Eat the Ice Cream
If she brings it, eat the ice cream.
This morning mom comes over with ice cream and a chocolate.
What’s this?
Ice cream on a stick. She smiles.
For breakfast?
Why not?
I can think of so many reasons why not, but I don’t speak them.
I put the ice cream in my little beverage refrigerator. I don’t have a proper refrigerator/freezer at the moment, but that’s another post.
It will melt in there.
I know, but I need to finish my coffee first, I say, sorting out in my head whether I’ll really eat the ice cream or simply toss it after she leaves.
And, here’s a chocolate.
Thanks.
I rarely eat ice cream or chocolate, especially not for breakfast, but that’s what she brings me. This isn’t a remembering thing. She knows these aren’t proper breakfast choices. But she loves them. Especially the ice cream. Ice cream on a stick. If you tarry at her house long enough, she’ll offer you one.
Mom leaves. I can see the ice cream on a stick through the glass door of my little fridge. I sip my coffee.
I don’t want ice cream for breakfast.
Then I remember that a week ago, my son had stayed over after bringing me from the airport. Mom came by in the morning hoping to visit with him a bit. She had ice cream.
What’s that for?
It’s for Sam.
He’s still sleeping.
Oh, she looked disappointed.
But you can wake him up. I’m not sure he’ll want ice cream this early though.
She knocked on his door. I sat back down at my desk, sipping coffee. I could hear them talking.
Thanks, Mama Nick! Hug from pillow.
After she left, Samir sauntered into the room where I was working.
So, how was ice cream for breakfast? I asked, expecting at least a partially snide answer.
It was great!
I don’t know how to help.
This journey is unbalanced. I’m sure I’m learning more from my mom than she’s getting from me.
I make little spaces in my day for mom, but I don’t really know how to help. I take her to visit her sister. We stop for lunch. We shop for groceries. I look for activities she loves to do. We’ve lined up some furniture to refinish, and at least once a week, when I’m here, I invite her over to make jelly with me.
I don’t have to remind her to come over to make jelly. She remembers. Most times, she shows up with dinner. While I eat, she washes all the dishes that have collected in my sink to make room for jelly making.
Tonight we made jelly. She scrubbed the ginger I brought in from the garden, stirred the blueberry juice and sugar, poured the jelly into the jars. Like I said, it’s unbalanced. I’m the lucky one.
I don’t know how to help mom, so I make space in my head. My first notion this morning is to tell her, Thanks, but I don’t want ice cream. Just take it with you and put it back in the freezer when you go home. I stifle that notion and put the ice cream in the little refrigerator.
For after I finish my coffee, I explain.
After she leaves, I have the toss-the-ice-cream-on-a-stick option. Then I remember Samir.
It was great.
I eat the ice cream. Samir was right. It is great. I eat the chocolate too.
Be present.
I’m not boasting about my choice to eat the ice cream nor about the small spaces I make in my days for my mom. I’m only giving these things voice because I mostly fail when faced with these choices.
Can I call you later?
Not today.
I’m swamped.
I have a meeting.
I’m giving the breakfast ice cream voice because my mom didn’t teach me a lesson exclusively for Alzheimer’s caregiviers. The lesson is universal.
Be kind at encounters.
Be grateful for gifts.
Be thoughtful in response.
Mostly, make space on your calendar and in your head for your people.
Make space.
Sit down with the child and make the marble maze together. Fix some coffee and put your good-listening ears on for your friend. Show up with lunch to visit with your aunt. Take a day off to help your dad or your daughter.
Eat the ice cream your mom brings for breakfast.
It will be great!
©Copyright Pennie Nichols 2018. All Rights Reserved.
Celebrate the Lessons
How would you celebrate a milestone birthday?
My dad will celebrate a milestone birthday this week.
“Celebrate” applied loosely here.
- he’s not nuts about birthdays
- his idea of a fun vacation might be going to his niece’s house to help her with post-hurricane repairs (a recent discussion), which means his idea of “celebrate” is a little skewed.
I knew I couldn’t pull off a second surprise 80th birthday party in a single year, so our idea of celebrating his 80th was a family gathering at my cousin’s new home in Charleston, close to the coast. A few days of fishing, beaches, kayaks, and paddle boards, evenings on her porch sharing the catch of the day and the joy and melancholy of new and old stories.
Hurricanes and celebrations
Florence stirred up the fishing and kayaking waters but didn’t damage my cousin’s house (see previous note about his idea of fun vacations). So we postponed the trip. How to celebrate now?
It’s no big deal. Really, just the thought that counts.
But darn it. I want to do something special!
My Chicago daughter reroutes her flight from South Carolina to Louisiana. All three children under a single roof along with my folks: that’s special.
The celebration isn’t an inshore fishing excursion on the east coast, but we nom and yum over steelhead trout and baked vegetables, laugh and sing over the flattened white-chocolate strawberry cake, and celebrate one of the most intimate, joyful family gatherings in years.
As delicious and heartwarming as our meal is, that isn’t the only highlight of the day, maybe not even the brightest for dad.
As my Baton Rouge daughter and I arrive earlier that day, Wayne, mom and dad’s farmhand, is coming up the hill on the tractor. He flags us down.
You don’t have any water!!
Water, Wells, and Lessons
For my house on the farm just down the hill from mom and dad, no water also means no AC. A water crisis wasn’t how I had hoped to celebrate dad’s birthday.
A water crisis with any other folks might indeed be a crisis, but today, there is zero panic and 100% can-do.
I’m not sure what dad had planned to do that day before his birthday meal but he never moans or groans about this disruption. On the contrary, I think he enjoys the opportunity to share and teach us a few rural-life lessons.
- The water comes from the well.
- The well feeds from the aquafer below the property.
- The well is about 150 feet deep.
150 feet!! Wow!
Yeah. That line goes all the way down.
Wow!
- When the pump dies, we pull 150-feet of hose and electrical wire up through the well to repair or replace it.
And that’s the pump?
Yes.
And this . . .
That’s the holding tank.
We don’t have a water tower. We have a blue tank in the gazebo, camouflaged under a “table.” But not today.
But where’s the well.
Down that hole.
That was a lot of digging! How did you do it?
Wayne, getting good giggles from our city questions, chimes in with dad to explain derricks, augers, aquafers, and sand as we snap photos with our phones. We have so much to learn.
Pipe clamps secure the heavy pump on the end of the hose.
Can’t let the pump slip off the hose and into the well. Then you’d have to call the well guy to fish it out, and that’s the last thing you’d want to do.
Black tape to secure the wires snugly around the pump and pipes.
So they don’t snag on the way down or on the way back up next time.
Next time? Next time we celebrate another birthday or have a family gathering?
Everything wears out eventually.
But today, we fix it.
“We” applied loosely here.
- Most of the “we” watch dad and Wayne work in synchrony to fix it.
- Most of the “we” would have panicked, would need to call the well guy, but would need to make a lot of phone calls and google searches to even know that there is a well guy.
All of the “we” gather in the rain (did I mention the series of small thunderstorms?), the less informed of us helping in tiny ways, learning lots, and warming dad’s heart as we give him audience.
He’s 80 today. We have so much to learn from him still. I’m glad we gathered, I’m glad we listened, I’m glad we celebrate another year with him.
Happy Birthday, Papa Nick!! Thanks for letting us celebrate with you! Thanks for the lessons.
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018.
Open Letter to a Lost Friend: Happy Birthday
I’m writing this at the end of what would have been your 62nd birthday.
You would have passed a good time today.
You probably would have gravitated to the music. Found that band that was playing at that place. “Won’t you join us?” Then dance and smile, never letting on it was your birthday.
Your sweetheart sprinkled a little of you on the stones of peace tonight.
I couldn’t be there, but I was.
Walking up the hill from the water hollow to celebrate dad’s birthday a couple days early, I stopped cold. I felt you in the September sky.
“Happy birthday!”
You were on the farm with us some five or six years ago for the September birthdays. Seafood, cake, and toy helicopters to fly towards the sky.
You were about half way through your battle that year.
We miss you, Skip. You were one of the easiest humans to be around.
We remember you. Yet, more than memories of what was, I’m amazed at the love and care you’ve left in your wake, lifting the loves of your life even today.
Thanks for showing us how to pluck the strawberry as we fall, for dancing even on dark days, and for squeezing the sweet out of the most bitter fruit.
Thanks for lingering in our hearts and reminding us of music, smiles, and fun. Oh! And costumes. You still burn bright in our lives.
Happy birthday.
PS: I let my daughter wax my hair blue tonight. Thought of your blue beard.
© Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018
I won’t miss you
I won’t miss you.
I don’t and I won’t.
My I won’t miss you secret
For years I struggled with this little secret, and concluded I was a little broken because I could never honestly say I miss you! to a friend or family member or partner when I was away. I just didn’t.
Did you really miss me?
I’m probably splitting hairs (I tend to do that), but overused, abused, misaligned words annoy me. I have similar misgivings about that four-letter word love.
I miss you! Little white lie. I wish you were here might be more accurate, but maybe not even.
I miss you! Or do I just need you here to help me with something? I can’t reach that shelf! or My computer won’t reboot!
Even if I die?
But what if I die?, you ask.
Really? It’s actually different, isn’t it? I didn’t go away, you did, and I’ll grieve. I’ll wish you were here when I do those things I once did with you. I’ll wish you were here to laugh about this or fuss about that. Maybe technically I’ll miss you, but it’s different.
I’m splitting a different hair. I’ve never gone away or been left behind and felt all sorts of something summed up in a sorrowful I miss you! I don’t. Never did.
I’m not writing this to judge those who do feel that “miss” that I’m missing. I’m writing to affirm that I’m not broken. I’m present.
Change and flow
My life events are in flux at the moment. Mom is battling Alzheimer’s and I try to be available, my partner has been in Puerto Rico for a month and I’m transitioning there. Our home, our pets, my children, my parents, my partner are all caught up in revolution, upheaval, shakeout. Mostly, uncertainty.
A friend asked me, How are you feeling about all the changes, this move . . .?
I’m not from the meh generation, but I literally said, Meh. Not in the meh, I’m so bored I don’t care way, but meh, I’m fine. I’m happy wherever I am.
My friend’s question reminded me: I don’t miss anyone.
Confession
During my first visit to Puerto Rico, I found myself revealing my little secret to my partner, the one who just a few days earlier told me on the phone how much he missed me.
I don’t miss our dogs or the birds. I don’t even miss my children! What’s wrong with me?
You’re not broken. This is about independence and dependence. You don’t have an unhealthy dependence on other people. By the way, I didn’t say “I miss you” because . . .
I wasn’t judging you! I get it that people miss their people. I just don’t.
I was going to say that I missed you because I wanted to share this new experience with you.
I know, and I’m here now.
I’m here now.
Maybe that’s the gear that grinds in my heart when I’m away from my friends and family. I’m here now.
I don’t miss you but I look forward to seeing you.
That’s better, isn’t it? And we can both take comfort in this: I may never miss you, but I’ll always be present when we’re together.
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018
Alzheimer’s River
Last Sunday, a friend asked me if I was going blog about that morning’s service. The service, billed as “the service with too many river metaphors,” was rich with takeaway possibilities, so why not? I’m sure I can find an Alzheimer’s River in there somewhere.
Two thoughts from the sermon pushed themselves up for me, demanding attention like islands in the middle of a river. Both were spatial: beginning versus end and opposing banks.
Beginning versus end (north versus south)
At the beginning of a river (north for us), the water is fresh, mostly unpolluted. Standing in it, swimming in it, immersing yourself in its currents might be delightful. You would feel the strength of its current even though the river is still simple, young, and unmuddied.
During the southward journey, the river swells with complexities at each bend and through each community along its path, taking on more life, more volume, more pollution, and more mud.
Opposing banks (east versus west)
The waters on one side of a river can be very different from the waters on the opposing side. One side might be turbulent and fast-flowing, the other calm and easy. Your experience in a river depends greatly on where you are in it, not only the clean, calm north versus the muddied, fierce south, but also the turbulent east bank of the river (in our example) versus the calm west.
The sermon was written around social justice analogies and anecdotes, and they were perfectly delivered. I took in all of it, but that wasn’t what I took away.
Alzheimer’s River
I chewed on these two ideas a bit this week: the experience at the beginning versus the end of the river, and how you position yourself along the banks of the river as your journey down it.
Lately, most of my takeaways and metaphoric exploration relate to my mom’s journey, or at least the part of her journey that she shares with me. This sermon was no different.
I can’t take mom back to Minnesota, back to the beginning. We’re deep in the south, entering the mouth of the delta now, where we’re slowly splaying, losing bits and pieces in the dead zone as we work our way to the ocean.
I can’t stop the flow of the river, but I can help her find the less turbulent bank of it.
Last week, mom started cooking and left her pots on the stove unattended three times. At least three because we know of three burned or scorched food incidences. Mom is an energetic, multi-tasker. Even when she was in her thirties, she would get distracted and walk away from a pot on the burner. I reminded dad of the time when I was in high school, and the burned cabinets around the stove had to be repaired. It’s not all about the Alzheimer’s, but the Alzheimer’s makes the situation muddier, mightier, and not in a good way.
Calm waters
I can’t take mom to the beginning of the river, but I can help her drift towards the calmer bank. She loves to cook and we love her cooking. I believe working through tasks, like cooking a meal, helps her do vital brainwork and stay engaged in the present. I want her to keep doing as many things as she comfortably can. Although I can’t be here every day to help her cook, I can help her cook while I’m here. We can cook double and triple meals so that she can label and freeze them for later. When she wants to pull a meal together, she’ll pull out the labeled freezer packs and will feel good about serving food she cooked.
It’s not perfect, and she may pull together mismatched bags, but who cares? Mom and dad can float calmly on the west bank, enjoy a meal she prepared, and chew a little longer on the gifts that she has always given our family.
Into the ocean
I’m not ready for the ocean.
Not much was said about the very last part of the river’s journey, after it passes its most profound point in New Orleans and splays into the delta, spilling all its complex richness and all of its mighty might into the slow, vast, heaving of the ocean. I can’t control the speed of the journey of the Alzheimer’s River towards that ocean, but maybe I can help mom get a purchase in the overgrowth of the banks, pull into the calm waters, slow the journey a bit, share more memories, make more memories, and find more of the joy that this river allows.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018.
Just Sit With Me
Sunday morning service. Can you sit with me?
What was I scared of?
Last Sunday, the service kicked off with a reading of Dr. Seuss’s What was I scared of? (Spooky pale green pants with nobody inside ’em.) The service continued with readings from Jesus Christ Superstar songs that sometimes drifted into melody and verses from Jesus’s last days. Children’s stories, humor, songs, and big-little messages. A great service. I paused to tell the guest minister that I enjoyed it on my way out.
The service was good, but I didn’t take personally.
Yet the last words (Just sit with me) sat with me. Even as the Sunday hours ticked off, I could feel the weight of those words. Just sit with me. As I worked my way through the days of the week, my head worked backwards through the service, deconstructing the parts (love, compassion, powerlessness, fear). By Friday, the service was mine. That guest minister was speaking to me.
Keep watch with me.
That’s all he asked. He didn’t require that they fix anything. They needn’t rescue him from the dark journey. Just sit with me. But they didn’t. They fell asleep.
I get it. Even if they had wanted to do something, what could they possibly do? I get shutting down in the face of fear and powerlessness. But he didn’t ask them to do anything. All he requested was, “Keep watch with me.”
I’ll sit with you.
I feel helpless in the face of the Alzheimer’s bull that bullies my mom. How can I fix this? I can’t, nor can I change the course of her journey. I can, however, sit with her.
She’s afraid. I’m afraid.
What was I scared of? examines fear on many different levels. Fear of other, fear of difference, fear of change. We’re all afraid.
There is very little I can do, and I know I can’t protect her from that bull, but I can sit with her. That’s something. And perhaps in this situation, it’s everything.
©Copyright 2018 Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved
Alzheimer’s Bull
Is it OK to ask? Is it Alzheimer’s?
How’s she doing?, you ask.
The answer depends on how you’re asking the question?
Are you asking about how her days are going?
Mostly OK. Although the answer sometimes sounds like a question: Mostly OK?
Maybe you want to know how she’s feeling?
She mostly feels good. You can hear the white-noise rumble of worry. But she’s happy. Now and then (not every day yet) she has a clap of confusion, fear even. But she mostly feels fine.
Or maybe you aren’t asking how she’s feeling. You mean: How’s her body holding up?
Great! She’s slowing down a bit but she can still run circles around me.
You know that, though, don’t you? She’s always been fit as a fiddle. You aren’t asking about that at all, are you? Maybe you feel a little confusion about what (and how) you’re asking, teetering along the edge of morbidly curious.
You ask, How’s she doing?, but you’re curious about where she is on the Alzheimer’s spectrum.
Is she still driving?
Does she still bake ginger snaps?
Will she know who I am?
You’re confused about what and how to ask, but yes, yes, and yes. Like I said, she’s mostly ok.
She misplaces more things than she used to. Sometimes she repeats her questions. The forgetfulness surfaces most when she’s anxious. Before a gathering at home or an event she needs to attend. Any disruption to her routine, really.
She’s pacing and repeating questions today because I took dad to the ER at 3 a.m. this morning. She’ll probably misplace something before I get home.
Placebo
And how are YOU doing? you might add.
I’m mostly OK.
But I’m not sure how you’re asking that question either.
Perhaps it’s: How are you feeling?
Helpless, to be honest.
Or maybe you mean: How are you helping?
Honestly, I don’t know how to help. I just show up for a while each month.
I’m a placebo. I don’t really do anything. I’m a beneficial effect even though I can’t attribute those benefits to anything I do. I help because mom believes I help. Like a patient who feels the effect of the placebo.
Alzheimer’s bull
Her Alzheimer’s doctor says we’re lucky. Unlike many of his patients, mom is not in denial. She’s facing this with her headlights on, staring deep into the bull’s eyes, fingers clenched around his horns. Aware. She’s a slight thing; the bull is not. She knows her chances, but she’ll make him work for every lucid drop he tramples.
We’re lucky because mom is engaged in her treatment. Mostly lucky. Sometimes the awareness makes her anxious. Anxious because she’s sure she’s about to forget something if she didn’t already forget something.
How’s she doing?
Sometimes, she’s anxious.
Anxiety is a trigger for misplaced purses, repeated questions, and stunted errands (What was I looking for?).
Anxious twirl
The cycle is vicious.
I’m holding Alzheimer’s by the horns. I don’t want to forget anything. Did I forget something? I feel anxious. I can’t find my purse. Did I forget something? Sometimes I forget but I’m gripping Alzheimer’s by the horns. I don’t want to forget. Did I forget something? . . .
Anxiety is like the picador’s lance in the bull’s back. These picas may provide clues about which side the bull is favoring, but they don’t make the bull weaker. Just more anxious.
A good night’s sleep helps. A steady diet of brain puzzles and predictable tasks deflates the bubble of anxiety. Sometimes I can help. Sometimes more than just by placebo.
Party
Mom turned 80 this month. If you turn 80, you deserve a big party. It’s significant.
Mom deserved a party. But she also didn’t. Expecting a big party would spiral, the bull making hooved donuts, mom holding his horns with all her slight might, spinning through the air dizzily, helpless.
How are you doing? you might ask her.
Who are you? she might reply.
She didn’t deserve the anxiety of expecting a party. So we pretended there wouldn’t be one, until thirty minutes before the open-house (not technically a party) started.
Who’s coming? she asked.
Everyone. I said.
And they did. And the bull didn’t have time to swing her through the air and drop her dizzy in the middle of fifty plus family and friends. She only had time for wonder.
How did you do that?
An Alzheimer’s silver lining? She’s never been an easy person to surprise, but that day we did. The bull was napping as she navigated gracefully through the waves of family and friends who came to greet her on her significant day.
You should have been there.
Changes
Being here on a regular basis, the changes aren’t as shocking.
The change is not sudden, like the one you might feel if you’ve been away for six months or more. And it is sudden. The change isn’t gradual. Yet it is. It’s bull.
The bull takes long naps in the pasture. But events are inevitable and can’t always be a surprise. Events wake the bull. Sometimes suddenly, with a snort. Or it can be gradual, lazy stretches, then a slow spin. Sometimes only slow, but if he feels the pica, he’ll jerk anxiously into a faster spin. I dread the day when there is no spin and he just charges full force. Even a good night’s sleep and a full bottle of placebo won’t help then, but for now, we’re still napping and going for an occasional spin. The changes are sudden and gradual, but not as big as the bull yet.
Corn
Last week we harvested and put up corn. Putting up creamed corn involves several steps as well as some specific timing and methodology. That’s enough to make the bull pound his front-left hoof hard into the dirt, especially since mom’s picky about her creamed corn. This time, we also had the utility-room sink situation.
We need lots of ice.
I already bought the ice. It’s in the freezer.
Where are we going to put it all? I need my sink. You should have fixed the sink.
The bull is beginning to spin her.
I’ll get some big tubs or coolers.
They have to be big. You need to get ice.
The ice is in the freezer.
This is going to be hard. How are we going to do this without the sink?
Once she begins to brush the silk from the ears, the bull calms down. There’s an occasional snort (Those tubs won’t be big enough. What we needed was the sink.), but mostly the bull naps through the blanching, creaming, and bagging, waking occasionally to repeat three or four questions. It’s the planning that sends the bull into a twirl. Busy hands . . . something (I forget) mind. Busy hands are good.
Cutters
At the end of the first corn operation, we cleaned up.
Go on. I got this.
The bull seemed to have been lulled into a deep slumber by the predictable rhythms of blanching, cutting, creaming, and bagging. We would all sleep well that night and start the next day fresh.
It started much the same.
We need lots of ice.
I already bought the ice. It’s in the freezer.
This is going to be hard. How are we going to do this without the sink?
Then the calming rhythm settled over us as we picked, shucked, and de-silked. Inside, we set the blanching pots to boil.
Where are the cutters?
I don’t know. Where did you put them yesterday?
I don’t know.
Twirling bull
That bull wasn’t as deep in slumber as I had thought. We can’t find the cutters. It’s hard, after all, to keep things from flying out of control and out of sight when you’re gripping the horns for dear life. Dad dashed to the Tractor Supply to buy their last corn cutter. We would need at least one to replace the one we had borrowed.
While we searched high and low (literally), mom had turned my blanching pots off.
They’re not boiling yet, she pointed out.
No, you turned them off.
I can’t do anything right today.
My heart splattered on the floor. How do I step this one back?
The pots boiled soon enough. I blanched, and she cut. She decided to use her favorite knife instead of the new cutter.
You didn’t find the other ones yet?, you ask.
Nope. I even looked through the garbage and in the freezer.
Caretakers
Dad only picked half as many ears on that second day, probably a good thing. We were all tired, and dad wasn’t feeling right. That’s the other question you might ask.
How’s he doing?
Honestly, a little less than OK. This is hard on him.
We neglect the well-being of the caretakers. My grandfather (mom’s dad) took care of my grandmother as the bull twirled her in vicious circles. I saw the weariness climb like choking vines up his limbs, around his trunk, as he cared for my grandmother.
How’s she doing? everyone would ask.
I don’t think very many asked him, How are YOU doing?
Go on, I got this, mom said at the end of the second corn operation.
My heart was still on the floor. Why did I stick that extra pica in the bull’s back?
I’m going to finish some work, mom. Then I’ll shower and take you to Dirt Cheap.
Something to throw off the bull and let dad rest a bit.
Salvage stores and recovery
Mom loves salvage stores and she brightened when I suggested it.
I hate to shop, but a salvage store isn’t like shopping. It’s more like an adventure, and it’s perfect for anyone who’s been spun for two days by an anxious bull. You don’t have to remember the shopping list. You don’t need a shopping list at all because you can’t know what you’ll find there.
The inside is much like any scrambled mind.
- Diapers stacked next to bags of pinto beans, next to bottles of Armor All. On purpose.
- Plastic spatulas, hair clips, rat traps, and shoe laces intentionally hung on the same rack.
- Furniture in-between racks of dresses and purses.
It’s not necessary to remember where things are because they’re not where you would remember.
We laughed and oooh, look!ed for a couple of hours, hours well spent away from corn cutters, far away from my computer. The bull was sound asleep.
We came home with beeswax foot products, chocolates, paintbrushes, boots, and more. We also brought dinner to dad.
How’s he doing?
He’s mostly OK, but he needs some attention.
What can I do?
They’re watching dad today because the electrical system in his ticker is off a bit. Atrial or one of those flutters. Mom has been pacing since 3am. After spending time with dad at the hospital, I bring her lunch.
You’re a blessing, she says.
No I’m not, I think. I’m a placebo.
I’ll stay here until they release dad tomorrow. He’s doing OK but it’s better to be here.
I’ll linger until he’s home with mom. I don’t want her to spend the night alone.
I’ll sit here, doing nothing really, until the bull dozes off again.
How are you doing?, you ask, maybe a little unsure, a little confused about what and how to ask.
It’s OK. You can ask.
I’m OK. I’m just trying to be here for mom. For dad too. Trying to pay attention.
I’m just a placebo, but even placebos can calm an anxious bull.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved, 2018
A mother’s heart
My heart catches a little, sometimes a lot, when I see their faces. In person, in jpgs from my pictures folders, on Facebook or Instagram. My heart catches because they’re so cute. My heart catches because I am their mother. What is it about a mother’s heart?
How did I get a mother’s heart?
How did they happen? I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want it.
These three know by now that I take everything they tell me about their future with a big chunk of salt because this was my line:
I’m going to travel and write. I won’t settle. Not down, not in one place, not for one person. I’m a free spirit. Oh . . . and I’ll never be a teacher.
My life would have been full without them, without my students, without any of the things I didn’t plan for. But my life is full in ways I couldn’t have imagined with my children.
To be clear: My path is not more brilliant than those whose experiences are foreign to APGAR, possible CPD, Pitocin, or a lake of Amniotic Fluid at the nursery window of the labor and delivery unit. You don’t have to be a mom to feel your heart catch for your blessings. You don’t have to be a mom to live a blessed and full life. While we hold up our children for all the good reasons, the paths of the childless-by-destiny or childless-by-choice are also filled with value and unexpected blessings that catch their hearts.
My path included APGAR, possible CPD, Pitocin, and a lake of Amniotic Fluid at the nursery window of the labor and delivery unit. These three humans are my surprise, my unexpected blessings, and I’m deeply grateful.
Mom on the morning of her 80th birthday reading messages from people in her life. She’s so much more than my mom.
My heart catches when I see their faces because, even as I crested a quarter of a century, I never wanted or imagined motherhood for myself. This could have been dreadful for all of us! But they are my blessing. I’m grateful for these humans who littered my path. For every lego that dug into my heel, every ribbon that caught my toes, every piece of goo that stuck to my shoe, every chunk of love that caught my heart, I’m grateful.
Happy Mother’s Day
This weekend, as we celebrate moms, I lift up my gratitude for these unexpected blessings in my life. I also lift up the others who gathered around me and have been mothers to my children. You are too many to name. Not all of you have children (you don’t have to be a mom to be a mom), but all of you have mothered and blessed my blessings.
I lift up my mom. I’m nothing without her. Growing up, she wasn’t like all the other moms. I didn’t always value the difference, especially in my youth. My mom, my coach, my mentor, my listener: she set the bar higher for depth, endurance, uniqueness, and patience of love. She gave me my grit, and I lift her high.
I am ever the lucky one who had the mom she didn’t always appreciate and the children she never expected. My heart catches.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018
Giving Up Happiness
Ministers on Happiness and Giving Up
I blame this twisted line of thoughts about happiness and giving up on the ministers at my church.
Last Sunday, Fat Sunday to many of us here, one of my ministers delivered a homily on happiness, the happiness parade, as he titled it. Then, on Fat Monday, the associate minister circulated a question on social media: “What are you giving up (or taking on) this Lent?”
Somehow, I pinched these two messages together and began to ask myself:
What if for these “giving up” occasions we give up something that seems elusive yet desirable, something we define as important and good?
What if I give up happiness for forty days?
What if I give up love?
During Lent, many give up naughty or indulgent habits.
- I’m giving up chocolate.
- I’m giving up alcohol.
- I’m giving up social media.
- I’m giving up cigarettes.
The fasting is not always about something consumed. Sometimes it’s giving up bad behaviors: gossip, complaining, worry. But I’m stuck here: what if I give up something good? Something more abstract?
Giving Up Good Things
And so I continue to mush the happiness homily and Lenten question together. Initially this line of thought seemed silly. But turning it over and trying to imagine what giving up happiness would look like, how I could achieve it, how it would make me feel, I realized that it would not be a trivial endeavor. This fashion of giving up would be damn hard.
I don’t think of myself as exuberantly happy or brimming over with love (my happiness and love are muddled with a big dose of grumpy), but as I imagined pushing something good away for forty day (Happiness? No, not having any of that! Not for forty days.), two words surfaced to the top of my muddled musings:
- failure
- awareness
The former puts me among the more fortunate. I would fail at pushing happiness away.
I consider the latter the more important of the two bubbles. The awareness gives turning this thought over a few times merit, because too often the good things, just like bad habits, linger quietly. Good things take their places behind the grumpy routines and the humdrum of our day. Like bad habits and habitual indulgences, good things can go unnoticed for long periods of time.
When I give up an indulgence or bad habit for Lent or any other occasion, what I give up becomes isolated, noticed, and inspected. I start noticing my complacent patterns. That glass of wine while I’m cooking? Never thought about it until I gave up wine on weekdays. That extra helping of dinner? I didn’t realize that I was never really hungry for it until I made a mental note to only have one helping.
Exercising the Mindfulness of Giving Up
I don’t advocate giving up good things like happiness and love. But I do think there is a giving up exercise that can enrich those good things. Perhaps it’s as simple as giving up our complacency about the good things.
Lent is not part of my religious tradition, but I’ll join the giving up energy of it this Lent. I’ll give up my complacency about happiness. I’ll be mindful of it as I stretch into each new day of Lent. I’ll look for it as it follows me, as quiet and as true as a shadow. I’ll pull it up to my chin as I fall into the night and curl up with a good book.
My minister’s query included a parenthetical phrase: “What are you giving up (or taking on) this Lent?” This exercise in giving up will roll easily into taking on.
Love? Why yes! I’ll have some more of that please.
It is Valentine’s Day, after all.
©Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018.
Make Time
Let me preface the main message about how I make time with a couple of notes:
- It’s easy to look “derelict” or collapsable in Louisiana because the mildew/mold embraces even the least embraceable of us.
- My house isn’t falling down. It’s solid.
A few days ago, a friend was giving me advice, and folded into it was a comment that might have insulted or angered some folks. I don’t remember the exact words, but they entered the advice something like:
. . . because your house is falling down anyway . . .
I think the reason I don’t remember her exact words is because I was not angry or insulted. Besides, I had experienced a similar comment from a stranger. “Derelict” was the word he had used. One good pressure wash sent that mold and mildew into space (or maybe to a neighbor’s house), and a friend (not the falling down friend, but a different tidy, appointed-house friend) exclaims “your house looks so great, so fresh.”
My house is solid.
I Make Time
Back to my friend who has this idea that my house is crumbling: it’s not true, but her perception is not without cause. It’s about time. My house and my projects need some attention, that is, they need my time.
A day or two before the falling down conversation, the same friend and I were talking about the bead run for our Mardi Gras Krewe.
“Let me know which days you have time to go and we’ll plan a run.”
“I don’t have time. I make time.”
I never imagined that, empty nest, I’d be battling time. But I do. Surprised? No. My dad stands, sword unsheathed, furiously battling the minutes of each day every time I visit. I don’t think we were born time warriors, but the work ethic, the (over)commitment, the creative yearnings, the desire to do, these traits and habits shape us, until one day, midlife, no young children to blame for time challenges, we find ourselves atop a mountain of obligations, endeavors, and relations, battling to make time for them all.
Lately, mostly due to work obligations, the most honest response to most requests begin with “I don’t have time.”
- I don’t have time to go.
- I don’t have time to visit.
- I don’t have time to attend the ball.
- I don’t have time to Mardi Gras.
- I don’t have time to write this blog.
I don’t like the don’ts, and they bring me to what I told my friend.
I don’t have time, but I make time.
This is how I do battle atop my mountain. I make time for people and tasks that matter most.
I don’t always make time to take a shower. But I’ll make time for a friend who drops by. I probably won’t make time to dust or mop unless I’m having a get together. But I make time to visit my parents every month. I may not make time to tidy my office. But I’ll steal those extra minutes I save to write a story, post a blog, or tinker with jpegs. I don’t make time to organize that spare bedroom. But I’ll always make time to help you lift a brick off your chest or to join you for a laugh or a jig.
If I do anything that isn’t work, I made time.
I admire people who keep well-appointed homes. I have friends who do. My mom does. I’m not like them.
They make time to appoint their rooms. Those moments in between work and friendship, when my friends might dust shelves and vacuum rugs, I’m writing or making something. Maybe you’ll come to my house and think “It’s falling down.” But I started a novel. Maybe you’ll notice that I didn’t finish moving the ponds, but I finished a screenplay. Maybe you’ll see the dust and birdseed on my end table, but I’m so happy that you’re wearing the earrings that I made. And did you see my garden?
Time and Choices
We all make choices about how we spend our time. Judge me if you will about what I don’t do in mine. I don’t judge you if you do, and I don’t judge you for choosing to chase the dust. I mainly hope I have time to finish Elle’s story so you can read about what happens to her when she lands in 2019 from 3014 after a time hiccup. Sweet Ophera also needs my attention. She’s anxious to reconcile with the grandmother she ditched on a restaurant patio.
I have a couple dozen personal projects that wait patiently mid-dream for me to make time. Dust collects on the furniture. It will always collect, and no matter how often I pull it away, it will always return. I’d rather make time to till my words, dig my stories, write my garden, fire enamel, and photoshop my friends, the ones who come visit me in my falling down dusty home and the ones who fall from my foggy head into that shimmering computer screen.
I’m not yet a celebrated novelist or screenwriter, but I take comfort in stories about folk such as JK Rowling, who explains how living in squalor is the answer, and other creative humans, who sequester themselves to concentrate on creative endeavors. They confirm for me that squalor and sequestering pave the path. I took my time getting here, and now I’ll make time to follow this path.
My friend’s falling down comment didn’t upset me. But it gave me pause to ponder my choices. Falling down is my validation. This is my path. and, like my house, it’s solid.
© Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2018.
