my voice quavered, like an old woman (hold those comments, please!) but as the interview progressed I must have felt more at ease because my voice got stronger. A couple of times my mind went blank, and I couldn’t remember  simple fact or a title, but I think that was just on-the-spot nerves and not failing memory.

The ”well seasoned” in Jones’ moniker comes from the fact that he has a special interest in food and food writing. He apparently was attracted to my work by the Blue Plate Café Mysteries, but then we had a good talk about Gourmet on a Hot Plate, the book and the blog, and I told him my story about seeking a publisher for a biography of Helen Corbitt, the Neiman Marcus food lady who really was a fascinating woman aside from her career at Neiman’s.

You apparently have to sign up for Spotify to listen, and that took me a chunk of time this morning. But now I have a Spotify account I will likely never use again. If you’re interested, here’s the Spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/episode/2nGkxjM8qFsbuE44nUDGJ6?si=-2pgSQ8TSnu24ja1yuZryg. The interview runs twenty-nine minutes.

A pet peeve I’ve only recently developed: It is slowly dawning on me that when Jordan and I go to my medical appointments, everyone from the doctor to the receptionist talk to her about me, as if I weren’t there or were incapable of understanding. I didn’t really catch on to it yesterday in the endodontist’s office, probably because I was so relieved to have the procedure done with. But last night, talking about it, I realized he told her that I should eat soft foods, nothing crunchy. He explained the medications (none of which I took) to her and showed her the x-ray of my tooth. When I complained about it—to Jordan, after the fact, she said, “The screen was behind you. You were still in the dental chair.” Maybe so, but if I’d be alone, he’d have gotten me out of that chair, into my transport chair, and wheeled me to the screen.

By contrast, Monday I went to the eye doctor alone—Jordan dropped me off and picked me up, but I was in the doctor’s exam room alone. The young doctor carefully explained to me three options for surgery that might improve my vision. Without them I see well enough to drive, if I were still licensed, and certainly well enough for my daily routine. I told the doctor that I didn’t want any surgeries that were not absolutely necessary, and he accepted that saying, “You seem to have a good grasp of the condition of your eyesight and the options open to you. We’ll do nothing and check again in a year.” I loved the words, “You seem to have a good grasp.” Of course I did. My mind still works, just not my legs so well.

I think it is a common misconception among those in the health care professions. If they see an elderly patient with a walker or a wheelchair, they automatically, though probably unconsciously, assume some degree of dementia. Every time I mention it, Jordan says I’m imagining it, but it’s happened too often.

I resolve as of today to take more direct charge of office visit with physicians. After all, I’m the one that schedules appointments and deals with the physician’s office (I am blessed to have several docs that I can communicate with by email), and pays the bills. I don’t mind if they call me “Judy” instead of “Mrs Alter”—in fact, I prefer it. But I want to be talked to, not about.

As you can tell from this post, dementia is an ongoing concern with me. My mom developed it, from a series of TIAs or small strokes, when she was about the age I am now. I think my ongoing involvement with the writing world and my active voice about politics and current affairs helps keep that wolf from the door. But I loved it when Christian said the other night, “Well, you certainly don’t have dementia.” Wish I could remember what the conversation was about.

 

 

A bit of this and that

Two Elmer Kelton titles keep going through my mind. The first is his classic novel of the 1950s drought, The Time It Never Rained. More apropos now is the article titled, “The Time It Always Rained.” Today I don’t know which one applies. We were supposed to have rain, but it was sunny and pretty. Now I hear it’s going to hit at two o’clock in the morning. And rain all day tomorrow. Today Houston was hit again, and I have texted to ask about my kids in Tomball, northwest of Houston.

A saying about the rain that I loved and stole from local sage, Tom James, who runs for Fort Worth Memories and History page on Facebook: “The humidity just suddenly burst into rain.”

And going back further in time, this from Galileo: “Wine is sunlight held together by water.”

Yesterday I wrote 443 pages of dreck and was most discouraged. Today I wrote 1500 words of what I think (and hope) is good copy, and I’m feeling more confident about the new project. I may finally have the voice where I want it. At least it’s a good start. And I feel that old, familiar compulsion to make every minute count for the project at hand. My kind of fun.

Tonight I am both alarmed and amused by trump’s antics in the UK. I do feel that the media watches like a hawk for a chance to catch him in the slightest mis-step, and in England he made several of them, that gosh-awful tux not being the least. I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for him, because he brings his grief on himself. But a part of me wonders if he is even capable of recognizing that. Does he really believe that those huge crowds were cheering for him? Is he in denial?

I watched the press conference where he and Theresa May took questions. He read his opening remarks in a mechanical fashion, without inflection. When I mentioned that to friend Mary last night, she said, “At least he can still read.” Missing her point, I said, “Well I suppose they deliberately used small words that he could handle.” And she repeated, “At least he can still read.” Then she added, “He soon won’t be able to,” and I saw where she was headed. She believes, as many of us suspect, that he is in the early to medium stages of dementia, losing what they call “executive ability”—the ability to manage our own lives on a daily basis. Reading, writing, thinking clearly, even dressing ourselves. I do think it’s time for an impartial assessment of his cognitive abilities. I had a dear friend some years back who was diagnosed with “mild cognitive impairment,” and he made a lot more sense than much of what trump says.

Today he told the prime minister of Ireland that he liked the millions of Irish living in America and added, “I know most of them.” Out of touch with reality—and scary for us.

Memories of my mom

My mom would be 114 today, or maybe I should say her soul is 114. As a child I had no trouble remembering her age because I knew it was the same as the year--after she got over that spell of telling me she was fifteen and my father 16. My fondest memories of Mom are of her happy silly moments--and oh, did she have them. Like the time a friend with no relatives came to the house because she needed someone responsible to sign some banking papers for her. It was  breakfast, and my mom was convinced that something really bad would happen if you didn't eat breakfast, so she put toast in for Rose and then wrote, "Alice P. Mac" on the signature line, checked the toast, and came back to write Bread instead of Alice P. MacBain. She told stories of when she and all our uncles were young and in school, and I decided they were sillier and wilder than we would ever be--like the time my aunt lost her husband in a one-room apt. She came out of the bath, couldn't find him, finally heard a soft knocking--opened the door to find him standing there stark naked. He had just stepped out to pull a fuse as a joke to a fellow who was bringing his bride home that night, and the door locked behind him. When Mom told these stories, the tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks.
She was delighted when grandchildren came along, rather late in her life. She'd read them fairy tales, but when it got bloody--as fairy tales can--she substituted, "She hit him." Once, when my two oldest were about one and two, Mom was in the back seat between their car seats. For some reason, they both set up a howl. The louder they howled, the harder my mom laughed. My father drove as if he didn't know any of us. My youngest daughter was her particular favorite because by then my dad had died and Mom had moved close to us. Jordan says to this day she can smell Grandmother's house, and she thinks she could draw the floor plan. We had family dinner at Mom's every Sunday night--a ritual we all enjoyed.
Mom was an incredible cook, and she taught me. She'd let me make a mess in the kitchen, and when someone asked why she did that she answered, "If I don't, she'll never learn to cook." I once made a cake that tasted awful, and she asked how much baking soda I put in it. "Nine tablespoons," I replied. She nearly fainted, but when she looked at the recipe, it was indeed a mistake there, not mine.
Mom's life wasn't all joy and happiness. She had hard times--I think some that I don't know about, but I do know she lived through the Depession as a young adult (and all her life she saved leftovers, bits of string and foil); she lost her first husband to a wound from WWI and she lost her last child, my younger sister, in infancy. Once, after we'd all left Chicago she went back to visit a dear friend. They were walking down Michigan Avenue when the friend dropped dead beside her. My mom had incredible strength, although these and other ordeals left their mark.
We camped every summer in a cabin without running water, plumbing or electricity. Mom cooked as though she were in that remodeled kitchen at home that brought her such pride. She carried more than her share of the packs as we hiked a mile through the woods to get to that cabin--we carried in all food and clothes and other supplies. I can still see Mom hanging clothes on the line to dry, her arms strong and brown from the sun. And she swam until she was in her eighties. I think her nonathletic daughter was a disappointment to her.
In her early 80s Mom's mind began that slippery slope, due to a series of small strokes. She was frightened and cross with my now teenaged children. And that ladylike woman, always known for being a model of decorum, did some outrageous things. I wanted to shake her and say, "Mom, be yourself!" But the woman I had known, loved and tried to emulate, was gone, replaced by a shell.
Today I try to banish those memories and replace them with the good times, the fun we had together, especially in the kitchen and with grandchildren. I often wish she--and my dad--could see how wonderfully those children have grown up and what great children they are raising. And I am sad that my grandchildren don't know my mom.
I love you, Mom, always have, always will.