Author's Note:
My book, Marshall’s Journey, The Power Of Understanding Alzheimer's, is available at these fine booksellers:
Click here: Marshall's Journey at Amazon
Click here: Marshall's Journey at Barnes & Noble
About Me
- Vailia Dennis
- Thank you for visiting and welcome. I am a terminally-ill, 90-year-old mother, grandmother, and published author. I created this page at the behest of my friends and acquaintances. The purpose of this page is to share with you the many thoughts that have occurred to me during their frequent visits to my home. I've entitled my thoughts, "Vailia's Reflections". They're listed in reverse chronological order. I hope you find them to be of value. My book concerning Alzheimer's disease, Marshall's Journey, has been my most rewarding achievement to date. It practically wrote itself and demanded to be heard. As my understanding of Alzheimer's grew, I knew that I had discovered skills that would help victims and caregivers through the painful devastation of the illness. I have also been proactive in negotiating the terms of my own death. My views have been the subject of several local television newscasts. In addition, I've been quoted in articles that appeared in recent editions of the Wall Street Journal and San Diego Magazine. Please enjoy your stay.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
41 - I Do What?
I Do What ??
I watch football. As a 90-year-old woman I know that sounds strange… Actually I’m an avid fan of our San Diego football team. But many years ago even that team came second to the Minnesota Vikings. But that’s a long story.
It was my early years of working for 3M Company and I was familiar with traveling to St Paul, Minnesota between Christmas and New Years. The company set us up in a nice hotel and we spent much of our daylight hours in meetings. That is where we learned about new products, were taught better sales techniques, and were encouraged to do our very best. We were also given free time on the weekend, and I knew exactly what I was going to do with mine. I was going to see the San Diego Charges play the Minneapolis Vikings with the two tickets my brother had bought for me as a surprise.
I couldn’t find anyone to use the extra ticket and go to the game with me, but I was determined to go even if the weather was something like 9 degrees. I would not miss this chance to see Fran Tarkington play. So I called a cab and asked the driver if there was anyplace nearby where a bus might arrive to take Viking fans to the Minneapolis stadium.
“Just up the street is the Red Barn.” he replied “It’s a restaurant and bar. There probably are people waiting there already.” It took him just a few minutes to get me there. I climbed out of the cab, paid him and thanked him for his help.
“Lady,” he said “you be careful. Them shoes you’re wearing ain’t too good on the ice.” I thanked him for his concern, entered the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary. It just seemed appropriate and I could take small sips. “You new around here? “the bartender asked. “Very new” I answered “I’m from San Diego.” “Well I guess you’re here to root for your team,” he said. “Oh! No,” I replied “I’m here to root for the Vikings.”
“Hey, you guys,” he yelled into the restaurant where many Viking fans were sipping coffee and waiting for the bus. “We’ve got a newcomer here. She lives in San Diego and has come here because her favorite team is our Vikings. Come in and meet her.” It was really fun waiting for the bus. They all understood that my support was built mainly on their quarterback, Fran Tarkington. They all seemed to feel about the same. He was everyone’s hero.
The bus was a hubbub of sound with differences of opinions and fans knowing what they would do if they were the coach. All noisy fun and I loved it. The excitement, warm-heartedness and acceptance of me was so very special.
When we arrived at the stadium, many fans had left the bus before I started to climb down. At the foot of the stairs two men were waiting for me. To my surprise each took an elbow, lifted me off the ground and carried me that way into the stadium. Then they explained, “Honey, there’s no way you could have walked over that ice with those shoes on.” They grinned, and I smiled and thanked them and left to find my seat.
The end-zone seats were like bleachers and my seat was three rows up. All around me were people that knew me and, though I was freezing, I felt so exhilarated. I could hardly wait for the first kickoff. It came and the game began and I screamed and yelled with the best of them. Maybe that’s why I didn’t freeze.
I did welcome half time when I could go into the stadium for a little warmth and a cigarette. When I returned my new friends were returning also. The first young couple handed me a pair of gloves to protect my hands. A young man and his girl arrived after that with a knit hat for my freezing head. It was not just what they were giving me. It was a gesture of such wonderful kindness that my eyes filled with tears.
Before long everyone had returned to their seats. The fellow who sat in front of me turned to tell me to look up. “Turn around and look up,” he said. I did and about four rows up a man was passing down a sleeping bag. “Climb in,” he yelled “and zip it up. It’ll keep you warm” and I did and it did.
When we arrived back at the Red Barn my friends would not hear of me calling a cab. They insisted that I share pizza with them and talk about the game. Later a couple drove me back to the hotel. After thanking them sincerely, I returned to my room, closed the door and with my back leaning against it, realized that I could not have dreamt of a day so completely wonderful.
Of course the Vikings won. Fran scrambled as only he could and I lived the wonder of the day. It’s a day I have never forgotten. It remains in my heart as a memory of kindness, caring and an incredible football game.
I watch football. As a 90-year-old woman I know that sounds strange… Actually I’m an avid fan of our San Diego football team. But many years ago even that team came second to the Minnesota Vikings. But that’s a long story.
It was my early years of working for 3M Company and I was familiar with traveling to St Paul, Minnesota between Christmas and New Years. The company set us up in a nice hotel and we spent much of our daylight hours in meetings. That is where we learned about new products, were taught better sales techniques, and were encouraged to do our very best. We were also given free time on the weekend, and I knew exactly what I was going to do with mine. I was going to see the San Diego Charges play the Minneapolis Vikings with the two tickets my brother had bought for me as a surprise.
I couldn’t find anyone to use the extra ticket and go to the game with me, but I was determined to go even if the weather was something like 9 degrees. I would not miss this chance to see Fran Tarkington play. So I called a cab and asked the driver if there was anyplace nearby where a bus might arrive to take Viking fans to the Minneapolis stadium.
“Just up the street is the Red Barn.” he replied “It’s a restaurant and bar. There probably are people waiting there already.” It took him just a few minutes to get me there. I climbed out of the cab, paid him and thanked him for his help.
“Lady,” he said “you be careful. Them shoes you’re wearing ain’t too good on the ice.” I thanked him for his concern, entered the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary. It just seemed appropriate and I could take small sips. “You new around here? “the bartender asked. “Very new” I answered “I’m from San Diego.” “Well I guess you’re here to root for your team,” he said. “Oh! No,” I replied “I’m here to root for the Vikings.”
“Hey, you guys,” he yelled into the restaurant where many Viking fans were sipping coffee and waiting for the bus. “We’ve got a newcomer here. She lives in San Diego and has come here because her favorite team is our Vikings. Come in and meet her.” It was really fun waiting for the bus. They all understood that my support was built mainly on their quarterback, Fran Tarkington. They all seemed to feel about the same. He was everyone’s hero.
The bus was a hubbub of sound with differences of opinions and fans knowing what they would do if they were the coach. All noisy fun and I loved it. The excitement, warm-heartedness and acceptance of me was so very special.
When we arrived at the stadium, many fans had left the bus before I started to climb down. At the foot of the stairs two men were waiting for me. To my surprise each took an elbow, lifted me off the ground and carried me that way into the stadium. Then they explained, “Honey, there’s no way you could have walked over that ice with those shoes on.” They grinned, and I smiled and thanked them and left to find my seat.
The end-zone seats were like bleachers and my seat was three rows up. All around me were people that knew me and, though I was freezing, I felt so exhilarated. I could hardly wait for the first kickoff. It came and the game began and I screamed and yelled with the best of them. Maybe that’s why I didn’t freeze.
I did welcome half time when I could go into the stadium for a little warmth and a cigarette. When I returned my new friends were returning also. The first young couple handed me a pair of gloves to protect my hands. A young man and his girl arrived after that with a knit hat for my freezing head. It was not just what they were giving me. It was a gesture of such wonderful kindness that my eyes filled with tears.
Before long everyone had returned to their seats. The fellow who sat in front of me turned to tell me to look up. “Turn around and look up,” he said. I did and about four rows up a man was passing down a sleeping bag. “Climb in,” he yelled “and zip it up. It’ll keep you warm” and I did and it did.
When we arrived back at the Red Barn my friends would not hear of me calling a cab. They insisted that I share pizza with them and talk about the game. Later a couple drove me back to the hotel. After thanking them sincerely, I returned to my room, closed the door and with my back leaning against it, realized that I could not have dreamt of a day so completely wonderful.
Of course the Vikings won. Fran scrambled as only he could and I lived the wonder of the day. It’s a day I have never forgotten. It remains in my heart as a memory of kindness, caring and an incredible football game.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
40 - My Depression
My Depression
Webster’s Dictionary: Low Spirits…Gloominess…Dejection
Have I known depression? You bet I have . . . long ago during my children’s adolescent years when I found myself to be a maternal stranger in a strange land. To explain, my children grew up within the protection of a large and loving family. The family consisted of a grandmother, a great-grandmother, a grandfather, an uncle and the three of us, my daughter, my son and me. We all lived together in what I believed to be harmony. At least we all lived together in a household of high moral values, of respect for elders, policemen, teachers and their religion.
It was when both children entered Junior High School that I felt the time had arrived for me to go to work, find an apartment for us and continue our lives as a single family. Bruce was fourteen and Robin twelve when we made that move. I went to work in the Graphics Arts department of Convair and as my income increased we moved to a nicer apartment in a lovely neighborhood.
That is where I learned about depression. Bruce was seventeen and Robin fifteen and their lives were embedded in the era of that time. The introduction of drugs, the non-importance of respect and the sexual revolution were all a part of it. I was set down in
the middle of the hippy era and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I fell into a deep depression, not understanding and doing all the wrong things, saying all the wrong things, demanding all the wrong things and making all the wrong mistakes. As my children demanded their own independence, I faded into the total darkness of depression. It took many years before I lived to be free of that disease and the mistakes I made. My mistakes created havoc between me and my children, who I loved much more than I expressed.
Now I am 90 years old and have lived many years free of depression, not even when my doctors told me that I had only six months to live. That was four years ago and I have lived and loved this life I now lead. I have been blessed by one special miracle after another. There are miracles that come into my home when people I love walk through my door. There is the miracle of the San Diego Hospice that has cared for me throughout all these years. There is the miracle of family and friendships that know no bound. And I believed that I had been the luckiest woman in the world until the last few weeks when I, once again, became deeply depressed.
What happened is that I became ill with something between a cold and the flu. It has been almost epidemic here in San Diego and I became one of the victims. For a short while the illness did not eafect me emotionally. It was not until after two new medications were prescribed for me that I became depressed. Obviously I was allergic to them, but I didn’t realize that at the beginning. I didn’t even recognize the depression that became a part of my emotional reactions. And again I said the wrong things, did the wrong things and made all the wrong mistakes.
I am now in an “I should have known better” stage. I do have idiosyncratic drug reactions and have always been afflicted with them. I know I must always check my reaction to new drugs. Failing to do that caused depression and I became too sure of what I thought and of myself. My agitation and feelings were way beyond my norm. I put myself in a “have to be right” position and I haven’t been like that for many years. What I was saying was silly and somewhat child-like. I began criticizing what is important in my life . . . that which I truly love and respect.
As soon as I realized what was going on, I stopped taking the drug even though it stopped the back-pain. Stopping the drug also made me understand that many of us might take a giant step backward, forgetting how wonderful, kind and gentle living can be. I often wonder if we are placed in difficult medical positions so that we may be able to relate to the same ailment in others. We then can be truly empathetic because we’ve been there, done that and can understand those who are suffering the darkness of depression.
The problem that exists is when severe depression is not recognized. That I’m having a few bad days is not clinical depression. Medical help is desperately needed for those who suffer with constant depression, Though I realize that the depressed sufferer must be willing to improve with medical and emotional help, there can also be a pair of welcoming arms and loving hearts that will be there to hold and love them when they are ready. That is the wonder of love. That is the salvation of the needy.
39 - Expectation
Expectation
Expectation may not be the root of all evil but is frequently very much involved. Many divorces, perhaps the majority, can be based on expectation. Lost friendships might also be included. Seldom is it realized that what you expect, and don’t receive, can cause havoc in any relationship. It also is possible that you might not realize that you are operating in the expectant mode.
You may come home from work and expect your children to be delighted with your arrival. They’re not. They only want your attention to tell you what happened to them
in school today. No “Hi! Glad you’re home Mom, when’s dinner?” More important where’s the hug or the kiss or maybe a great smile when they see you? That doesn’t seem too hard, does it? And you become annoyed with their lack of a warm welcome. Irritation might even set in and can be the beginning of hidden anger, but expectation is the original culprit.
After dinner they may expect you to listen to something that has been bothering them. The truth is that you have to get to your computer right away and send in your daily reports. You expect them to understand. They won’t, anymore than you will understand not getting the welcome home that you expected. That is the beginning of tension brought on by expectation. You each expect tolerance from one another and expect-
ations too often come first. Patience, understanding and concern must wait. That all sounds like exaggeration. It’s not. Similar situations occur daily in all stages of life.
There’s a great problem with expectation. It often invades the relationships that are most important to us. Your children, your spouse, your family and we could go on to friend-ships and business associates. Our opinion of how others should behave and how they should react must all be in accordance to what we expect of them. The wonder is that when expectation is removed, acceptance takes its place. Now life becomes easier with more understanding. You don’t expect your children to come running to kiss you when you arrive home. Instead when you open the door, you open your arms to hug them and joyfully accept the moment of being their Mom. They’ll soon understand that greeting Mom is wonderful.
I’ve spoken of parent and child but the same concept includes husband and wife, families and friends. When expectations are gone, understanding, accepting and caring takes its place. Life takes on a new peace and beauty.
There was an old adage that I’ve altered some. For me it says:
“The road to Hell Is Paved With Expectations.”
Expectation may not be the root of all evil but is frequently very much involved. Many divorces, perhaps the majority, can be based on expectation. Lost friendships might also be included. Seldom is it realized that what you expect, and don’t receive, can cause havoc in any relationship. It also is possible that you might not realize that you are operating in the expectant mode.
You may come home from work and expect your children to be delighted with your arrival. They’re not. They only want your attention to tell you what happened to them
in school today. No “Hi! Glad you’re home Mom, when’s dinner?” More important where’s the hug or the kiss or maybe a great smile when they see you? That doesn’t seem too hard, does it? And you become annoyed with their lack of a warm welcome. Irritation might even set in and can be the beginning of hidden anger, but expectation is the original culprit.
After dinner they may expect you to listen to something that has been bothering them. The truth is that you have to get to your computer right away and send in your daily reports. You expect them to understand. They won’t, anymore than you will understand not getting the welcome home that you expected. That is the beginning of tension brought on by expectation. You each expect tolerance from one another and expect-
ations too often come first. Patience, understanding and concern must wait. That all sounds like exaggeration. It’s not. Similar situations occur daily in all stages of life.
There’s a great problem with expectation. It often invades the relationships that are most important to us. Your children, your spouse, your family and we could go on to friend-ships and business associates. Our opinion of how others should behave and how they should react must all be in accordance to what we expect of them. The wonder is that when expectation is removed, acceptance takes its place. Now life becomes easier with more understanding. You don’t expect your children to come running to kiss you when you arrive home. Instead when you open the door, you open your arms to hug them and joyfully accept the moment of being their Mom. They’ll soon understand that greeting Mom is wonderful.
I’ve spoken of parent and child but the same concept includes husband and wife, families and friends. When expectations are gone, understanding, accepting and caring takes its place. Life takes on a new peace and beauty.
There was an old adage that I’ve altered some. For me it says:
“The road to Hell Is Paved With Expectations.”
Saturday, November 21, 2009
38 - Life With Nicky
Life with Nicky
Nicky is my Shetland Sheep dog and my constant companion, but we’ve got to get back to the beginning to really know him. Back to the time when my Alzheimer’s afflicted brother lived with us and I felt he needed a dog.
Marshall’s condition had declined to the point that he didn’t know who I was. He no longer recognized me but accepted me as That Lady. He didn’t read the morning newspaper or watch what was on television. These had occupied him during the day. Now he just sat in his recliner and waited as I watched him sink further and further into the darkness of Alzheimer’s. But he had not lost his love of dogs. So one morning I stood in front of him and with great determination said, ‘I’m going to get a dog for us.” He was startled for a moment and then said “If you get a dog I’ll have nothing to do with it. I’m not going to care about it. I won’t go through the pain of putting another dog to sleep.” Still standing in front of him, I replied “Marshall, you are 76 years old and I am 80. What makes you think we can outlive a Sheltie? I’m going to get our dog.”
We’re Sheltie lovers and I was about to find our fourth Sheltie. I called Sheltie Rescues. None had a dog that needed a home. The last one I spoke with told me about a friend who had a young Sheltie that she might sell. I phoned and discovered that she was a Sheltie breeder who would sell a 9-month-old Sheltie for $119.00. My heart skipped a beat. I could handle that. I drove out to meet her the next morning.
After explaining that she had kept him for best of show, but he failed to qualify, she introduced me to a beautiful, happy, perfect little dog. “Did you bring a kennel?” Stupid me, how could I not realize that I needed some way to take him home. “I’ll be back tomorrow with one” I said and left. Early the next morning I received a phone call. “I’m sorry” she said. “A family who saw Cody before, had first right and they bought him.” Tears came to my eyes; I really wanted that dog.
About two weeks later I received an unexpected call. “Are you still interested in Cody?” the kennel owner asked. “Oh, yes.” I replied. “Well,” she said “The people who bought him brought him back and said it was because he wasn’t housebroken. Who in the world would expect a dog from a kennel to be housebroken?” She didn’t explain that they had brought back the most frightened, traumatized dog I have ever see.
With a kennel in the back seat, my granddaughter and I drove to pick up my dog. She suddenly turned to me said “I don’t like the name they gave him.” “Neither do I” I said, “but I’ve got the right name for him. It’s Nicholas McTavish the Fourth.” I saw the amazement on her face, “Hold it!” I said “He’s from Royal Blood. Many of his ancestors have won Grand Prizes all over the world. Nicky could be listed in every dog-show. He deserves a dignified name.” She shook her head and said “Only my Granny” and so began my life with Nicky.
A few days later I phoned the kennel owner. “This is the most frightened dog I have ever seen. He stays hidden behind the recliner. If I can’t get him to come out within two months, I’ll have to return him.” In one month I fell in love. But a question arose in my mind. What was I to do to help this poor little dog? Then a great opportunity opened. I was able to place Nicky for dog training of assistant dogs. Those two years of training changed my once shy dog to the one that now thinks he rules this house. All is well. He’s my constant companion and my source of comfort. He’s also the smartest dog I’ve ever known. I qualified that the evening I opened the Internet and saw “The Ten Smartest Dogs in the World.” My Sheltie was number 6.
Marshall loved him as much as I did and Nicky was a great companion for him, but Nicky decided himself that he was my dog. At night Marshall would want to sleep with him in his room. Nicky stayed with him for a short time and then began scratching on the door. He would not be satisfied until I opened the door, let him out and watched him be contented as he jumped up on my bed. We still sleep that way every night.
Nicky often makes his own rules. I didn’t teach him not to wake me in the morning. He just waits until I open my eyes. When he’s on medication, I don’t have to call him. Much as he hates it, I have only to shake the pill bottle and wait. He will appear before me, place himself in a sit position, lift his head and silently say “I’m ready” He will always be on the bathmat waiting in front of the shower until I get out and I’m safe. There's more, but I didn’t teach him these things. They are his rules. The things I did teach Nicky only needed to be taught once. The puppy that entered our house started to wet on the floor. I picked him up, took him outside and said a very positive “No.” Just one No for Nicky has never had to be repeated.
He is a joy to take shopping, whether to the grocery or Nordstrom’s. Equally wonderful to take into a restaurant or a movie. How do I accomplish that? After his assist training he wears a coat much like the Seeing Eye companions wear, so he can go wherever I go and he has.
Before my illness Nicky accompanied me everywhere. Now, when the days may be difficult, he will always appear and lay by my side. He is aware when his Mom is not well and is ready to protect her. He also understands everything I say to him and that is truly amazing. It’s not only what I tell him to do but usually tell him what we will do like “let’s go to bed now” and he’s ahead of me waiting in the bedroom. Mom’s got to take a nap means he will spread out on the floor in front of the couch to remain until I get up. These are all his ideas. I know that dogs can understand about 300 words, but Nicky goes far beyond that. I’m pretty certain that Nicky is 70% dog and 30% human (with a slight possibility on the reverse),
Nicky has one problem, he barks too much. We’ve overcome that some, but he can be an annoyance to those who visit. They don’t quite understand, but it’s still a trade-off. This love-expressive, understanding companion has replaced the life I lived before my illness. I live alone but in my aloneness I am not alone. In my times of severe illness I have my protector close to my side waiting until I tell him, “It’s O.K. Nicky, Mom's better now.” Then he will leave to look out of the window. Nicky brings into my existence a completion that I would never have had without him. I guess it’s alright if he barks.
Nicky is my Shetland Sheep dog and my constant companion, but we’ve got to get back to the beginning to really know him. Back to the time when my Alzheimer’s afflicted brother lived with us and I felt he needed a dog.
Marshall’s condition had declined to the point that he didn’t know who I was. He no longer recognized me but accepted me as That Lady. He didn’t read the morning newspaper or watch what was on television. These had occupied him during the day. Now he just sat in his recliner and waited as I watched him sink further and further into the darkness of Alzheimer’s. But he had not lost his love of dogs. So one morning I stood in front of him and with great determination said, ‘I’m going to get a dog for us.” He was startled for a moment and then said “If you get a dog I’ll have nothing to do with it. I’m not going to care about it. I won’t go through the pain of putting another dog to sleep.” Still standing in front of him, I replied “Marshall, you are 76 years old and I am 80. What makes you think we can outlive a Sheltie? I’m going to get our dog.”
We’re Sheltie lovers and I was about to find our fourth Sheltie. I called Sheltie Rescues. None had a dog that needed a home. The last one I spoke with told me about a friend who had a young Sheltie that she might sell. I phoned and discovered that she was a Sheltie breeder who would sell a 9-month-old Sheltie for $119.00. My heart skipped a beat. I could handle that. I drove out to meet her the next morning.
After explaining that she had kept him for best of show, but he failed to qualify, she introduced me to a beautiful, happy, perfect little dog. “Did you bring a kennel?” Stupid me, how could I not realize that I needed some way to take him home. “I’ll be back tomorrow with one” I said and left. Early the next morning I received a phone call. “I’m sorry” she said. “A family who saw Cody before, had first right and they bought him.” Tears came to my eyes; I really wanted that dog.
About two weeks later I received an unexpected call. “Are you still interested in Cody?” the kennel owner asked. “Oh, yes.” I replied. “Well,” she said “The people who bought him brought him back and said it was because he wasn’t housebroken. Who in the world would expect a dog from a kennel to be housebroken?” She didn’t explain that they had brought back the most frightened, traumatized dog I have ever see.
With a kennel in the back seat, my granddaughter and I drove to pick up my dog. She suddenly turned to me said “I don’t like the name they gave him.” “Neither do I” I said, “but I’ve got the right name for him. It’s Nicholas McTavish the Fourth.” I saw the amazement on her face, “Hold it!” I said “He’s from Royal Blood. Many of his ancestors have won Grand Prizes all over the world. Nicky could be listed in every dog-show. He deserves a dignified name.” She shook her head and said “Only my Granny” and so began my life with Nicky.
A few days later I phoned the kennel owner. “This is the most frightened dog I have ever seen. He stays hidden behind the recliner. If I can’t get him to come out within two months, I’ll have to return him.” In one month I fell in love. But a question arose in my mind. What was I to do to help this poor little dog? Then a great opportunity opened. I was able to place Nicky for dog training of assistant dogs. Those two years of training changed my once shy dog to the one that now thinks he rules this house. All is well. He’s my constant companion and my source of comfort. He’s also the smartest dog I’ve ever known. I qualified that the evening I opened the Internet and saw “The Ten Smartest Dogs in the World.” My Sheltie was number 6.
Marshall loved him as much as I did and Nicky was a great companion for him, but Nicky decided himself that he was my dog. At night Marshall would want to sleep with him in his room. Nicky stayed with him for a short time and then began scratching on the door. He would not be satisfied until I opened the door, let him out and watched him be contented as he jumped up on my bed. We still sleep that way every night.
Nicky often makes his own rules. I didn’t teach him not to wake me in the morning. He just waits until I open my eyes. When he’s on medication, I don’t have to call him. Much as he hates it, I have only to shake the pill bottle and wait. He will appear before me, place himself in a sit position, lift his head and silently say “I’m ready” He will always be on the bathmat waiting in front of the shower until I get out and I’m safe. There's more, but I didn’t teach him these things. They are his rules. The things I did teach Nicky only needed to be taught once. The puppy that entered our house started to wet on the floor. I picked him up, took him outside and said a very positive “No.” Just one No for Nicky has never had to be repeated.
He is a joy to take shopping, whether to the grocery or Nordstrom’s. Equally wonderful to take into a restaurant or a movie. How do I accomplish that? After his assist training he wears a coat much like the Seeing Eye companions wear, so he can go wherever I go and he has.
Before my illness Nicky accompanied me everywhere. Now, when the days may be difficult, he will always appear and lay by my side. He is aware when his Mom is not well and is ready to protect her. He also understands everything I say to him and that is truly amazing. It’s not only what I tell him to do but usually tell him what we will do like “let’s go to bed now” and he’s ahead of me waiting in the bedroom. Mom’s got to take a nap means he will spread out on the floor in front of the couch to remain until I get up. These are all his ideas. I know that dogs can understand about 300 words, but Nicky goes far beyond that. I’m pretty certain that Nicky is 70% dog and 30% human (with a slight possibility on the reverse),
Nicky has one problem, he barks too much. We’ve overcome that some, but he can be an annoyance to those who visit. They don’t quite understand, but it’s still a trade-off. This love-expressive, understanding companion has replaced the life I lived before my illness. I live alone but in my aloneness I am not alone. In my times of severe illness I have my protector close to my side waiting until I tell him, “It’s O.K. Nicky, Mom's better now.” Then he will leave to look out of the window. Nicky brings into my existence a completion that I would never have had without him. I guess it’s alright if he barks.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
37 - The Priest and Bruce
The Priest and Bruce
This story goes back many years but it is worth repeating. It started when we lived in a small house only two doors from a Catholic church. In between was another very small home where many children lived. The eldest child was Virginia. She became the baby sitter for Robin and Bruce
and I was really concerned when I moved to live with my mother and father.
My family had rented a large home in Mission Hills (an elegant section of San Diego) and insisted that the children and I come and live with them. It proved to be a wonderful arrangement except for my loss of Virginia who was the only baby sitter I could trust. The family usually left on Saturday evening to drive to Tia Juana for the Jai Alai games. That was a fun night out but, until I was comfortable about leaving them, I needed to be home with the children. Then Virginia’s family finally approved of her staying overnight Saturday and I could drive her home on Sunday. I was free to go with the family. Robin and Bruce would be safe.
One Sunday I was climbing upstairs to see if the children were dressed. As I neared the bedroom I heard Bruce say, in a very loud voice, “Ginny, you’re wrong and I’m right. Only the Jews are right.” It was shortly after that my son got his first really hard swat on the bottom and stood teary-eyed before me as I explained, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You may not understand now but Virginia is right for her and you are right for you. And that is the way it is in this world.”
It was about two weeks later that Virginia wanted to go to the Vincent Saint Paul church just a few blocks from my home. She also asked if Bruce could go with her. “What a wonderful idea” I thought, “Bruce can now begin to experience other religions”. I dressed him in a little navy-blue suit, a bright white shirt and white shoes with navy-blue socks. He was such a beautiful child and looked so handsome that a very proud mother stood on the porch to watch them as they walked away. The rest is as told to me by Virginia.
They entered the church and walked down to the seating closest to the podium. Services began and a young priest approached the podium and was about to speak when Bruce suddenly stood up. He looked around and said in a very loud little-boy voice “Ginny, what kind of a place is this anyhow. There ain’t any Jews in here.” Virginia said that she pulled him down to his seat and swore if purgatory had opened she would have gladly fallen in.
Services resumed and after they ended the priest walked to the entrance to say farewell to the leaving parishioners. Virginia entered into the crowd and holding tight to Bruce’s hand bent down very low. That way she thought she might be hidden enough to leave without being seen. It worked for a short time until she heard the priest call “Virginia”. She said she was terrified as she approached him with Bruce in tow. As she neared she was trembling but he paid no attention to her. He simply reached down and pulled Bruce up in his arms. He held Bruce close and said, “Don’t you worry, young man, there’s a Jew here all the time.” It still clutches at my heart and brings tears to my eyes.
I don’t remember the name of that wonderful priest nor can I remember his family. I called them about two years later, after he had been killed in an automobile accident. I had to let them know the wonder of their son. I will continue to try to find his name but we’re talking about something that happened sixty-years ago. Something I will never forget.
(I’ve often wondered how Bruce knew that there weren’t any Jews there. It seems that kneeling on the floor, which is not done in the synagogue, may have caused the remark or perhaps making the sign of the cross. But he had no answers when asked…and neither do I. By-the-way our dear Virginia became a Nun.)
This story goes back many years but it is worth repeating. It started when we lived in a small house only two doors from a Catholic church. In between was another very small home where many children lived. The eldest child was Virginia. She became the baby sitter for Robin and Bruce
and I was really concerned when I moved to live with my mother and father.
My family had rented a large home in Mission Hills (an elegant section of San Diego) and insisted that the children and I come and live with them. It proved to be a wonderful arrangement except for my loss of Virginia who was the only baby sitter I could trust. The family usually left on Saturday evening to drive to Tia Juana for the Jai Alai games. That was a fun night out but, until I was comfortable about leaving them, I needed to be home with the children. Then Virginia’s family finally approved of her staying overnight Saturday and I could drive her home on Sunday. I was free to go with the family. Robin and Bruce would be safe.
One Sunday I was climbing upstairs to see if the children were dressed. As I neared the bedroom I heard Bruce say, in a very loud voice, “Ginny, you’re wrong and I’m right. Only the Jews are right.” It was shortly after that my son got his first really hard swat on the bottom and stood teary-eyed before me as I explained, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You may not understand now but Virginia is right for her and you are right for you. And that is the way it is in this world.”
It was about two weeks later that Virginia wanted to go to the Vincent Saint Paul church just a few blocks from my home. She also asked if Bruce could go with her. “What a wonderful idea” I thought, “Bruce can now begin to experience other religions”. I dressed him in a little navy-blue suit, a bright white shirt and white shoes with navy-blue socks. He was such a beautiful child and looked so handsome that a very proud mother stood on the porch to watch them as they walked away. The rest is as told to me by Virginia.
They entered the church and walked down to the seating closest to the podium. Services began and a young priest approached the podium and was about to speak when Bruce suddenly stood up. He looked around and said in a very loud little-boy voice “Ginny, what kind of a place is this anyhow. There ain’t any Jews in here.” Virginia said that she pulled him down to his seat and swore if purgatory had opened she would have gladly fallen in.
Services resumed and after they ended the priest walked to the entrance to say farewell to the leaving parishioners. Virginia entered into the crowd and holding tight to Bruce’s hand bent down very low. That way she thought she might be hidden enough to leave without being seen. It worked for a short time until she heard the priest call “Virginia”. She said she was terrified as she approached him with Bruce in tow. As she neared she was trembling but he paid no attention to her. He simply reached down and pulled Bruce up in his arms. He held Bruce close and said, “Don’t you worry, young man, there’s a Jew here all the time.” It still clutches at my heart and brings tears to my eyes.
I don’t remember the name of that wonderful priest nor can I remember his family. I called them about two years later, after he had been killed in an automobile accident. I had to let them know the wonder of their son. I will continue to try to find his name but we’re talking about something that happened sixty-years ago. Something I will never forget.
(I’ve often wondered how Bruce knew that there weren’t any Jews there. It seems that kneeling on the floor, which is not done in the synagogue, may have caused the remark or perhaps making the sign of the cross. But he had no answers when asked…and neither do I. By-the-way our dear Virginia became a Nun.)
36 - The Boy in the Attic
The Boy in the Attic
This story takes us very far back in time. So far back that very few of us can remember, but it’s been a part of our family since the early nineteen hundreds. That was during the period when my grandfather Hyman fled from Russia, came to the United States, settled in Canton, Ohio, opened a saloon and married my grandmother, Anna. It was also the time that he bought a home next to the saloon. It housed his wife and budding family that eventually housed two girls and four boys and an occasional man who was too drunk, when the saloon closed, to be left out on the street.
Hyman had it all figured our. He made the attic stairs sturdy enough to climb. Placed
a mattress with blankets on the floor and supplied everything that could be needed for an overnight stay. The drunken visitors did not please Anna and there were many times that Hyman tried to console her with “It’s just for one night, Anna. Just for one night.” That might have calmed her until he brought a visitor home who would spend three nights.
The visitor was a young man who was obviously addicted to alcohol. He also was soft, caring and very lost. He touched Hyman’s heart so much that when closing time arrived he just couldn’t let the boy wander the streets. He had to take him home knowing that Anna might be angry. How angry? He wasn’t certain until he found out early the third morning.
“You’ve got to stop bringing these people home” she said very loudly that morning “I don’t want anymore of this. The girls are growing up, we don’t need strangers around them and not bad boys like the boy you’ve brought home. I don’t want anymore bad boys in my house.”
Hyman understood her anger but not her remarks. He took her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Anna, that is not a bad boy. There’s no such thing as a bad boy.”
The young man had come down the stairs and was able to hear the last statements. He walked over to Hyman and explained that he would leave and he wanted Hyman to know that he was going home. Back to Omaha. Back to the Priesthood. Back to get help with his addiction so he would be able to live a productive life.
“Thank you, my friend” he said “for all you have done for me” and quietly left the house.
For a long time my grandfather didn’t hear from the young man. Several years passed before the sunny day when he was sitting on the porch and heard the phone ring. Anna called out saying he was wanted on the phone and it was long distance. He hurried inside and picked up the phone. “Hello” he said and the voice on the other line replied “Hello Mr. Bobrof, this is the boy you helped a very long time ago.” “I did?” Hyman questioned and the conversation began. Hyman was reminded about the bed in the attic and the hot cup of coffee in the morning and the things he had done to help the young man.
They spoke for a while with Hyman doing most of the listening. The voice on the line explained that he had returned to the city he had come from. That he spent most of the time helping young, often homeless, boys on the street. He found a house he could use and was able to keep some of the boys there. As time went on there were people who helped and encouraged him to find bigger quarters and more homeless boys. Many offered to help financially.
In time he was able to build large quarters for many boys who would learn by example that life has purpose. That what they learned living with him would serve others as well as themselves. “I must tell you,” he explained to Hyman, “that you were an inspiration for me. Your kindness and concern turned me right around from leaving the priesthood to living the priesthood. It benefited every boy. We now have a big sign as you enter our grounds. Our area is called “Boy’s Town” and our slogan is…
Father Flannigan did not call again. He didn’t need to. Those last few words contained all the emotions both men felt.
This story takes us very far back in time. So far back that very few of us can remember, but it’s been a part of our family since the early nineteen hundreds. That was during the period when my grandfather Hyman fled from Russia, came to the United States, settled in Canton, Ohio, opened a saloon and married my grandmother, Anna. It was also the time that he bought a home next to the saloon. It housed his wife and budding family that eventually housed two girls and four boys and an occasional man who was too drunk, when the saloon closed, to be left out on the street.
Hyman had it all figured our. He made the attic stairs sturdy enough to climb. Placed
a mattress with blankets on the floor and supplied everything that could be needed for an overnight stay. The drunken visitors did not please Anna and there were many times that Hyman tried to console her with “It’s just for one night, Anna. Just for one night.” That might have calmed her until he brought a visitor home who would spend three nights.
The visitor was a young man who was obviously addicted to alcohol. He also was soft, caring and very lost. He touched Hyman’s heart so much that when closing time arrived he just couldn’t let the boy wander the streets. He had to take him home knowing that Anna might be angry. How angry? He wasn’t certain until he found out early the third morning.
“You’ve got to stop bringing these people home” she said very loudly that morning “I don’t want anymore of this. The girls are growing up, we don’t need strangers around them and not bad boys like the boy you’ve brought home. I don’t want anymore bad boys in my house.”
Hyman understood her anger but not her remarks. He took her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Anna, that is not a bad boy. There’s no such thing as a bad boy.”
The young man had come down the stairs and was able to hear the last statements. He walked over to Hyman and explained that he would leave and he wanted Hyman to know that he was going home. Back to Omaha. Back to the Priesthood. Back to get help with his addiction so he would be able to live a productive life.
“Thank you, my friend” he said “for all you have done for me” and quietly left the house.
For a long time my grandfather didn’t hear from the young man. Several years passed before the sunny day when he was sitting on the porch and heard the phone ring. Anna called out saying he was wanted on the phone and it was long distance. He hurried inside and picked up the phone. “Hello” he said and the voice on the other line replied “Hello Mr. Bobrof, this is the boy you helped a very long time ago.” “I did?” Hyman questioned and the conversation began. Hyman was reminded about the bed in the attic and the hot cup of coffee in the morning and the things he had done to help the young man.
They spoke for a while with Hyman doing most of the listening. The voice on the line explained that he had returned to the city he had come from. That he spent most of the time helping young, often homeless, boys on the street. He found a house he could use and was able to keep some of the boys there. As time went on there were people who helped and encouraged him to find bigger quarters and more homeless boys. Many offered to help financially.
In time he was able to build large quarters for many boys who would learn by example that life has purpose. That what they learned living with him would serve others as well as themselves. “I must tell you,” he explained to Hyman, “that you were an inspiration for me. Your kindness and concern turned me right around from leaving the priesthood to living the priesthood. It benefited every boy. We now have a big sign as you enter our grounds. Our area is called “Boy’s Town” and our slogan is…
”THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BAD BOY.’
Father Flannigan did not call again. He didn’t need to. Those last few words contained all the emotions both men felt.
35 - Friendships
Friendships
Where did I find this? (I don’t know.) How long have I had it? (A very long time.) Why have I kept it? (It’s one of my dear treasures.) Perhaps it is time to share it. (I think so.)
So here I sit, in front of my computer, and wonder how to begin. I think it’s fair to say that I found it at least thirty years ago, but how I found it is totally vague.
I can only be certain of one thing and that is that I love the words and completely agree with the concepts. I have used it once as a Christmas greeting and that, perhaps, is when I put it into a large manila envelope and filed it away. It is recently that I found it again, said “Oh My. It’s a long time since I’ve read you, my friend.” And I began reading it.
I salute you. I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got; but there is very much that, while I cannot give it, you can take…. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant. Take Peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness, could we but see, and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look.
Life is so generous a giver, but we judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendour, woven of love, by wisdom with power. Welcome it, grasp it, and you will touch the angels hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angels hand is there; the gift is there, and the wonders of an over-shadowing Presence.
Our joys too: be not content with them as joys. They too, conceal diviner gifts. Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty, beneath its covering, that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it: that is all! But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are pilgrims together, wending through an unknown country, home. And so, at this time I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greeting, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.
From a letter written by Fra Giovanni 1513 A.D.
Where did I find this? (I don’t know.) How long have I had it? (A very long time.) Why have I kept it? (It’s one of my dear treasures.) Perhaps it is time to share it. (I think so.)
So here I sit, in front of my computer, and wonder how to begin. I think it’s fair to say that I found it at least thirty years ago, but how I found it is totally vague.
I can only be certain of one thing and that is that I love the words and completely agree with the concepts. I have used it once as a Christmas greeting and that, perhaps, is when I put it into a large manila envelope and filed it away. It is recently that I found it again, said “Oh My. It’s a long time since I’ve read you, my friend.” And I began reading it.
GREETING
I salute you. I am your friend and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not got; but there is very much that, while I cannot give it, you can take…. No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present instant. Take Peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. There is radiance and glory in the darkness, could we but see, and to see we have only to look. I beseech you to look.
Life is so generous a giver, but we judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering and you will find beneath it a living splendour, woven of love, by wisdom with power. Welcome it, grasp it, and you will touch the angels hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me, that angels hand is there; the gift is there, and the wonders of an over-shadowing Presence.
Our joys too: be not content with them as joys. They too, conceal diviner gifts. Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty, beneath its covering, that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it: that is all! But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are pilgrims together, wending through an unknown country, home. And so, at this time I greet you. Not quite as the world sends greeting, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks, and the shadows flee away.
From a letter written by Fra Giovanni 1513 A.D.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
34 - Eleanor, Honoring a Great Lady
Eleanor, Honoring a Great Lady
This story goes back a long way and worth repeating. It begins with World War II when all who were unable to be in the military to serve their country, did serve by working for aircraft companies. There were many such companies here in San Diego and most of my family worked at either Consolidated or Rohr Aircraft.
My uncle Leo worked at Rohr Aircraft on airplane engines. There he spent many hours and frequent overtime to provide faster and newer planes for our overseas pilots. He was the oldest of my four uncles and, in my mind, the sweetest. He was handsome, kind, a great father of a two-½ year old boy and new baby girl, and a loving husband. The kind I could only dream of having when I married.
One day, while Leo was working on an engine, a crank turned too quickly and with great force hit Leo in the groin. At first the injury did not appear to be too serious, however his pain continued to grow more severe. As time went on he became weaker and quieter and we, as a family, became more and more concerned.
I was there, with the rest of the family, the day he was taken to the hospital. All sitting in a waiting room and frightened with hands wringing and tears flowing. Not really knowing what was wrong until we were informed that Leo had tubercular meningitis, a deadly disease with little or no hope. How did he get it, where did it come from, did the crank accident have anything to do with it? Many questions and no answers. We didn’t know all of the medical details. We only knew that nothing and no one at this hospital was able to help him.
We were literally told that he was dying. That there was no hope. It was then that my mother said, “The only hope we have is getting the penicillin for him. The doctors say that it’s impossible to get it. But there must be a way.” That was when penicillin had just entered the medical world. It was only available to the military. No effort on the part of the family brought to us this last chance for Leo’s life. This new miracle drug might be the only way to save him. Why were we being denied it?
The stress and the pain and the despair became more than I could handle. I wanted to help my grandmother, but she was beyond help. So too was my mother. She had tried to find a solution. We knew that she had contacted the military but to no avail. “If only we knew someone in authority like the Governor or maybe even the Mayor. Maybe they would help us.” She had tried and they could not. I needed to leave the waiting room and be quietly by myself. Slowly I walked away and down the hall. I stopped at the door of Leo’s room and offered a silent prayer to God. “Please, Dear God, don’t take Leo from us. He’s so young and his family needs him. Please take me instead.”
My prayers seemed futile. All I could hope for was help getting the penicillin. I stood there praying as my eyes wandered to the other side of the sick rooms. There, nestled between two rooms, was a phone booth. Not a pay phone. Just a phone to be used to make a call. Why not? I thought to myself. Why not? I entered the booth and picked up the phone to inform the operator that I wanted to reach the offices of Eleanor Roosevelt in Washington, D.C.
Eventually a phone rang and in time was picked up. A voice answered, “Eleanor Roosevelt’s Office, may I help you.”
“May I speak with Eleanor Roosevelt please,” I asked.
The reply was, “She is not available right now. Perhaps I can help you.”
I told her the story of Leo. I told her about the babies who needed him. I told her that there was a whole family crying and suffering at the thought of losing him. I told her that he worked at building airplanes to help support his country. Now I was asking for his country to support him and to find release of the penicillin so that we may have a chance of saving his life. I finished by saying, “I know that Eleanor Roosevelt would help me. Is there no way I can reach her?”
“Please hold for a few minutes,” came the reply and I waited. It seemed that I waited a very long time before another voice came on the line.
“Is this Vailia?” the voice asked and there was no mistaking. It was the voice of Eleanor Roosevelt. The unmistakable sound of her very different voice.
“Well” she said, after I replied “you will have your penicillin in San Diego tomorrow morning. We must send it from here and a member of the Naval Hospital will pick it up. You should receive it about 10:00 in the morning. I’m so sorry about your uncle. I hope this helps him and your family.” I had only a moment to thank her and bless her and let her know that I would never forget her kindness. Then we said goodbye.
Mother was waiting outside the phone booth door. She had worried about me being gone for so long. Then I told her about Eleanor and our miracle and together we went back to the waiting room to tell the others. She spoke and I watched in wonder as hope began to cover their faces. We were going to get the miracle drug that could save our Leo’s life.
The penicillin did arrive on time. The doctors at Leo’s hospital refused to use it. They tried to explain that he was too far-gone. That he was brain dead. That it was too late
for any effort to save him. That the penicillin could best be used by others who needed it. I was frightened and angry. Why couldn’t they at least try? It took years before I forgave them and realized that they were right. Our precious Leo died a very short time later. It has also taken years for me to try to let others know about Eleanor Roosevelt.
She was more than our First Lady. She belonged to the world as a leader, as a strong but gentle woman, as a woman of kindness and compassion. She came closer to being a saint than anyone I knew before our conversation or have known since. She is, and will remain, my example of a truly wonderful and amazing woman…She spoke to me.
This story goes back a long way and worth repeating. It begins with World War II when all who were unable to be in the military to serve their country, did serve by working for aircraft companies. There were many such companies here in San Diego and most of my family worked at either Consolidated or Rohr Aircraft.
My uncle Leo worked at Rohr Aircraft on airplane engines. There he spent many hours and frequent overtime to provide faster and newer planes for our overseas pilots. He was the oldest of my four uncles and, in my mind, the sweetest. He was handsome, kind, a great father of a two-½ year old boy and new baby girl, and a loving husband. The kind I could only dream of having when I married.
One day, while Leo was working on an engine, a crank turned too quickly and with great force hit Leo in the groin. At first the injury did not appear to be too serious, however his pain continued to grow more severe. As time went on he became weaker and quieter and we, as a family, became more and more concerned.
I was there, with the rest of the family, the day he was taken to the hospital. All sitting in a waiting room and frightened with hands wringing and tears flowing. Not really knowing what was wrong until we were informed that Leo had tubercular meningitis, a deadly disease with little or no hope. How did he get it, where did it come from, did the crank accident have anything to do with it? Many questions and no answers. We didn’t know all of the medical details. We only knew that nothing and no one at this hospital was able to help him.
We were literally told that he was dying. That there was no hope. It was then that my mother said, “The only hope we have is getting the penicillin for him. The doctors say that it’s impossible to get it. But there must be a way.” That was when penicillin had just entered the medical world. It was only available to the military. No effort on the part of the family brought to us this last chance for Leo’s life. This new miracle drug might be the only way to save him. Why were we being denied it?
The stress and the pain and the despair became more than I could handle. I wanted to help my grandmother, but she was beyond help. So too was my mother. She had tried to find a solution. We knew that she had contacted the military but to no avail. “If only we knew someone in authority like the Governor or maybe even the Mayor. Maybe they would help us.” She had tried and they could not. I needed to leave the waiting room and be quietly by myself. Slowly I walked away and down the hall. I stopped at the door of Leo’s room and offered a silent prayer to God. “Please, Dear God, don’t take Leo from us. He’s so young and his family needs him. Please take me instead.”
My prayers seemed futile. All I could hope for was help getting the penicillin. I stood there praying as my eyes wandered to the other side of the sick rooms. There, nestled between two rooms, was a phone booth. Not a pay phone. Just a phone to be used to make a call. Why not? I thought to myself. Why not? I entered the booth and picked up the phone to inform the operator that I wanted to reach the offices of Eleanor Roosevelt in Washington, D.C.
Eventually a phone rang and in time was picked up. A voice answered, “Eleanor Roosevelt’s Office, may I help you.”
“May I speak with Eleanor Roosevelt please,” I asked.
The reply was, “She is not available right now. Perhaps I can help you.”
I told her the story of Leo. I told her about the babies who needed him. I told her that there was a whole family crying and suffering at the thought of losing him. I told her that he worked at building airplanes to help support his country. Now I was asking for his country to support him and to find release of the penicillin so that we may have a chance of saving his life. I finished by saying, “I know that Eleanor Roosevelt would help me. Is there no way I can reach her?”
“Please hold for a few minutes,” came the reply and I waited. It seemed that I waited a very long time before another voice came on the line.
“Is this Vailia?” the voice asked and there was no mistaking. It was the voice of Eleanor Roosevelt. The unmistakable sound of her very different voice.
“Well” she said, after I replied “you will have your penicillin in San Diego tomorrow morning. We must send it from here and a member of the Naval Hospital will pick it up. You should receive it about 10:00 in the morning. I’m so sorry about your uncle. I hope this helps him and your family.” I had only a moment to thank her and bless her and let her know that I would never forget her kindness. Then we said goodbye.
Mother was waiting outside the phone booth door. She had worried about me being gone for so long. Then I told her about Eleanor and our miracle and together we went back to the waiting room to tell the others. She spoke and I watched in wonder as hope began to cover their faces. We were going to get the miracle drug that could save our Leo’s life.
The penicillin did arrive on time. The doctors at Leo’s hospital refused to use it. They tried to explain that he was too far-gone. That he was brain dead. That it was too late
for any effort to save him. That the penicillin could best be used by others who needed it. I was frightened and angry. Why couldn’t they at least try? It took years before I forgave them and realized that they were right. Our precious Leo died a very short time later. It has also taken years for me to try to let others know about Eleanor Roosevelt.
She was more than our First Lady. She belonged to the world as a leader, as a strong but gentle woman, as a woman of kindness and compassion. She came closer to being a saint than anyone I knew before our conversation or have known since. She is, and will remain, my example of a truly wonderful and amazing woman…She spoke to me.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
33 - Holiday
Holiday
I found this again and realized that I had enjoyed having it and sending it to those I hold dear. It’s meaningful to me in that it hold so very true for those who celebrate Chanukah and those who do not. Friendship knows no bonds. Friendship creates many of the joys and delights that live constantly in your memory and in your present.
THE LIGHT OF FRIENDSHIP SHINES BRIGHTLY
A very wise Rabbi used to tell this story:
His teacher, a very wise and holy man,
was walking home one night during Chanukah.
The street he traveled was narrow and lit
only by the glimmer of the menorahs people
placed in their windows. One house, however,
seemed to glow more brightly than the others,
even though its menorah was plain and its
candles small.
The rabbi wondered at the light and finally
decided to inquire. He knocked on the door,
and when it was opened, the rabbi heard voices
and laughter inside the house.
"My friend," the rabbi asked the man, "What do
you do to give this house such a holy light?"
"I do not know," the man replied. "We are simply
friends, telling stories of our years together."
Then the Rabbi knew the source of the houses
radiance - for whenever friends are together
they shine with the same light as all things
divine.
And so you are to me. my friend, a sign on this
earth that the universe is good and rightly made.
A very wise Rabbi used to tell this story:
His teacher, a very wise and holy man,
was walking home one night during Chanukah.
The street he traveled was narrow and lit
only by the glimmer of the menorahs people
placed in their windows. One house, however,
seemed to glow more brightly than the others,
even though its menorah was plain and its
candles small.
The rabbi wondered at the light and finally
decided to inquire. He knocked on the door,
and when it was opened, the rabbi heard voices
and laughter inside the house.
"My friend," the rabbi asked the man, "What do
you do to give this house such a holy light?"
"I do not know," the man replied. "We are simply
friends, telling stories of our years together."
Then the Rabbi knew the source of the houses
radiance - for whenever friends are together
they shine with the same light as all things
divine.
And so you are to me. my friend, a sign on this
earth that the universe is good and rightly made.
32 - Me
Me
I was born in Canton, Ohio on April 11th 1919 to Abe and Myrtle Goodfriend. Imagine growing up with the last name of Goodfriend especially with a father who's first initial was A. There was a very wonderful large family around me. Four great-grandparents, four grandparents, numerous uncles and aunts and of course, Mother and Father and all involved with naming the first little girl in a very long time. It was my grandfather, Hyman, who insisted that I be named for his Bubba (Grandmother) Velia and the doctor, who at the end of three days, asking my Hebrew name decided to settle the arguments between Valerie, Victoria, Virginia, etc. by simply naming me Vailia. (This finally allowed him to file the certificate of my birth and comply with the three-day law.)
Father's family all lived in Chicago, Mother's in Canton and I and my brother, Marshall (who much of the time we call Buddy) moved back and forth between cities. When I was ten and Marshall was six we made our way to California to join Mother's parents in Los Angeles. It was October 1929 when we arrived, still in the great depression, and a time to learn and grow with survival skills.
As a seriously ill child, I was denied the experience of any type of exercise, no gym in school, no dancing lessons, no swimming, no bicycling and a prognosis of death at an early age....with the warning "should I survive and marry, no children" (the kidneys would not stand the strain.) I fooled them all and am the delighted parent of a son and daughter, the ecstatic grandmother of Tavis, Vailia and Lindsay, and the proud great-grandmother of Laura.
Early on, I became a jack-of-all-trades and master of few, writing poetry by the time I was five, creating a doll wedding-gown cut from my great-grandmother's French lace curtains (this did have repercussions), wrapping gift-boxes at seventeen for the Christmas windows of a major department store, becoming active in my family's drug stores in 1938 in San Diego, joining the work-force in aerospace during World War II, marrying, having children, involving them and myself in activities at Temple Beth Israel for 18 years, opening the first boutique in San Diego, becoming involved with community affairs, receiving a key to the city from Mayor Dahl, and much more including laying the ground-work for women, as outside sales-representatives, by being the first women hired by 3M Company in the Los Angeles area for that position.
I've tried to make this short, but 85years is a long time to live, with many experiences and many opportunities. I've faced joys and tragedies, adventures and boredom, expectations and broken dreams, and survived to this day with hope for the future and a love affair with life.
31 - Yesterday
Yesterday
Every so often something occurs that I had thought about forty years ago. It happened again yesterday as I watched PBS presenting a lecture by Suze Orman. “Say your name” is what she told the crowd of women in front of her. There were gasps of dismay and a few giggles and you knew they thought she was joking. But all those years ago I shared the same thought with my Metaphysical students and when they questioned whether I was serious. I was.
That was when I might silently have said “Vailia” and then recalled whoVailia is. She was then a young woman living in West Virginia with her two small children. Robin was three and Bruce was five and she had run away from an ugly divorce. But that was not what I was saying to myself. What I was saying, that day long ago, was “Vailia, I know who Vailia is. She’s a gentle, loving mother who does not get angry with her children as she did today. She always treats them gently with a lot of love and understanding.” Knowing that, I often reminded myself that I was Vailia before I allowed me to confront an angry or upset child. That was a sweet and peaceful time.
I forgot being Vailia when we lived through the difficult teen-age years and today I wish I had remembered. During my years as a 3M representative I used it occasionally when facing a difficult customer. Interestingly my being Vailia often worked there too.
======
Immediately following the Suze Orman hour another interesting hour began. This one was devoted to changing your brain. I listened and again was astonished that the concept of ‘Change Your Brain, Change Your Life” took me back in time again… Back to the time when I explained to my students that many bibles tell us that we have a matter of choice. That always offers us two possibilities.
What I knew then was that we had two choices concerning our brains. One was to be controlled by our brain, the other was to control our brain. I explained that our worries and fears were all related to our brain controlling us. An example is that I am now dying and with my brain having control I could be frightened, very ill and aware of impending death. With me in control I am still living, enjoying my friends and family, and controlling my illness as well as I can. No negative thoughts…no fear…no waiting to die.
Of course there are serious problems that need to be worked out. Even then, with the brain under your control, the path is easier and solved more quickly. Nothing is more difficult than a negative brain trying to solve a problem. Nothing is more harmful than a depressed brain interfering with your life. The control that is yours offers a peaceful and comfortable existence.
Both the above items have books that hit the bestseller list. I have only one question,
“WHAT TOOK THEM SO LONG?”
30 - Birthdays
Birthdays
I’ve always loved birthdays. It started when I was very young, and because it was in April the lilac bushes bloomed and the peony blossoms opened in all their glory, I thought spring was the most beautiful time of the year. I still do and still love my birthday. Once year I decided to write a poem to express my joy of life and my growing old.
The Birthday
They talk about ‘as time goes by’
It’s true, the years just seem to fly
as you are growing old.
It’s not as bad as it may seem,
you’ve answered many of your dreams
And now have other stories to be told.
Your loved ones still can fill a room
and leave no space for feeling gloom
they really are the treasures of your life.
The books you’ve read, the plays you’ve seen
the beauty of an ocean scene
have washed away the times of pain and strife.
Remembering now is what takes place
when you have time and you have space
to recall all the things that you have done.
And in your quiet reverie
it all returns to family.
How precious to your heart is every one.
So facing yet another year
and being with those you hold dear
Is not a time for sorrow or regret.
Instead the future still is there
you want to grow and want to share
Your life’s adventure is not over yet.
Written in 1996
They talk about ‘as time goes by’
It’s true, the years just seem to fly
as you are growing old.
It’s not as bad as it may seem,
you’ve answered many of your dreams
And now have other stories to be told.
Your loved ones still can fill a room
and leave no space for feeling gloom
they really are the treasures of your life.
The books you’ve read, the plays you’ve seen
the beauty of an ocean scene
have washed away the times of pain and strife.
Remembering now is what takes place
when you have time and you have space
to recall all the things that you have done.
And in your quiet reverie
it all returns to family.
How precious to your heart is every one.
So facing yet another year
and being with those you hold dear
Is not a time for sorrow or regret.
Instead the future still is there
you want to grow and want to share
Your life’s adventure is not over yet.
Written in 1996
29 - My Drummer's March
My Drummer's March
There are times when I find that marching to a different drummer…living as I see my life…not relenting…not weakening…can be misinterpreted as to who I really am and what I am facing. Today I must acknowledge that my strength is my weakness and that those who care about me my fail to understand where my differences take me.
My condition is no longer simply a matter of being able to handle pain or physical weakness or facing approaching death without fear. I am actively determined that I remain who I am in soul, if not in body. I believe that doing so allows all the good that comes into my life. So when those who come to visit arrive my thoughts go into a place of pleasure at their being with me. I’m more concerned about them than about me. I enjoy the camaraderie and I delight in their presence. I move into a new place and stay there until they leave. I find that sitting with my oxygen is better than walking, so I sit.
Is my present condition alarming? No, but it is there and only visible to those who spend much time with me in my home. Most of the time I can only walk short distances without causing palpitations, shortness of breath and light-headedness. It seems that body movements create physical disturbances. I have chronic headaches that change in degrees of severity, jaw pain, eye impairment which may result in migraine auras, back pain caused by fractured vertebrae from the base of my skull to the coccyx bone at the end of my spine. My physical symptoms are also the result of osteoporosis, arthritis and scoliosis, but I don’t give them great concern. My brain is still there and working just fine, or so says the drums of my Drummer.
There is, however, a flaw in the way I’ve been handling everything. The flaw became apparent when the Hospice nurse informed me that I had become stable so she would no longer need to see me weekly but every other week. I didn’t object to the change but I couldn’t understand. With more pain and more recovery time after eating, all intensified and new, what she said didn’t make sense. I related her statement to my daughter and closest friend. They came up with what makes perfect sense. They asked if I had ever complained. The answer was no. They asked if I had been honest about what was happening to me. Again the answer was no. Then they asked me how anyone could know what was really going on with me if I didn’t tell them. To that I had no answer.
They were right, of course. I’ve been too proud to become a complainer. It’s not like me to burden others with my problems, not even my very special doctor and friend, Even with him I’m not completely honest. I gloss over my discomforts so I don’t appear to be an old women in his sight. I realize that I need to change my behavior. But the truth is that I don’t know if I can do that. I’m afraid of not letting things remain just as they are so that I can continue to enjoy my life, my family and my friends, just as I do now.
Wait! My Drummer is playing. I forgot to take my morning meds, but that’s only sign of old age.
My condition is no longer simply a matter of being able to handle pain or physical weakness or facing approaching death without fear. I am actively determined that I remain who I am in soul, if not in body. I believe that doing so allows all the good that comes into my life. So when those who come to visit arrive my thoughts go into a place of pleasure at their being with me. I’m more concerned about them than about me. I enjoy the camaraderie and I delight in their presence. I move into a new place and stay there until they leave. I find that sitting with my oxygen is better than walking, so I sit.
Is my present condition alarming? No, but it is there and only visible to those who spend much time with me in my home. Most of the time I can only walk short distances without causing palpitations, shortness of breath and light-headedness. It seems that body movements create physical disturbances. I have chronic headaches that change in degrees of severity, jaw pain, eye impairment which may result in migraine auras, back pain caused by fractured vertebrae from the base of my skull to the coccyx bone at the end of my spine. My physical symptoms are also the result of osteoporosis, arthritis and scoliosis, but I don’t give them great concern. My brain is still there and working just fine, or so says the drums of my Drummer.
There is, however, a flaw in the way I’ve been handling everything. The flaw became apparent when the Hospice nurse informed me that I had become stable so she would no longer need to see me weekly but every other week. I didn’t object to the change but I couldn’t understand. With more pain and more recovery time after eating, all intensified and new, what she said didn’t make sense. I related her statement to my daughter and closest friend. They came up with what makes perfect sense. They asked if I had ever complained. The answer was no. They asked if I had been honest about what was happening to me. Again the answer was no. Then they asked me how anyone could know what was really going on with me if I didn’t tell them. To that I had no answer.
They were right, of course. I’ve been too proud to become a complainer. It’s not like me to burden others with my problems, not even my very special doctor and friend, Even with him I’m not completely honest. I gloss over my discomforts so I don’t appear to be an old women in his sight. I realize that I need to change my behavior. But the truth is that I don’t know if I can do that. I’m afraid of not letting things remain just as they are so that I can continue to enjoy my life, my family and my friends, just as I do now.
Wait! My Drummer is playing. I forgot to take my morning meds, but that’s only sign of old age.
28 - My Son
My Son
Bruce at Seven
I wonder if you’ll understand, still being only seven,
how having you has given me a little slice of heaven.
My angel with a freckle face who’s very much a boy.
Who’ll fly a kite or run a race or take his sister’s toy.
I really thought that every age was just the very best,
but worn out knees and scuffed up shoes put others to the test.
And Oh! Your mind, my darling, I’d like to understand
how nails and screws and shiny rocks become so very grand.
Or why you lie awake at night tucked quiet in your bed
Then suddenly run ask me if all dinasours are dead?
Or if the sun is just a star and what is on the moon?
And do I think you’re old enough to go to camp this June?
What makes those things tucked in your drawer dear treasures that you love?
A lump of coal, a jar of paste, a worn out leather glove.
I’ve found some cowboy pictures and a tiny ball of string
And even to my horror, a dried out chicken wing.
There’s times you’re very naughty and try my patience too,
and tease and scold till I’m perplexed and don’t know what to do.
But there is one thing I do know when back from school you come
You’re walking heaven in my door when you call, “I’m home, Mom.”
I wonder if you’ll understand, still being only seven
How having you has given me a little slice of heaven.
Bruce at Twelve
Remember how I spoke to you when you were only three.
I lifted you, my precious babe, and sat you on my knee.
I told you there would come a day when you’d be strong and tall.
When you could swim or wear a mitt or play a game of ball.
You asked me, “Is it very far when I’m a great big boy?”
I couldn’t say, “Don’t hurry, son. You bring me so much joy,
I love to sit and rock you, or sing your favorite song.
I thrill to see you run to me when anything goes wrong.
One day you’ll be too big to rock, you’ll sing songs of your own.
You’ll stand for hours to comb your hair, solve problems all alone.
And we would never understand, when you were only three,
that on the day when you were twelve how very proud I’d be.
We only thought I loved you more that I could ever say.
But I’ve a little secret, son….I love you more today.
I wonder if you’ll understand, still being only seven,
how having you has given me a little slice of heaven.
My angel with a freckle face who’s very much a boy.
Who’ll fly a kite or run a race or take his sister’s toy.
I really thought that every age was just the very best,
but worn out knees and scuffed up shoes put others to the test.
And Oh! Your mind, my darling, I’d like to understand
how nails and screws and shiny rocks become so very grand.
Or why you lie awake at night tucked quiet in your bed
Then suddenly run ask me if all dinasours are dead?
Or if the sun is just a star and what is on the moon?
And do I think you’re old enough to go to camp this June?
What makes those things tucked in your drawer dear treasures that you love?
A lump of coal, a jar of paste, a worn out leather glove.
I’ve found some cowboy pictures and a tiny ball of string
And even to my horror, a dried out chicken wing.
There’s times you’re very naughty and try my patience too,
and tease and scold till I’m perplexed and don’t know what to do.
But there is one thing I do know when back from school you come
You’re walking heaven in my door when you call, “I’m home, Mom.”
I wonder if you’ll understand, still being only seven
How having you has given me a little slice of heaven.
Bruce at Twelve
Remember how I spoke to you when you were only three.
I lifted you, my precious babe, and sat you on my knee.
I told you there would come a day when you’d be strong and tall.
When you could swim or wear a mitt or play a game of ball.
You asked me, “Is it very far when I’m a great big boy?”
I couldn’t say, “Don’t hurry, son. You bring me so much joy,
I love to sit and rock you, or sing your favorite song.
I thrill to see you run to me when anything goes wrong.
One day you’ll be too big to rock, you’ll sing songs of your own.
You’ll stand for hours to comb your hair, solve problems all alone.
And we would never understand, when you were only three,
that on the day when you were twelve how very proud I’d be.
We only thought I loved you more that I could ever say.
But I’ve a little secret, son….I love you more today.
27 - Better Late Than Never
Better Late Than Never
And I do mean late. Like 87 years late. Only now have I finally become aware that if I wait long enough, everything will always work out.
Of course I wasn’t really aware of that when I was only 40 or 50. I stressed over many things and didn’t realize that my stressing made no difference at all. For example, as a sales representative for 3M Company I was told that I was to be given a territory other than the one was in at the time. “No Way”, I thought. “I’ve worked this territory for three years. I’ve established great rapport with my customers. I bring more sales into our division that anyone else.”
Did I stress over the change? You bet I did. How dare 3M uproot my life when I was so comfortable in my territory and my surroundings? Little did I know that I would be happier in my new territory than I had ever been before. I was transferred to Port Hueneme and I loved it there. I enjoyed driving to Santa Barbara every day, living less than a block from the ocean, and going to sleep every night to the sound of the waves.
My new customers were wonderful, too. Among them I established lifelong friendships. I felt free. 3M trusted me to bring the territory up to the standards that I had achieved in the past with no supervision and no control other than turning in a weekly report. It was wonderful and I was content. Why did I make such a fuss about moving?
The truth is, I made many fusses over major and minor things all of my life. For example, when I was about 19 years old I planned to attend a formal affair. We youngsters dressed in formal attire for almost no reason at all. Just to go out for dinner and dancing at some nightclub. But we went as a group, with the boy’s club and the girl’s sorority, and then we were at our most elegant. I wanted to wear a pink dress that I saw but my mother insisted that I looked better in red. I, however, was convinced that pink would make me more beautiful. Mother won, of course. She usually did. The dress she helped me select fit beautifully. It draped well over my nearly perfect body and I felt wonderful in it. So I put up a fight, held on to my idea, spent some time pouting, wore the red dress and had no way of knowing what would follow.
What did follow was fabulous. The band was playing when I entered the restaurant. Many couples were dancing on the sunken dance floor. I remained at the top of the steps waiting for my escort, Dave, to come back after he left my wrap in the coatroom. Suddenly the music stopped. Then the orchestra began to play “Lady in Red” (a Ginger Rogers song). Everyone stopped dancing. All eyes were focused on me as Dave took me down the stairs, put his arm around me and began dancing with me. That night I was the Belle of the Ball. And mother turned out to be right after all.
Many other incidents occurred that caused me concern such as losing my job, stressing over my lack of salary (remember, I was a single mom raising two teen-age children) and worrying about how I was going to make the rent. Before long I was able to find a new job in a better field with an advancement of position and an increase in salary. Losing my previous job was, once again, the best thing that could have happened to me. Did I know it at the time? Of course not. Instead, I lay awake nights worrying, not knowing how I was going to manage our lives. But like everything else, everything always works out.
Now I’m going to write about dying. Perhaps you recall (in a previous Reflection) that many years ago I asked God for a terminal illness. I wanted to assure myself that every-thing was in order before I died. I wanted those that I loved to have a possession that had been important to me. And I seem to have gotten exactly what I asked for. The six-month death diagnosis has now stretched into four years and I’ve had the time to explore this world, enlarge my knowledge about things I had often wondered about, and receive many blessings as I’ve watched relationships mature to perfection. Above all else I now realize how interesting and comforting life is. I’ve been allowed to wait long enough to be free of stress, to be kinder to myself and to enjoy my days. My dying experience has served me well. And, as in everything else, it too will eventually work out.
Of course I wasn’t really aware of that when I was only 40 or 50. I stressed over many things and didn’t realize that my stressing made no difference at all. For example, as a sales representative for 3M Company I was told that I was to be given a territory other than the one was in at the time. “No Way”, I thought. “I’ve worked this territory for three years. I’ve established great rapport with my customers. I bring more sales into our division that anyone else.”
Did I stress over the change? You bet I did. How dare 3M uproot my life when I was so comfortable in my territory and my surroundings? Little did I know that I would be happier in my new territory than I had ever been before. I was transferred to Port Hueneme and I loved it there. I enjoyed driving to Santa Barbara every day, living less than a block from the ocean, and going to sleep every night to the sound of the waves.
My new customers were wonderful, too. Among them I established lifelong friendships. I felt free. 3M trusted me to bring the territory up to the standards that I had achieved in the past with no supervision and no control other than turning in a weekly report. It was wonderful and I was content. Why did I make such a fuss about moving?
The truth is, I made many fusses over major and minor things all of my life. For example, when I was about 19 years old I planned to attend a formal affair. We youngsters dressed in formal attire for almost no reason at all. Just to go out for dinner and dancing at some nightclub. But we went as a group, with the boy’s club and the girl’s sorority, and then we were at our most elegant. I wanted to wear a pink dress that I saw but my mother insisted that I looked better in red. I, however, was convinced that pink would make me more beautiful. Mother won, of course. She usually did. The dress she helped me select fit beautifully. It draped well over my nearly perfect body and I felt wonderful in it. So I put up a fight, held on to my idea, spent some time pouting, wore the red dress and had no way of knowing what would follow.
What did follow was fabulous. The band was playing when I entered the restaurant. Many couples were dancing on the sunken dance floor. I remained at the top of the steps waiting for my escort, Dave, to come back after he left my wrap in the coatroom. Suddenly the music stopped. Then the orchestra began to play “Lady in Red” (a Ginger Rogers song). Everyone stopped dancing. All eyes were focused on me as Dave took me down the stairs, put his arm around me and began dancing with me. That night I was the Belle of the Ball. And mother turned out to be right after all.
Many other incidents occurred that caused me concern such as losing my job, stressing over my lack of salary (remember, I was a single mom raising two teen-age children) and worrying about how I was going to make the rent. Before long I was able to find a new job in a better field with an advancement of position and an increase in salary. Losing my previous job was, once again, the best thing that could have happened to me. Did I know it at the time? Of course not. Instead, I lay awake nights worrying, not knowing how I was going to manage our lives. But like everything else, everything always works out.
Now I’m going to write about dying. Perhaps you recall (in a previous Reflection) that many years ago I asked God for a terminal illness. I wanted to assure myself that every-thing was in order before I died. I wanted those that I loved to have a possession that had been important to me. And I seem to have gotten exactly what I asked for. The six-month death diagnosis has now stretched into four years and I’ve had the time to explore this world, enlarge my knowledge about things I had often wondered about, and receive many blessings as I’ve watched relationships mature to perfection. Above all else I now realize how interesting and comforting life is. I’ve been allowed to wait long enough to be free of stress, to be kinder to myself and to enjoy my days. My dying experience has served me well. And, as in everything else, it too will eventually work out.
26 - Listening
Listening
Listen - To make a conscious effort to hear, to attend closely so as to hear
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary
I’ve missed a lot of information and understanding during my lifetime and that’s a shame. Looking back, I now recall that I would frequently cut off my children’s explanations with some motherly advice. Likewise, I already had the answer to a friend’s dilemma even before they finished speaking. And if we read the same book, I had to offer my interpretation the minute the other party finished giving me theirs. I wasn’t smug. I was just behaving as so many do. I wasn’t listening.
It’s taken me a long time to realize that though I thought I was listening, I obviously was not. It’s strange to become aware that my mind had been generating responses long before the other party had completed a sentence. I wonder if that’s the way I went through school, especially high school. I remember my algebra teacher explaining a problem and thinking about whether my current boyfriend would call that night and ask me to his prom. I wasn’t listening to the teacher.
It seems to me that much of our knowledge is formed through listening. For me, spiritual knowledge was imparted in the words given to me by a Rabbi or a Priest or a Minister. (I must have been listening on those occasions!) I listened enough to get good grades in school but not sufficiently well to make the subject being taught a complete part of my understanding. I felt rather than listened to angry words and assured myself that the words didn’t apply to me, although they probably did. The truth of the matter is that, during a conversation, I thought more than I listened. That certainly did not make me the best mother, friend or companion. It also did not help me absorb many of the answers I still seek today.
As I reminisce now, it seems to me that listening should be a required class along with reading, writing and arithmetic. Listening is just as important as the others. The world is not full of good listeners. That’s because they were never given a class in listening.
I seem to be learning more during this time of my life. I am growing in a very good way. I’m becoming more aware of the wonder of learning, of the joy of friendship, of appreciation for the love I receive, and for the many large and small miracles that fill my days. Much of what invades my soul, I now learn by conscience listening.
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary
I’ve missed a lot of information and understanding during my lifetime and that’s a shame. Looking back, I now recall that I would frequently cut off my children’s explanations with some motherly advice. Likewise, I already had the answer to a friend’s dilemma even before they finished speaking. And if we read the same book, I had to offer my interpretation the minute the other party finished giving me theirs. I wasn’t smug. I was just behaving as so many do. I wasn’t listening.
It’s taken me a long time to realize that though I thought I was listening, I obviously was not. It’s strange to become aware that my mind had been generating responses long before the other party had completed a sentence. I wonder if that’s the way I went through school, especially high school. I remember my algebra teacher explaining a problem and thinking about whether my current boyfriend would call that night and ask me to his prom. I wasn’t listening to the teacher.
It seems to me that much of our knowledge is formed through listening. For me, spiritual knowledge was imparted in the words given to me by a Rabbi or a Priest or a Minister. (I must have been listening on those occasions!) I listened enough to get good grades in school but not sufficiently well to make the subject being taught a complete part of my understanding. I felt rather than listened to angry words and assured myself that the words didn’t apply to me, although they probably did. The truth of the matter is that, during a conversation, I thought more than I listened. That certainly did not make me the best mother, friend or companion. It also did not help me absorb many of the answers I still seek today.
As I reminisce now, it seems to me that listening should be a required class along with reading, writing and arithmetic. Listening is just as important as the others. The world is not full of good listeners. That’s because they were never given a class in listening.
I seem to be learning more during this time of my life. I am growing in a very good way. I’m becoming more aware of the wonder of learning, of the joy of friendship, of appreciation for the love I receive, and for the many large and small miracles that fill my days. Much of what invades my soul, I now learn by conscience listening.
25 - Hyman Bobrof
Hyman Bobrof
Hyman Bobrof was my grandfather’s name. He was so important to me that when I started writing many years ago, I used the name “Vailia Bobrof” to honor him. I wrote about his sensitivity and strength in a previous Reflection. Today I will write about his death.
My beloved grandfather committed suicide.
I have to travel far back in time to explain his suicide. Back to when he escaped from Russia and fled to America. That was the era of the Czars and the decrees that caused terror in the hearts of Russian Jews. One of the Czar’s decrees was that Jewish families were only permitted to keep one son. All the other male children were to be taken away to the Russian army where they were cruelly treated. I don’t recall at what age they became eligible, but it was during their young teens. What eventually happened was that many boys, upon reaching that age, would try to escape the country by running away through forests and bitter cold temperatures. Hyman, like so many others, adopted a different last name. The boys did that to protect their families. In the event that they were captured, severe penalties would befall both the boys and their families. Hyman took the name of the city in which he lived. Sadly to this day we do not really know our actual family name.
After arriving in America, Hyman eventually settled in Canton, Ohio. I’m unsure why he decided to settle there. Perhaps a Russian friend or a family member persuaded him. As a small and wiry man he earned money as a wrestler and eventually was able to open a Saloon. (That is another story that I will write about soon).
It was in Canton that he married and with his wife, Anna, raised four sons and two daughters. He alone brought to the United States his mother and father, his sisters and their husbands, his brother and several cousins. A beautiful safe and close family structure was formed around him.
In time Hyman became a peddler to support his family. He owned a truck that he drove to the Steubenville Pottery Company in Steubenville, Ohio. He would purchase seconds in dinner and glassware there and would then travel throughout the countryside peddling his wares. Indications are that he did well. I’m not certain why he moved to Los Angeles in 1928. My immediate family followed him in 1929, shortly after the Wall Street crash.
In Los Angeles, Hyman bought used cable and resold it. The bottom dropped out of the industry following the stock market crash. Used cable was in plentiful supply, but there was no place to sell it. As a result, my grandfather lost the ability to support his family. He was in his early fifties and uneducated. He had no skills that could offer him work. Even with training, jobs were not readily available. The once strong, independent and very proud head of his household found himself being supported by the income earned by my mother and father. Without anyone realizing it, he started to become depressed. He became another helpless product of the Great Depression.
Then an opportunity appeared for Hyman to be productive again. I wasn’t told the nature of the opportunity. That was a subject for discussion among the older members of the family. However, my mother explained to me that he needed to go to Canton, Ohio to ask his family if they would be willing to loan him some money to get started on this new venture. He left and I waited anxiously for his return.
He returned from Canton a totally broken man. No one in Canton remembered that without him they might still be in Russia. No one seemed to care enough to support him. The fact may be that they were truly unable to offer him anything, but his dream was gone and his severe depression became more pronounced. Did anyone recognize it? I don’t think so. But I do recall Hyman’s two older sons arriving home and the hysteria that followed while they tried to open the garage door to rescue him from a carbon monoxide suicide attempt. That happened shortly after his return from Ohio.
Once again we all lived together and once again I sat close to my best friend and dear love, my Grandfather. One morning I awoke to find him missing. That was unusual. He was always there the minute I opened my eyes. I suddenly had a terrifying thought. I don’t understand now why I knew to run into his bedroom to look for the gun he kept hidden under his bed. I didn’t even think about what that might mean, but when I reached for the box, it was empty. I hurried outside and looked up at the roof. There stood a motionless white dove. It just stood and remained there until the phone call. My Uncle Marvin answered the phone and began to utter, “Oh! No, Oh! God No,” and I screamed, “Papa is dead.”
We didn’t know that he had bought a burial plot in the orthodox cemetery. Apparently he had taken a bus to the cemetery that morning with his gun in his pocket. He went to the plot he had purchased and shot himself. I know how he must have felt. We were really that close. He believed that it would make life easier for his family if he killed himself at the cemetery. Unfortunately, however, Jewish law forbids a suicide victim from being buried on holy cemetery ground. Following a long struggle, his daughter, Myrtle, was finally able to have him laid to rest as he desired.
Some members of the family thought Hyman committed suicide because he feared he would become a burden to the family if he became ill. He had developed Bell’s palsy some years earlier and he thought it might be returning. The palsy left him with a tearing right eye. I recall that shortly before his death, Hyman said that he had been sitting in the car and felt the side of his face get stiff. It wasn’t stiff by the time he returned home however. As I look back on it now, I realize that the palsy might have contributed to his depression. At least it sounded better to say that he committed suicide because of his illness. But what really happened is that Hyman Bobrof died due to a sense of hopelessness and a deepening depression. His was a terrible loss.
Our whole world changed at Hyman’s death. For me it could again be the same.
My beloved grandfather committed suicide.
I have to travel far back in time to explain his suicide. Back to when he escaped from Russia and fled to America. That was the era of the Czars and the decrees that caused terror in the hearts of Russian Jews. One of the Czar’s decrees was that Jewish families were only permitted to keep one son. All the other male children were to be taken away to the Russian army where they were cruelly treated. I don’t recall at what age they became eligible, but it was during their young teens. What eventually happened was that many boys, upon reaching that age, would try to escape the country by running away through forests and bitter cold temperatures. Hyman, like so many others, adopted a different last name. The boys did that to protect their families. In the event that they were captured, severe penalties would befall both the boys and their families. Hyman took the name of the city in which he lived. Sadly to this day we do not really know our actual family name.
After arriving in America, Hyman eventually settled in Canton, Ohio. I’m unsure why he decided to settle there. Perhaps a Russian friend or a family member persuaded him. As a small and wiry man he earned money as a wrestler and eventually was able to open a Saloon. (That is another story that I will write about soon).
It was in Canton that he married and with his wife, Anna, raised four sons and two daughters. He alone brought to the United States his mother and father, his sisters and their husbands, his brother and several cousins. A beautiful safe and close family structure was formed around him.
In time Hyman became a peddler to support his family. He owned a truck that he drove to the Steubenville Pottery Company in Steubenville, Ohio. He would purchase seconds in dinner and glassware there and would then travel throughout the countryside peddling his wares. Indications are that he did well. I’m not certain why he moved to Los Angeles in 1928. My immediate family followed him in 1929, shortly after the Wall Street crash.
In Los Angeles, Hyman bought used cable and resold it. The bottom dropped out of the industry following the stock market crash. Used cable was in plentiful supply, but there was no place to sell it. As a result, my grandfather lost the ability to support his family. He was in his early fifties and uneducated. He had no skills that could offer him work. Even with training, jobs were not readily available. The once strong, independent and very proud head of his household found himself being supported by the income earned by my mother and father. Without anyone realizing it, he started to become depressed. He became another helpless product of the Great Depression.
Then an opportunity appeared for Hyman to be productive again. I wasn’t told the nature of the opportunity. That was a subject for discussion among the older members of the family. However, my mother explained to me that he needed to go to Canton, Ohio to ask his family if they would be willing to loan him some money to get started on this new venture. He left and I waited anxiously for his return.
He returned from Canton a totally broken man. No one in Canton remembered that without him they might still be in Russia. No one seemed to care enough to support him. The fact may be that they were truly unable to offer him anything, but his dream was gone and his severe depression became more pronounced. Did anyone recognize it? I don’t think so. But I do recall Hyman’s two older sons arriving home and the hysteria that followed while they tried to open the garage door to rescue him from a carbon monoxide suicide attempt. That happened shortly after his return from Ohio.
Once again we all lived together and once again I sat close to my best friend and dear love, my Grandfather. One morning I awoke to find him missing. That was unusual. He was always there the minute I opened my eyes. I suddenly had a terrifying thought. I don’t understand now why I knew to run into his bedroom to look for the gun he kept hidden under his bed. I didn’t even think about what that might mean, but when I reached for the box, it was empty. I hurried outside and looked up at the roof. There stood a motionless white dove. It just stood and remained there until the phone call. My Uncle Marvin answered the phone and began to utter, “Oh! No, Oh! God No,” and I screamed, “Papa is dead.”
We didn’t know that he had bought a burial plot in the orthodox cemetery. Apparently he had taken a bus to the cemetery that morning with his gun in his pocket. He went to the plot he had purchased and shot himself. I know how he must have felt. We were really that close. He believed that it would make life easier for his family if he killed himself at the cemetery. Unfortunately, however, Jewish law forbids a suicide victim from being buried on holy cemetery ground. Following a long struggle, his daughter, Myrtle, was finally able to have him laid to rest as he desired.
Some members of the family thought Hyman committed suicide because he feared he would become a burden to the family if he became ill. He had developed Bell’s palsy some years earlier and he thought it might be returning. The palsy left him with a tearing right eye. I recall that shortly before his death, Hyman said that he had been sitting in the car and felt the side of his face get stiff. It wasn’t stiff by the time he returned home however. As I look back on it now, I realize that the palsy might have contributed to his depression. At least it sounded better to say that he committed suicide because of his illness. But what really happened is that Hyman Bobrof died due to a sense of hopelessness and a deepening depression. His was a terrible loss.
Our whole world changed at Hyman’s death. For me it could again be the same.
24 - The Dove
The Dove
Yesterday, April 29th, I saw a white dove. It flew over the front of the car and seemed to fly ahead of us as we drove toward the nursery where I was to select plants for the house. I hesitated for a moment as I watched it fly and wondered, “Was it meant for me? Was this my dove?”
I know it may sound strange, but the fact is that I have always seen white doves before the death in my family. A white dove settled on the roof of our home when my grandfather died. White doves flew overhead when my uncle’s plane fell over Tours, France during World War II. White doves followed our car on the way to the hospital where my uncle Leo lay dying. So the appearance of a white dove is significant to me, even more significant than my own prognosis of impending death.
So how do I feel after having seen a white dove? I’m waiting to see what might happen and I’m double-checking all the things that my family and friends could need to know when I die. Things like information on the refrigerator that tells them who to call to arrange for my dog, Nicky and who not to call like 911. Calling 911 removes me from San Diego Hospice care and I don’t want that to happen. The San Diego Hospice has wrapped me in a silken web filled with love, care, respect, warmth and comfort. If I must leave home to face death then I must be able to deal with it there. Should I die at home, which is my preference, Hospice must be notified.
As for my children, grandchildren and by-marriage children, I believe they’re aware of how much I have loved them. I am truly grateful for whatever I did that was good for them. My children were my life. Mothers often feel that way and it is not always in the best interest of the child. It may be confining and overbearing with a lack of respect for the child’s independence and self-judgement. Before raising my children I should have read Kahlil Gibran’s concept on the parent-child relationship. He wrote the following:
Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you. And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backwards nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite and He bends you with his might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archers hand be for gladness. For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves the bow that is stable.
So now I wait to see if the dove I saw was meant for me . . . not despairingly nor consciously . . . but as easily as I wait for the sun to come out on a cloudy day. I wait while remembering a pleasant yesterday, looking forward to a promising tomorrow and grateful for today. All the while knowing that life is good.
23 - A Long Lost Love
Lost Love
I just finished reading Mitch Albom’s book, “The Five People You Meet in Heaven” and my heart skipped a beat. My mind said, “Oh Yes”, and I sighed a sigh of understanding as I read these words:
Lost love is still love, Eddie. It takes a different form, that’s
all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle
their hair or move them around on a dance floor. But when
those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory
becomes your partner. You nurture it. You Hold It. You
dance with it. “Life has to end,” she said. “Love Doesn’t.”
all. You can’t see their smile or bring them food or tousle
their hair or move them around on a dance floor. But when
those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory
becomes your partner. You nurture it. You Hold It. You
dance with it. “Life has to end,” she said. “Love Doesn’t.”
And my heart said “Davy” as it has for 70 years. I never before really understood why I could never let him go.
I was 17 when I first met Davy and never dreamt that I would find David Snyder attractive. He was long and lean, about six feet tall with close cropped curly brown hair, sharp features and beautiful eyes. He was not handsome, not when I first met him. He became handsome to me later. He also had a great sense of humor and loved to tease. That was all I knew about him, that and seeing him often when I visited my friend, Luby. One day, at her house, he was stretched out on the floor. We began bantering, trying to outdo one another. Then he motioned to me to sit on the floor beside him and I did. After one of my sly remarks, he pulled me over, looked at me seriously and said, “Can we stop this now. Just let me take you dancing Saturday night.” I think I fell in love that moment.
Dancing was our form of recreation. We would travel north or south to where one of the big bands was playing and dance the night away. That was not quite all. Because we lived near the ocean, we found places to stop where the waves broke in silvery bands and we necked. (Necking is what we called it then.) Necking meant kissing, a little touching (by him of course), and professing our love over and over again.
Then, one evening, he gave me my ring and we discussed our wedding. It would be on New Year’s Eve with the hands of the clock moving to twelve. We would start a new life in a New Year. We even planned what we would wear. He would wear an all white suit and shirt. I would wear a white suit with a long white skirt and white hat. It was perfect . . until the night I lost him.
My mother hated Davy. I never understood why. I still don’t. But then again, she hated most of my close friends. She found reasons to hate Davy and she used them all. On that ever-remembered night, before I left to join him, and Helen who was double dating with us, my mother screamed at me saying all the things I didn’t want to hear. I joined my Davy in a horrible mood. I didn’t tell him how badly I felt. When he started teasing me, I couldn’t bear it. I just snapped at him and handed him back his ring.
It’s important to stop here and say that I loved my mother and I still do. She was controlling and I would not be controlled. She raised a daughter who would become a controlling mother and make many of the same mistakes. My mother was hysterical over everything; I was hysterical over some things. I’m so sorry for both of us.
Back to thinking about Davy . . . If the story I was told is true, Helen invited Davy to her house for dinner the next night. Two months later I heard they had married on New Year’s Eve with the hands of the clock moving to twelve. He was in his white suit and white shirt. She wore a white suit with a long white skirt and white hat . . . AND MY ENGAGEMENT AND WEDDING RINGS! How do I know that? Friends of mine who attended the wedding told me.
My heart was truly broken . . . but the story doesn’t stop there.
I married, had a baby boy, and subsequently divorced my husband. In fact, I had several divorces. All of my marriages were short lived. They all dissolved because I didn’t want to be with the men I married. So I sent them away. But I did want my babies and, in that era, I had to be married to have babies.
One day, when my son was about two years old, I received a telephone call from Davy. He was working here in San Diego and wanted to know if I would have lunch with him. Without hesitation I replied, “I would love to.”
I met him and I loved him just as much. Sitting across from him at lunch was tearing at my soul. He had matured. He was handsomer than I remembered. He was a strong and sensitive man who met my eyes with tenderness. After lunch we sat in his car, saying little, just being together. That is when he asked me to have dinner with him. And I answered, “I can’t. You must go back to Helen and I must go back to my son.”
Then he said these words that I have never forgotten, “Do you know that you broke my heart?” And I replied, “Darling, we broke each other’s hearts.”
That was the last time that I was with Davy. Do I think of him? Oh, yes. I remember him and I long for him. Of all the loved ones who have gone before me, I pray it is Davy that I first meet in heaven.
I was 17 when I first met Davy and never dreamt that I would find David Snyder attractive. He was long and lean, about six feet tall with close cropped curly brown hair, sharp features and beautiful eyes. He was not handsome, not when I first met him. He became handsome to me later. He also had a great sense of humor and loved to tease. That was all I knew about him, that and seeing him often when I visited my friend, Luby. One day, at her house, he was stretched out on the floor. We began bantering, trying to outdo one another. Then he motioned to me to sit on the floor beside him and I did. After one of my sly remarks, he pulled me over, looked at me seriously and said, “Can we stop this now. Just let me take you dancing Saturday night.” I think I fell in love that moment.
Dancing was our form of recreation. We would travel north or south to where one of the big bands was playing and dance the night away. That was not quite all. Because we lived near the ocean, we found places to stop where the waves broke in silvery bands and we necked. (Necking is what we called it then.) Necking meant kissing, a little touching (by him of course), and professing our love over and over again.
Then, one evening, he gave me my ring and we discussed our wedding. It would be on New Year’s Eve with the hands of the clock moving to twelve. We would start a new life in a New Year. We even planned what we would wear. He would wear an all white suit and shirt. I would wear a white suit with a long white skirt and white hat. It was perfect . . until the night I lost him.
My mother hated Davy. I never understood why. I still don’t. But then again, she hated most of my close friends. She found reasons to hate Davy and she used them all. On that ever-remembered night, before I left to join him, and Helen who was double dating with us, my mother screamed at me saying all the things I didn’t want to hear. I joined my Davy in a horrible mood. I didn’t tell him how badly I felt. When he started teasing me, I couldn’t bear it. I just snapped at him and handed him back his ring.
It’s important to stop here and say that I loved my mother and I still do. She was controlling and I would not be controlled. She raised a daughter who would become a controlling mother and make many of the same mistakes. My mother was hysterical over everything; I was hysterical over some things. I’m so sorry for both of us.
Back to thinking about Davy . . . If the story I was told is true, Helen invited Davy to her house for dinner the next night. Two months later I heard they had married on New Year’s Eve with the hands of the clock moving to twelve. He was in his white suit and white shirt. She wore a white suit with a long white skirt and white hat . . . AND MY ENGAGEMENT AND WEDDING RINGS! How do I know that? Friends of mine who attended the wedding told me.
My heart was truly broken . . . but the story doesn’t stop there.
I married, had a baby boy, and subsequently divorced my husband. In fact, I had several divorces. All of my marriages were short lived. They all dissolved because I didn’t want to be with the men I married. So I sent them away. But I did want my babies and, in that era, I had to be married to have babies.
One day, when my son was about two years old, I received a telephone call from Davy. He was working here in San Diego and wanted to know if I would have lunch with him. Without hesitation I replied, “I would love to.”
I met him and I loved him just as much. Sitting across from him at lunch was tearing at my soul. He had matured. He was handsomer than I remembered. He was a strong and sensitive man who met my eyes with tenderness. After lunch we sat in his car, saying little, just being together. That is when he asked me to have dinner with him. And I answered, “I can’t. You must go back to Helen and I must go back to my son.”
Then he said these words that I have never forgotten, “Do you know that you broke my heart?” And I replied, “Darling, we broke each other’s hearts.”
That was the last time that I was with Davy. Do I think of him? Oh, yes. I remember him and I long for him. Of all the loved ones who have gone before me, I pray it is Davy that I first meet in heaven.
22 - The Hospice Dilemma
Hospice / MediCare's Hidden Treasure
“Many may know of a family member, close friend or neighbor whose final days on earth were made more peaceful and less painful through the compassionate services offered by a hospice provider. Yet according to a recent federal study, this government benefit for the terminally ill may be under-used by thousands of dying patients every year”
U.S. Senator Chuck Grassley, Senate Special Committee on Aging.
In 1982 Congress expanded the Medicare insurance program to include hospice care, thus providing coverage for many health and social services for the terminally ill. In conjunction with Medicare, hospice was then able to offer much needed physical and emotional assistance to both terminally ill patients and their families.
The question facing the Special Committee on Aging was to find out why Hospice benefits are not being used until the end of life. Why do families refuse to access comprehensive help that could assist them with the care of a loved one? Why do they wait until the final days before seeking in-home help? Why do many families burden themselves financially when Hospice can be available at no cost?
I understand why. I have had the experience of living through the dilemma of placing a loved one into hospice care. I did not believe that the time of my brother’s death could be predicted. I simply wasn’t able to cope with the requirement that the patient be eligible for Hospice if they are terminally ill with an estimated six months left to live. When I thought of asking the doctor for a referral to Hospice, I felt that I was placing my Alzheimer’s afflicted brother in the position of standing before a judge and being given a death sentence. I simply blocked out the word “estimated.”
Another area of concern was palliative care. Rumors and negative comments had frightened me. I was completely uninformed until recently when I looked up the word “palliative” in Webster’s Dictionary. Webster’s defines “palliative” as “that which mitigates, alleviates or abates the violence of pain, disease or other evils.” (I suspect many would choose that definition to describe the end-of-life experience.) I had struggled with the concept that nourishment and fluids might be withheld at Hospice. In the meantime I watched my brother, Marshall, refuse to eat or accept fluids. He was fading away while I refused to accept the fact that further medical treatment was not possible for someone so frail.
I kept hoping for some new medical procedure. I now realize that, as human beings, we have been trained to seek medical intervention until the very end. We believe that there is still something we can do. In that believing, we may subject our loved ones to more medication, surgeries, procedures and injections. I had to accept the obvious facts and understand that my trust needed to be placed in those at Hospice who certainly were more knowledgeable than I.
During my conversation with San Diego Hospice medical professionals, I have since learned that dying patients respond differently to food and fluid than people who are healthy. A small bite or a sip of fluid may be enough to relieve hunger and thirst. They will lose weight regardless of the amount of food intake due to malabsorption . . . the point at which the body is no longer able to obtain nutrients from food. Intravenous fluids may help for a short time, but they are not food nor do they help to prolong life. As the patient weakens, intravenous fluids may simply build up in the body and cause discomfort.
With a little knowledge, I began to research why I permitted my uniformed fears to persuade me not to apply for Hospice assistance. It became clear that top-quality palliative care could mean the difference between a gentle death and one in which suffering is terrible and prolonged. I discovered that Hospice truly offers a death with dignity. The goal is not to cure. Rather, Hospice care is meant to provide comfort and a peaceful quality of life until the end of that life. The focus is not on death but on professional and compassionate care for as long as the patient lives.
So during the time that I refused to focus on the inevitable, I existed with the most acute form of denial. In doing so, I failed to receive the assistance that would have eased the stresses and pressures of our daily life. I kept fighting a losing battle. It was only at the end of my brother’s life that I reached for the help I needed. A few days after his admission, Marshall died peacefully and gently under Hospice care.
I waited too long and I really should have known better. My family is not unfamiliar with Hospice procedures. My uncle and aunt both died at the in-house facility of our San Diego Hospice. Marvin, my uncle, was also there only a few days before his death and during that time my family received exceptional consideration. We stayed beside him through his passing and long after he was gone, we remained without interruption and without any questions or interference on the part of Hospice staff. We were allowed to stay and comfort his widow until she was ready to part from him. Everyone at Hospice supported our efforts with great compassion.
Marvin’s wife was also a Hospice patient. She had been suffering from emphysema for more than a year at the time of her husband’s death. Her condition had been diagnosed as terminal and she continued to remain under the umbrella of Hospice care. She didn’t die within six months, though it appeared that death was imminent several times during her long, fatal illness. Twice she was taken to the San Diego Hospice facility and twice she recovered sufficiently to go home. Because she was terminal, Hospice care continued for almost two years.
I visited my aunt at her home often and watched the help she received. It was wonderful. Someone from Hospice provided for all her personal needs. Three meals a day were brought to her. A volunteer did her grocery shopping and pick up her prescriptions. Arrangements were made with the mailman to deliver mail into her home. I watched the considerate care she received and, I repeat, I should have known that this level of care was available to my brother. But I was in denial and could not accept the fact that my brother was dying. What I sacrificed as a result of my denial can best be described in a letter that I received from Jan Cetti, President of the San Diego Hospice.
I wrote to Mrs. Cetti after I completed a book I had written pertaining to my life as an Alzheimer’s caregiver. I decided to send the letter because I felt I needed her approval for my description of Hospice. Her response contained the following paragraph:
As I read your story, I was so sorry that you did not have hospice care much earlier. Though your experience with hospice at the very end is a familiar situation, we could have provided so much more assistance. Congress recently commissioned a study to determine why people do not access the hospice benefit until the last few days of life. The majority of eligible patients receive less than 14 days of care, when the Medicare Benefit was designed to provide comprehensive care for the last six months of life. They found many barriers. One very large barrier is both physicians and families worry that turning to hospice means “giving up” on a loved one. While the facts indicate that hospice care – good pain and symptom control – actually prolongs life in some situations. And the assistance for caregivers is enormous. The comprehensive care you were entitled to included, free of charge to Medicare beneficiaries; respite care, home care nurses, social workers, homemakers (to help with all types of household chores), certified nurses aides to help with bathing, skin care, etc., counselors, volunteers and home visits by hospice physicians (if approved by your bother’s personal M.D.)
I spent many years being my brother’s only caregiver. I did all the things that the comprehensive care could have done for me. I slept less and worked at tasks beyond my strength. I watched my face and body age more rapidly under the stress and effort. I did expect that my body would age with the passing of time. But I did not expect that I would lose so much of the energy, strength and the enthusiasm I that I always had for life. I have no guilt about the way I cared for my brother. I do have guilt about the way I cared for myself.
I resent the radical change in my appearance that happened during the last six difficult months of his life. That was when his needs became most demanding. He could no longer shower, brush his teeth, dress himself or change his underwear. I struggled to do the laundry, maintain the normal care of our home and attend to all his personal needs. It would have been much easier for both of us had I called the San Diego Hospice for help. But I failed to remember that Hospice offers so much assistance. And again, I forgot what the word “estimated” means when it comes to qualifying for Hospice care. My brother didn’t have to die within six months to receive Hospice benefits. In fact, he may have lived a little longer than six months. The point is, care was available. The time of death was only an estimate. So why did I fear a “maybe” timetable of an inevitable event?
Now I ask myself, “How does one get past the denial, past thinking that the life of your loved one will go on and on? How does one get over the guilt of believing that they are assigning death when they access Hospice?” I believe a caregiver has to begin by facing the fact that death will come and take their loved one from them. They must understand that neither they, nor Medicare, nor Hospice can know when death will occur. They have to realize that even the doctor can only estimate the time of death. As they remove the barriers, they begin to understand that by receiving Hospice benefits they’re helping their patient as well as themselves.
Caregivers may also come to realize that, in allowing outside help, they are not giving up on their own responsibilities. That a caregiver might feel that way is understandable. The long period they spent caring for their loved one may have become a way of life and could be difficult to change. Sometimes I liken it to watching their first child leave home. The “Self” gets involved in that, too. The sense of “responsibility” is weakened. In the loss of that responsibility, the benefits to their child (or patient) may not always be recognized. But letting go is very hard. I think I was involved with that struggle. I felt that I needed to be all things to my beloved, ailing brother.
The truth is that caregivers may have too many demands on their time. These demands can prevent their ability to remain calm and receptive. As the patient’s desire to be near them becomes more intense, the responsibility of the home, laundry, banking and shopping becomes harder.
It is then that caregivers need to come to the realization that they do require help and that what they want is exactly the type of help that Hospice offers. Scheduled and adequate assistance can truly relieve them of their stressful burdens and allow them to best care for the emotional needs of their patient. Those needs include their presence, their understanding, their awareness of the problems that arise, and their ability to handle them. Of most importance is that their presence offers security which, when combined with love, offers their patient a peaceful existence.
Caregivers who keep their afflicted family members at home while receiving hospice benefits are doing a remarkable job. Love and compassion are part of the caregiver’s efforts. Care and compassion are part of Hospice’s efforts. Those wise people who reach for help are not giving up nor are they limiting the life of their loved one. The time of death is set beyond their ability to change it. Placing a family member under Hospice care does not end the patient’s life nor is it designed to prolong their life. It only helps make life more bearable for the patient and the one who cares for them.
According to Senator Grassley, “Hospice care is Medicare’s hidden treasure.” It is time for families of dying patients to discover it.
In 1982 Congress expanded the Medicare insurance program to include hospice care, thus providing coverage for many health and social services for the terminally ill. In conjunction with Medicare, hospice was then able to offer much needed physical and emotional assistance to both terminally ill patients and their families.
The question facing the Special Committee on Aging was to find out why Hospice benefits are not being used until the end of life. Why do families refuse to access comprehensive help that could assist them with the care of a loved one? Why do they wait until the final days before seeking in-home help? Why do many families burden themselves financially when Hospice can be available at no cost?
I understand why. I have had the experience of living through the dilemma of placing a loved one into hospice care. I did not believe that the time of my brother’s death could be predicted. I simply wasn’t able to cope with the requirement that the patient be eligible for Hospice if they are terminally ill with an estimated six months left to live. When I thought of asking the doctor for a referral to Hospice, I felt that I was placing my Alzheimer’s afflicted brother in the position of standing before a judge and being given a death sentence. I simply blocked out the word “estimated.”
Another area of concern was palliative care. Rumors and negative comments had frightened me. I was completely uninformed until recently when I looked up the word “palliative” in Webster’s Dictionary. Webster’s defines “palliative” as “that which mitigates, alleviates or abates the violence of pain, disease or other evils.” (I suspect many would choose that definition to describe the end-of-life experience.) I had struggled with the concept that nourishment and fluids might be withheld at Hospice. In the meantime I watched my brother, Marshall, refuse to eat or accept fluids. He was fading away while I refused to accept the fact that further medical treatment was not possible for someone so frail.
I kept hoping for some new medical procedure. I now realize that, as human beings, we have been trained to seek medical intervention until the very end. We believe that there is still something we can do. In that believing, we may subject our loved ones to more medication, surgeries, procedures and injections. I had to accept the obvious facts and understand that my trust needed to be placed in those at Hospice who certainly were more knowledgeable than I.
During my conversation with San Diego Hospice medical professionals, I have since learned that dying patients respond differently to food and fluid than people who are healthy. A small bite or a sip of fluid may be enough to relieve hunger and thirst. They will lose weight regardless of the amount of food intake due to malabsorption . . . the point at which the body is no longer able to obtain nutrients from food. Intravenous fluids may help for a short time, but they are not food nor do they help to prolong life. As the patient weakens, intravenous fluids may simply build up in the body and cause discomfort.
With a little knowledge, I began to research why I permitted my uniformed fears to persuade me not to apply for Hospice assistance. It became clear that top-quality palliative care could mean the difference between a gentle death and one in which suffering is terrible and prolonged. I discovered that Hospice truly offers a death with dignity. The goal is not to cure. Rather, Hospice care is meant to provide comfort and a peaceful quality of life until the end of that life. The focus is not on death but on professional and compassionate care for as long as the patient lives.
So during the time that I refused to focus on the inevitable, I existed with the most acute form of denial. In doing so, I failed to receive the assistance that would have eased the stresses and pressures of our daily life. I kept fighting a losing battle. It was only at the end of my brother’s life that I reached for the help I needed. A few days after his admission, Marshall died peacefully and gently under Hospice care.
I waited too long and I really should have known better. My family is not unfamiliar with Hospice procedures. My uncle and aunt both died at the in-house facility of our San Diego Hospice. Marvin, my uncle, was also there only a few days before his death and during that time my family received exceptional consideration. We stayed beside him through his passing and long after he was gone, we remained without interruption and without any questions or interference on the part of Hospice staff. We were allowed to stay and comfort his widow until she was ready to part from him. Everyone at Hospice supported our efforts with great compassion.
Marvin’s wife was also a Hospice patient. She had been suffering from emphysema for more than a year at the time of her husband’s death. Her condition had been diagnosed as terminal and she continued to remain under the umbrella of Hospice care. She didn’t die within six months, though it appeared that death was imminent several times during her long, fatal illness. Twice she was taken to the San Diego Hospice facility and twice she recovered sufficiently to go home. Because she was terminal, Hospice care continued for almost two years.
I visited my aunt at her home often and watched the help she received. It was wonderful. Someone from Hospice provided for all her personal needs. Three meals a day were brought to her. A volunteer did her grocery shopping and pick up her prescriptions. Arrangements were made with the mailman to deliver mail into her home. I watched the considerate care she received and, I repeat, I should have known that this level of care was available to my brother. But I was in denial and could not accept the fact that my brother was dying. What I sacrificed as a result of my denial can best be described in a letter that I received from Jan Cetti, President of the San Diego Hospice.
I wrote to Mrs. Cetti after I completed a book I had written pertaining to my life as an Alzheimer’s caregiver. I decided to send the letter because I felt I needed her approval for my description of Hospice. Her response contained the following paragraph:
As I read your story, I was so sorry that you did not have hospice care much earlier. Though your experience with hospice at the very end is a familiar situation, we could have provided so much more assistance. Congress recently commissioned a study to determine why people do not access the hospice benefit until the last few days of life. The majority of eligible patients receive less than 14 days of care, when the Medicare Benefit was designed to provide comprehensive care for the last six months of life. They found many barriers. One very large barrier is both physicians and families worry that turning to hospice means “giving up” on a loved one. While the facts indicate that hospice care – good pain and symptom control – actually prolongs life in some situations. And the assistance for caregivers is enormous. The comprehensive care you were entitled to included, free of charge to Medicare beneficiaries; respite care, home care nurses, social workers, homemakers (to help with all types of household chores), certified nurses aides to help with bathing, skin care, etc., counselors, volunteers and home visits by hospice physicians (if approved by your bother’s personal M.D.)
I spent many years being my brother’s only caregiver. I did all the things that the comprehensive care could have done for me. I slept less and worked at tasks beyond my strength. I watched my face and body age more rapidly under the stress and effort. I did expect that my body would age with the passing of time. But I did not expect that I would lose so much of the energy, strength and the enthusiasm I that I always had for life. I have no guilt about the way I cared for my brother. I do have guilt about the way I cared for myself.
I resent the radical change in my appearance that happened during the last six difficult months of his life. That was when his needs became most demanding. He could no longer shower, brush his teeth, dress himself or change his underwear. I struggled to do the laundry, maintain the normal care of our home and attend to all his personal needs. It would have been much easier for both of us had I called the San Diego Hospice for help. But I failed to remember that Hospice offers so much assistance. And again, I forgot what the word “estimated” means when it comes to qualifying for Hospice care. My brother didn’t have to die within six months to receive Hospice benefits. In fact, he may have lived a little longer than six months. The point is, care was available. The time of death was only an estimate. So why did I fear a “maybe” timetable of an inevitable event?
Now I ask myself, “How does one get past the denial, past thinking that the life of your loved one will go on and on? How does one get over the guilt of believing that they are assigning death when they access Hospice?” I believe a caregiver has to begin by facing the fact that death will come and take their loved one from them. They must understand that neither they, nor Medicare, nor Hospice can know when death will occur. They have to realize that even the doctor can only estimate the time of death. As they remove the barriers, they begin to understand that by receiving Hospice benefits they’re helping their patient as well as themselves.
Caregivers may also come to realize that, in allowing outside help, they are not giving up on their own responsibilities. That a caregiver might feel that way is understandable. The long period they spent caring for their loved one may have become a way of life and could be difficult to change. Sometimes I liken it to watching their first child leave home. The “Self” gets involved in that, too. The sense of “responsibility” is weakened. In the loss of that responsibility, the benefits to their child (or patient) may not always be recognized. But letting go is very hard. I think I was involved with that struggle. I felt that I needed to be all things to my beloved, ailing brother.
The truth is that caregivers may have too many demands on their time. These demands can prevent their ability to remain calm and receptive. As the patient’s desire to be near them becomes more intense, the responsibility of the home, laundry, banking and shopping becomes harder.
It is then that caregivers need to come to the realization that they do require help and that what they want is exactly the type of help that Hospice offers. Scheduled and adequate assistance can truly relieve them of their stressful burdens and allow them to best care for the emotional needs of their patient. Those needs include their presence, their understanding, their awareness of the problems that arise, and their ability to handle them. Of most importance is that their presence offers security which, when combined with love, offers their patient a peaceful existence.
Caregivers who keep their afflicted family members at home while receiving hospice benefits are doing a remarkable job. Love and compassion are part of the caregiver’s efforts. Care and compassion are part of Hospice’s efforts. Those wise people who reach for help are not giving up nor are they limiting the life of their loved one. The time of death is set beyond their ability to change it. Placing a family member under Hospice care does not end the patient’s life nor is it designed to prolong their life. It only helps make life more bearable for the patient and the one who cares for them.
According to Senator Grassley, “Hospice care is Medicare’s hidden treasure.” It is time for families of dying patients to discover it.
THE MISCONCEPTIONS OF HOSPICE
Hospice is a place.
It can be, but generally is not. Hospice care takes place wherever the need exists, most often in the patient’s home. Approximately 80% of hospice care takes place in the home.
Hospice is only for people with cancer.
Forty-three percent of hospice patients have other chronic illnesses, such as heart and lung diseases, Alzheimer’s and Emphysema. In urban areas hospices also care for patients with end-of-life HIV/AIDS.
Hospice is only for old people.
Although the majority of hospice patients are older, hospices serve patients of all ages. Many hospices offer clinical staff with expertise in pediatric hospice care.
Hospice services can only be provided for six months.
There is no limit on how long an individual beneficiary can receive hospice services, as long as they meet the eligibility criteria. If a physician continues to properly and conscientiously recertify the six-month prognosis, a beneficiary can continue to receive hospice benefits.
Hospice is only for people who can accept death.
As a family-centered concept of care, hospice focuses as much on the grieving family as on the dying patient. While those affected by terminal illness struggle to come to terms with death, the hospice gently helps them find their way. The hospice teams of professionals and volunteers address the emotional, social and spiritual needs of both patient and family members.
Hospice care is expensive.
Most people who use hospice are over 65 and are entitled to the Medicare Hospice Benefit. This benefit covers virtually all hospice services and requires little, if any, out-of-pocket costs. This means that there are no financial burdens incurred by the family. In sharp contrast are the huge financial expenses that occur when hospice is not used.
Hospice is not covered by managed care.
While managed-care organizations are not required to include hospice coverage, Medicare beneficiaries can use their Medicare Hospice Benefit anytime, anywhere they choose. Those under 65 are likely to gain access to hospice care upon inquiry.
Hospice is when there is no hope.
When death is in sight, there are two options: submit without hope or live life as fully as possible until the end. The gift of hospice is its capacity to help families see how much can be shared at the end of life through loving personal and spiritual connections.
Vailia Dennis-17088 Cresta Dr., San Diego, CA 92128-Phone:(858) 487-8374 E-mail: vailia@pacbell.net
It can be, but generally is not. Hospice care takes place wherever the need exists, most often in the patient’s home. Approximately 80% of hospice care takes place in the home.
Hospice is only for people with cancer.
Forty-three percent of hospice patients have other chronic illnesses, such as heart and lung diseases, Alzheimer’s and Emphysema. In urban areas hospices also care for patients with end-of-life HIV/AIDS.
Hospice is only for old people.
Although the majority of hospice patients are older, hospices serve patients of all ages. Many hospices offer clinical staff with expertise in pediatric hospice care.
Hospice services can only be provided for six months.
There is no limit on how long an individual beneficiary can receive hospice services, as long as they meet the eligibility criteria. If a physician continues to properly and conscientiously recertify the six-month prognosis, a beneficiary can continue to receive hospice benefits.
Hospice is only for people who can accept death.
As a family-centered concept of care, hospice focuses as much on the grieving family as on the dying patient. While those affected by terminal illness struggle to come to terms with death, the hospice gently helps them find their way. The hospice teams of professionals and volunteers address the emotional, social and spiritual needs of both patient and family members.
Hospice care is expensive.
Most people who use hospice are over 65 and are entitled to the Medicare Hospice Benefit. This benefit covers virtually all hospice services and requires little, if any, out-of-pocket costs. This means that there are no financial burdens incurred by the family. In sharp contrast are the huge financial expenses that occur when hospice is not used.
Hospice is not covered by managed care.
While managed-care organizations are not required to include hospice coverage, Medicare beneficiaries can use their Medicare Hospice Benefit anytime, anywhere they choose. Those under 65 are likely to gain access to hospice care upon inquiry.
Hospice is when there is no hope.
When death is in sight, there are two options: submit without hope or live life as fully as possible until the end. The gift of hospice is its capacity to help families see how much can be shared at the end of life through loving personal and spiritual connections.
Vailia Dennis-17088 Cresta Dr., San Diego, CA 92128-Phone:(858) 487-8374 E-mail: vailia@pacbell.net
21 - Wisdom
Wisdom
(Or Lack Thereof)
We’re supposed to get smarter as we get older. That’s not always true, though I’m afraid we also believe that we are smarter and know more and can be somewhat stubborn about it. We look at our advanced age as the age of wisdom, and I for one, fully believed that. Well I’ve learned my lessons and I’m only not smarter, I’ve discovered that sometimes my children are smarter than I am!
I’ve recently been pretty self-concerned and all this is leading up to another “I should have known better” situation. The situation is that I didn’t decide to stop eating. I just decided that nothing tasted good, or I was too involved to stop for something as mundane as fixing a sandwich for lunch. The “not tasting good” has a real reason. We lose taste buds as we age and I believe mine have all gone down the drain along with several inedible frozen dinners. That meant that I just didn’t bother to eat dinner. About the same time some strange things started to happen to me.
I began jerking. First, the fingers on my left hand started moving rapidly as though they had a mind of their own. Then the same condition traveled up my arm with even more rapid jerks. When this alarming movement encompassed both my right hand and arm and eventually my head, all strangely moving at the same time, I logically became more alarmed. However the real scare was when the jerking attacked my legs, leaving me unable to stand or move. What in the world was happening to me?
Of course I contacted my doctor and of course we began blood tests. Perhaps it was the thyroid, either too active or not active enough. But that all changed when Debby, my wonderful daughter-in-law, arrived to spend several days with me. While she was here, she witnessed the fact that I wasn’t eating enough to feed a sparrow. That evening when she arrived home, she told my son what she had seen. “Your mother is starving herself,” she explained. “No one can survive on the amount she eats.”
The next morning my son called with his very firm son voice. “Mom,” he said, “what do you think happens when your body doesn’t get enough nourishment? Where do you think it gets it?”
“From itself?” I asked.
“You got it,” he said.
He then went on to give me absolute instructions as to how I was to eat. Three canned food-supplements a day with other food in-between each one. I was informed that I needed to keep the calorie and protein count up. And I was not to forget a drink or meal.
He was being too bossy, but I couldn’t complain. He was absolutely right and that began a new eating regimen. I felt better the very first day. I was more alert and I had more energy. By the third day the jerking stopped and I realized that what I had been suffering from was malnutrition. Would you believe it? I brought it all on myself by simply not eating. I also must confess that I did not inform my doctor or my visiting nurse that I had reduced my food intake to almost nothing.
I wonder if anyone between the ages of 40 and 70 can understand why I said nothing about having a problem? I didn’t know I had one. The part of the brain that signals hunger stopped sending the information. So, during my hunger strike, I was oblivious about what was happening. Without a hunger signal I had no appetite. In an effort to eat, I found nothing that had enough flavor to make me want to eat. In other words I didn’t think I had a reason to eat. Actually, I didn’t think at all.
Now it has changed. I still don’t get hungry or crave a certain food. What I do is eat anyway. I consume three cans of food supplements every day and a sandwich, egg, soup, or salad in-between each one. I really don’t call it eating. I see it as part of my medical routine. Not pills, but every bit as important. Besides, I still want to hang around a while and enjoy my family, friends and especially my bossy son.
I’ve recently been pretty self-concerned and all this is leading up to another “I should have known better” situation. The situation is that I didn’t decide to stop eating. I just decided that nothing tasted good, or I was too involved to stop for something as mundane as fixing a sandwich for lunch. The “not tasting good” has a real reason. We lose taste buds as we age and I believe mine have all gone down the drain along with several inedible frozen dinners. That meant that I just didn’t bother to eat dinner. About the same time some strange things started to happen to me.
I began jerking. First, the fingers on my left hand started moving rapidly as though they had a mind of their own. Then the same condition traveled up my arm with even more rapid jerks. When this alarming movement encompassed both my right hand and arm and eventually my head, all strangely moving at the same time, I logically became more alarmed. However the real scare was when the jerking attacked my legs, leaving me unable to stand or move. What in the world was happening to me?
Of course I contacted my doctor and of course we began blood tests. Perhaps it was the thyroid, either too active or not active enough. But that all changed when Debby, my wonderful daughter-in-law, arrived to spend several days with me. While she was here, she witnessed the fact that I wasn’t eating enough to feed a sparrow. That evening when she arrived home, she told my son what she had seen. “Your mother is starving herself,” she explained. “No one can survive on the amount she eats.”
The next morning my son called with his very firm son voice. “Mom,” he said, “what do you think happens when your body doesn’t get enough nourishment? Where do you think it gets it?”
“From itself?” I asked.
“You got it,” he said.
He then went on to give me absolute instructions as to how I was to eat. Three canned food-supplements a day with other food in-between each one. I was informed that I needed to keep the calorie and protein count up. And I was not to forget a drink or meal.
He was being too bossy, but I couldn’t complain. He was absolutely right and that began a new eating regimen. I felt better the very first day. I was more alert and I had more energy. By the third day the jerking stopped and I realized that what I had been suffering from was malnutrition. Would you believe it? I brought it all on myself by simply not eating. I also must confess that I did not inform my doctor or my visiting nurse that I had reduced my food intake to almost nothing.
I wonder if anyone between the ages of 40 and 70 can understand why I said nothing about having a problem? I didn’t know I had one. The part of the brain that signals hunger stopped sending the information. So, during my hunger strike, I was oblivious about what was happening. Without a hunger signal I had no appetite. In an effort to eat, I found nothing that had enough flavor to make me want to eat. In other words I didn’t think I had a reason to eat. Actually, I didn’t think at all.
Now it has changed. I still don’t get hungry or crave a certain food. What I do is eat anyway. I consume three cans of food supplements every day and a sandwich, egg, soup, or salad in-between each one. I really don’t call it eating. I see it as part of my medical routine. Not pills, but every bit as important. Besides, I still want to hang around a while and enjoy my family, friends and especially my bossy son.
20 - One More Miracle
One More Miracle
A long time ago I was so troubled and the demands were so great that I struggled daily. Then a thought crossed my mind and I turned to God with a request. I have rarely asked anything of God because I think that we can, and should, face our own responsibilities. But one day amidst several problems, I asked, “Dear God, if you give me these problems while I am young enough to handle them, could you please offer me peace when I am very old?” God has always answered my requests. I found that my world calmed down as I got older, my stress diminished, and living became a more pleasant experience.
Eventually, I realized that I was living a charmed life, full of large and small miracles and interesting events. These events include appearing on television, being photographed and interviewed for the Wall Street Journal, and making the acquaintance of Pamela.
Pamela is an incredible miracle. I believe God sent her. She arrived most unexpectedly. It began like this . . . Pamela left her office to have lunch, went down the elevator to the street floor and saw a copy of the Wall Street Journal on a table in the lobby. She was drawn to a picture of me with my Shetland sheepdog, Nicky. When she looked at the photo she thought I looked like her grandmother and then she concentrated on Nicky. This is the way she described it to me. “I looked at that picture and thought, what would it be like if the situation was reversed and I was dying? What if I didn’t have the right place to leave my dog? It would be horrible if I didn’t know someone who would really want him . . . someone who would love and care for him the way I do.”
She must have read my mind. Finding the right home for Nicky was traumatic for me. I knew I was dying and I really didn’t know what I was going to do to protect him. How I could be sure that someone would love and understand my precious pet? Where could I find her? The amazing truth is, if I had searched the whole world over, there would be no one more perfect for Nicky than Pamela.
Her concern caused her to write a letter to the editor of the Wall Street Journal, who forwarded it to the San Diego Hospice, who forwarded it to me. I answered her letter and we met. Into Nicky’s and my life came this incredibly caring, loving young woman. She has been with us often and takes care of Nicky while she’s here. (We both want to make the transition easier for him.) She genuinely loves us both and shows it in the most wonderful ways. Grooming Nicky to perfection, taking him for walks, staying in touch with me for my sake and adding her special love to our lives. She also graciously receives the love we have for her.
Do I believe that Pamela coming into my life was a big miracle? You bet I do!
Eventually, I realized that I was living a charmed life, full of large and small miracles and interesting events. These events include appearing on television, being photographed and interviewed for the Wall Street Journal, and making the acquaintance of Pamela.
Pamela is an incredible miracle. I believe God sent her. She arrived most unexpectedly. It began like this . . . Pamela left her office to have lunch, went down the elevator to the street floor and saw a copy of the Wall Street Journal on a table in the lobby. She was drawn to a picture of me with my Shetland sheepdog, Nicky. When she looked at the photo she thought I looked like her grandmother and then she concentrated on Nicky. This is the way she described it to me. “I looked at that picture and thought, what would it be like if the situation was reversed and I was dying? What if I didn’t have the right place to leave my dog? It would be horrible if I didn’t know someone who would really want him . . . someone who would love and care for him the way I do.”
She must have read my mind. Finding the right home for Nicky was traumatic for me. I knew I was dying and I really didn’t know what I was going to do to protect him. How I could be sure that someone would love and understand my precious pet? Where could I find her? The amazing truth is, if I had searched the whole world over, there would be no one more perfect for Nicky than Pamela.
Her concern caused her to write a letter to the editor of the Wall Street Journal, who forwarded it to the San Diego Hospice, who forwarded it to me. I answered her letter and we met. Into Nicky’s and my life came this incredibly caring, loving young woman. She has been with us often and takes care of Nicky while she’s here. (We both want to make the transition easier for him.) She genuinely loves us both and shows it in the most wonderful ways. Grooming Nicky to perfection, taking him for walks, staying in touch with me for my sake and adding her special love to our lives. She also graciously receives the love we have for her.
Do I believe that Pamela coming into my life was a big miracle? You bet I do!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)