Grand-Opening May 15, 2007

Who would have thought a visit in passing to a newly launched Walgreens store on West Boylston Street would find me draped over the steering wheel crying my eyes out?

Of course the uncontrollable weeping was held at bay until I got into the privacy of my trusty Mazda 3, but I sure would have been a sight if someone had happened upon me in the Seasonal aisle wracked in sobs of grief over my dead mother. I’m telling you, I nearly lost it coming across a box of imported-from-China battery-operated hand-held personal fans.

She loved Walgreens and I hated that store with a passion. I used to get really irritated when one of the old ladies at the nursing home would give her a copy of their weekly advertisement from the Sunday Telegram because it always meant my mom pleading with me to visit Walgreens to pick up some of their sale items which they invariably NEVER had in stock. I can’t even convey the extent of my arguments with my mom over something not being in stock. It usually went something like this:

“But it’s in the paper. They’ve got to have it. It’s on sale!”
“No, ” I would try to reason, “They make up these ads months in advance and just because it’s on sale doesn’t mean they’re going to have it.”
“Maybe it’s in the back?”
“No, it’s not. They don’t have it.”
“I’ll go ask someone.”
“Well, you can go ask someone, but they’re not going to have it.”

It would go on and on like this. She would insist and I would try to reason with her, but in the end my voice would rise in frustration, we would start swearing at each other and eventually she would just get really pissed off at me and storm off into another section of the store.

Our most infamous battle was over the aforementioned battery-operated fan. She wanted it so much because when you hit the Go button, the fan would spin around really fast and make this bright, LED colored light show. It was kind of groovy and psychedelic to just stare at it and I think that’s why she wanted it so much. I, of course, thought it was the biggest waste of her money because she would use it once, get bored with it and then want to give it to me as a gift.

Sometimes I would break down and take her to the only local Walgreens which was on Park Ave in Worcester. I feared for our safety going to that store because of its location and wouldn’t have been surprised if during one of our visits, we were involved in a violent stick up while my Mom was buying a bag of Strawberry Creme Savers.

But every time we went there, she would look for that damned hand-held personal fan. She just kept thinking that they’d get it back in stock. It didn’t matter that it was the middle of Winter, she wanted that fan and was determined to buy it. I just couldn’t get her to understand the retail marketing strategy of the Seasonal aisle. Winter months featured Christmas decorations and Valentine’s Day candy. Spring brought Easter decorations and Jelly Beans…not personal hand-held fans that gave off light shows. That was reserved for our hottest months and there was no guarantee that who ever supplied these cheaply made fans would continue to supply Walgreens with the same design year-after-year.

I remember when I showed her this soon-to-be opening Walgreens on West Boylston Street. I happily said, “See? We can go there anytime you’d like because it’s so close and much safer than the one on Park Ave.” She was excited that I was willing to take her to Walgreens without any fuss and was looking forward to when the store opened.

I forgot all about the new Walgreens after she died this past November. I’d pass it every so often and see it’s construction progress. But I had no interest in visiting Walgreens. After all, in the food chain of discount drug stores, Walgreens gets the lowest position because it’s just a junk store that never has advertised sale items in stock. Here’s my current ranking:

• CVS Pharmacy
• Target
• Brooks Pharmacy
• Any supermarket drug store section
• Wal-Mart
• Walgreens

But tonight on the way home, we decided to stop into the newly opened Walgreens to check it out. To tell the truth, they had advertised a new SKITTLES flavor: Limited Edition Carnival and I just had to hit that. But rest assured, they didn’t have it. And right after being disappointed, I found myself wandering over to the Seasonal aisle and that’s when my hidden grief over losing my mom to cancer back in November hit me like a ton of bricks. That stupid personal fan. There it was tucked up on a shelf–boxes and boxes of them waiting to be advertised and bought by anyone else other than my mother.

I paid for my purchases and got back into the car. I gripped the steering wheel and just let the dam burst. I never would have thought during all those annoying shopping trips we took together that going shopping with my mother to a Walgreens would be one of the things I miss most now that she’s gone.

I would have told you were she still alive and well that I hated taking my mom shopping every Tuesday and Friday for these past eight years because it was always a source of massive frustration. I’d bargain with her over what she could and couldn’t buy in the store like she was my five year old daughter. Sometimes I would buy what she wanted just to shut her up so I could get some peace. Other times I would lie and tell her the store didn’t have something because I knew she really didn’t need to waste what little money she had on yet another $5.99 t-shirt. (She had to have every color Hanes t-shirt made, one color was never enough) Other times I would leave her to sit in the car while I ran into the store to buy her a bag of candy because I didn’t have the patience to deal with her slow lumbering movements with the walker because I knew that I could be in and out of the store 90% faster than if we both went in together.

As her caregiver and her only child, I know that I did my best for her. But coming across that stupid cheap fan really hit home to what I lost when my mom died six months ago.

What A Difference 3 Months Can Make February 25, 2007

Most people think life sucks, and then you die. Not me. I beg to differ. I think life sucks, then you get cancer, then your dog dies, your wife leaves you, the cancer goes into remission, you get a new dog, you get remarried, you owe ten million dollars in medical bills but you work hard for thirty five years and you pay it back and then one day you have a massive stroke, your whole right side is paralyzed, you have to limp along the streets and speak out of the left side of your mouth and drool but you go into rehabilitation and regain the power to walk and the power to talk and then one day you step off a curb at Sixty-seventh Street, and BANG you get hit by a city bus and then you die. Maybe. ~Denis Leary

During a pre-op physical for my upcoming foot surgery, I was asking my doctor a few questions about some health concerns-namely that my mom died of cancer and I was advised by her doctor to get a colonoscopy sooner than the recommended age of fifty. She asked me what type of cancer my mom died of and I was simply stunned that I couldn’t remember the name of it!Just a mere four months ago, I lived and breathed the hated phrase ‘Adenocarcinoma’ but all I could think to say was, “I think it began with “endo…” I couldn’t remember what my own mother died of and for the life of me, I couldn’t even recall the simple word “oncologist” when describing my mother’s doctor who told me to get a colonoscopy sooner because of the type of cancer my mother had.

Was it so long ago? No, of course not. But my mother died of cancer and it doesn’t matter what type of cancer it was…it still ravaged her and took her too soon and very violently. Maybe my brain just blocked out the details after her death and it was far easier to say stomach cancer than a very rare form of cancer that develops in cells lining glandular types of organs (namely the colon, stomach, pancreas and cervix) and spills death into her bloodstream destroying her everywhere.

They don’t have a magnetic car ribbon supporting awareness for Adenocarcinoma. There isn’t a walk I can do in her memory alongside other survivors because in most cases there isn’t a survival rate.

I was in a Hallmark store buying a birthday gift last week and saw a little display of bracelets each showing a charm in the shape of a ribbon colored for a particular form of cancer. I thought about getting one, but was torn over stomach cancer and colon cancer. I just didn’t know.

My mom died nearly three months ago and I find myself left with fuzzy details. If I try real hard to think of specifics of the cancer that took her, I remember our shared nightmare which began in late October with stomach pains. Her discomfort turned into an emergency surgery to repair a perforation in her small intestine and while the surgeon was in there rooting around, well, he found a nice little surprise called a malignant tumor that got sent on it’s way to pathology only to return saying, “We’re sorry, but she probably has only a few weeks to live.”

And I wonder about these past three months since my mom died. Does time heal all wounds? I’d like to think that instead time allows other things to settle into your life to distract you from what happened. Time throws in worry about getting your income taxes done and how much weight have I lost on Weight Watchers this week and maybe I’d better check out that movie before it leaves the theatre.

Your life goes on because you’re fortunate enough to be alive when your mother is dead. It’s a simple hard fact. You come to the realization that your life is completely your responsibility now because your mother is gone and there’s no one left to care about it but you. Looking after yourself means asking your doctor the uncomfortable question about when to get a colonoscopy. And I guess it also means forgiving yourself when you don’t remember Adenocarcinoma because after all, what does it really matter? Dead is dead.

Gloria J. Silva December 3, 2006

My mother died on Wednesday night around 9:30pm. I was able to be by her bedside holding her hand when it happened. I’ll spare the personal details of my experiences these past few months and share with you some of the things that made me who I am today because of the love and care of my mother:

• I always remember this one thing that my mom told me: No matter how bad you feel, there is always someone doing much worse.

• She loved music and listened to records all the time when I was growing up. Her favorite singer was Billy Joel, but she loved so many artists. Here are just a few that I remember: Al Stewart, The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, UB40, Juice Newton, Tina Turner, Chris Isaak, The soundtrack to the Super Fly movie, The Rolling Stones and just so many others I can’t even list. I am a music lover because of my mom.
• She always told everyone she met what a wonderful daughter I was and how much she loved me. I was her world. She lived for me. She was proud of me.
• Mom loved babies so much. Her eyes would just light up whenever we were in a store shopping and she saw children. Unfortunately, our attempt at pregnancy failed in March of 2005, but mom would have been a wonderful grandmother. Knowing she won’t see her grandchild breaks me, but I know that she’s with me in spirit.
• Avon was a big pleasure for her during her six year stay in two nursing homes. She loved to load her hands up with as many rings that her fingers could hold and most times double-stacked her rings because she loved how they looked on her hands. I became an Avon lady this past July so she could have a reliable Avon contact and thanks to her, I’m doing pretty good at it.
• Mom didn’t have a very good relationship with her family, but I always knew how much she loved her mother despite her difficult childhood. But she loved her mother-in-law Rose Silva dearly and thought of her as her own mother. They fought a lot as two women living in a house are prone to do, but they did love and care for each other very much. She took the death of my grandmother very hard in 1988 when I was just 18 years old.
• I always used to tease my mother about her tri-fecta of shopping: shoes, bras and underwear. No matter what department store we went to (Wal-Mart especially), she would drive me nuts because she could never quite find the right bra that fit or be happy with having just a few pairs of shoes. Unfortunately, I’m much like my mother. I have certain things that fascinate me and I just can’t get enough of: salad dressings, vacuums, purses and the latest newly packaged foods in the grocery store.
• Many people say that my mother and I look alike. It used to always irritate me because I wanted to think that my features resembled my father. I didn’t see this before, but now that I look at myself in the mirror, I’m glad that I do actually resemble her.
• I have never seen someone in my own personal life suffer with so much pain on a daily basis. I’m a wimp when it comes to being sick. At the slight awakening of a headache, I’m popping Tylenol. But she was the master of sucking it up and handling pain. I’m so glad that she never ended up in a wheel chair.
• I remember all our walks to Lincoln Plaza when I was little. She used to always say how she bought me all this stuff, but never anything for her self. It made me feel guilty. But as I’m older, I realize that buying things for me and taking care of me was the biggest pleasure in her life aside from being with my dad.

I am going to miss my mother something fierce. Both she and my dad died in the month of November. It will always be a month of sadness for me.

But this Christmas I’m going to do my best not to be sad. I’m going to decorate my new tinsel Christmas Tree and remember all the crazy times when I was little when she used to transform the house. Christmas is my favorite holiday and my parents gave me wonderful memories. But I can guarantee you that when I’m hanging the ornaments on the tree this year, I’ll be thinking of how my mother would go through the process of decorating and tearing down the Christmas tree at least four times until she got it perfect. It should come as no surprise that I’m a bit of a perfectionist and I have her to thank for that as well.

I’m not ashamed to say that she did the best she could as a mother with many problems and I was one lucky kid to have a mother so devoted to me.

I am the best thing about my mother’s life.

Sounds Like… May 27, 2006

I was on vacation this week and purposefully took a break from my mother. We didn’t get together this past Tuesday, but guilt got the better of me and I picked her up Friday night for an evening out. I figured she could use an airing from being in the nursing home all week.

She reminded me that her wedding anniversary was coming up (May 31st) and told me, “You don’t have to take me out to dinner if you don’t want to.” When my father died suddenly in 1998, I stopped counting their wedding anniversary because it’s not like he’s here to celebrate it anymore. Why must I be so practical?

When I picked her up, she surprisingly had three choices to provide for restaurants she might like to visit for dinner: Pub 99, Barbers Crossing in Sterling or The Webster House. Considering we hadn’t been to The Webster House in quite sometime, I decided this was the best choice.

When we arrived around 8pm, the parking lot was pretty lean and I was happily able to get the closest handicap parking spot right near the door. I was very pleased. When we were seated, I noticed there was a man over in the corner near our booth playing an acoustic set. My mother’s back was to him so she couldn’t see him. As he was singing “Starry, Starry Night“, my mother leaned forward and asked me, “Is he gay? He sounds gay.” Unbelievable. I don’t quite know how a man singing could register on my mother’s gaydar, but there was the question.

He continued to sing and during a particular high warble my mother again leaned forward and said to me, “He sounds like a cat in heat.” Oh, dear. I was mortified that she said it so loudly, but more so because the woman sitting at the booth next to us obviously knew the singer and was enjoying the show. I hoped she hadn’t heard my mother. If she had heard her, she had enough tact to ignore us and not be openly offended by my mother’s proclamation.

I tried to engage my mother in light conversation so she wouldn’t focus on the singer, but eventually nothing I was saying mattered because the singer was now performing Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind” which is one of my mother’s favorite songs. “It doesn’t sound anything like him. Whose he kidding?” my mother blustered at me while sipping her coffee. “It’s not supposed to sound exact. It’s his interpretation of the song.” I countered. “Well, he sucks.” she replied matter-of-factly and there was nothing more for me to say.

The singer ended his set, walked over to hug a warm hello to the lady sitting in the next booth and I managed to make warm eye contact with him saying, “Very nice set.” My mother just glared at me.

And this little experience at The Webster House is why taking my mother out of the nursing home oftentimes turns into an occasion that I need a break from. Too bad vacations are so infrequent.

Fred is Dead October 12, 2005

Mom called me at work this past Monday to ask if I remembered who did the song called “Freddie’s Dead.” Of course I immediately knew what song she was referring to because it was from the SuperFly soundtrack back in the 70′s. She and my dad were big fans of the movie back in their day.

I happily told her that I had the CD and she asked if I could bring it up to her because she wanted to have someone at the nursing home listen to this particular song. I shouldn’t have asked her why.

Turns out one of the residents has this goldfish named Fred and well…Fred Is Dead.

Mom thought it would be real funny to have this lady listen to the song from the Superfly movie soundtrack. Never mind that this song is about a drug user named Fred and in no way related to a goldfish or this person’s grief over the loss of her pet. In the mind of my mother, it’s just a funny coincidence that she knows a song called Fred Is Dead and also knows someone
who had a fish named Fred.

I can’t find the CD. I’ve looked through my collection and know it’s there somewhere, but I can’t lay my hands on it. I hate it when that happens. My Mom has this infuriating skill of remembering things from a long time ago with stunning clarity, but her illness doesn’t allow for her to recall if she asked me to bring up a bag of potato chips or a box of Equal on Tuesday
night.

Finding the Superfly soundtrack is just another task added to the list of things that my mother needs or wants, but sometimes it’s how she comes up with the need that’s pretty funny. Dead goldfish = dead druggie song from the 70′s. Go figure.

Easy Rider August 27, 2005

Mom was complaining to me last night about this new 80-year old woman who is a new resident at the nursing home. Apparently she likes to plaster on the makeup and has this annoying habit of applying mascara during mealtime. Not being able to take it anymore, my mom issued her an ultimatum: Either you take that bag off the table and put it on the floor where I don’t have to see it or I’m gonna throw it across the room! None of those old ladies can mess with my mom and the lady took her bag off the table.

Mom went on to tell me how this new resident has a son who doesn’t work and looks like a big dummy (her words, not mine!). He was in the other day wearing a Harley-Davidson t-shirt which caught my mom’s eye because she used to be a bona-fide Harley Mamma. Overhearing that he was telling his mom that he just bought a really nice bike, my mother poked her nose in where it doesn’t belong and asked, “What kind of bike is it?” “Oh, it’s really lightweight.” She asked, “Is it a low-rider or a full-dressed?” He looked at her and said, “Well, it’s kinda tubular.”

Turns out Junior spent $80 on a Huffy…not a Harley.

This revelation turned into a little rant from my mother about what a loser this son is and how he shouldn’t be wearing Harley Davidson t-shirts unless he actually owns a motorcycle. I try to reason with her that he can wear whatever he wants to wear, but that only made her angrier.

“Did you know he brought up his mother a lousy bag of Cheetos the other day? She doesn’t need Cheetos–what she needs is underwear! Big deal. A bag of Cheetos. What’s that cost him? 89 cents? The woman needs clothes.”

But somehow this new resident who is light in the clothes department manages to be heavy in the bright red lipstick department of which my mother doesn’t approve and wears too much eyeshadow. “She doesn’t need to wear all that crap!” says my mother indignantly. And I wonder to myself how many times I’ve bitten my tongue over the freak-show makeup combinations my Mother manages once the Avon lady delivers her monthly order. Or all the rings she wears on her fingers that make her look like a fortune teller.

But in all seriousness, I really wish I could have been there to see the look on my mom’s face when the old lady’s son told my mom proudly about his ten-speed. That would have been priceless. Or at the very least…worth 89 cents.

Two Fat Chicks July 20, 2005

It’s official. I’m fat. There–I freaking said it and there’s no turning back now because everyone is going to read this and know.

How do I know I’m fat aside from the obvious tonnage and the near death experience living day-to-day in this mortifying heat? I know I’m fat because a smart-ass teen referred to me and my mom tonight as “…those two fat chicks” as they were walking ahead of us in the parking lot of Kohl’s at The Shoppes at BlackStone Valley.

It happened like this. These 3 teenage boys were walking along side of us, but they were kind of hugging the edge of the curb. One of the kids said really loud, “This place is soooo dead tonight. I bet I could walk right down the middle here and not get hit by a car.” So as they were passing us, my mom obviously couldn’t help over hearing his boastfulness and we all know my mom can never say anything quietly: “Yea, go ahead you big dummy. I’d like to see you get hit.”

I kind of snorted because I hate it when kids talk really loudly and then get all bent out of shape if you actually acknowledge their existence and what my mom said was kind of funny. Well, I had it coming because no sooner were they a little bit ahead of us that one of the kids must have told the other kid that were were laughing at them. “Who…those two fat chicks?”

THOSE-TWO-FAT-CHICKS. I let the words sink into me as I was walking with my mom back to our car. Thank God she didn’t hear him say that!

Those two fat chicks. Those two fat chicks. Face it. I’m a fat chick.

It’s really, really, really hard hearing the truth and it’s even harder hearing it from some jerk like that kid in the parking lot. He shouldn’t even register on my radar. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know how good of a person I am. He doesn’t know that I’m a super great inventory analyst at the number one office supply retailer in the country and I keep his smart little ass in stock of Swingline staplers and jumbo paperclips. He doesn’t know the first thing about me except that he knows a fat chick when he sees one.

So what do fat chicks like me do when they’re forced to face the facts? Do I hang my head in embarrassment over what I’ve let myself become or do I do something about it? Well, I think that decision is best left for another day.

Once I got my mom settled into the car, we turned on the radio and treated ourselves to a little Billy Joel song on the oldies station and cracked open a bag of Jelly Belly licorice jelly beans that we had just bought at Target. Afterall, I may be a fat chick–but I’m not a stupid fat chick.

To Catch A Thief July 6, 2005

Mom was extremely upset last night because someone stole the fancy antique clock in the coffee shop of her nursing home at some point over the holiday weekend. “I mean, who would steal a clock?” she asked me in disgust.

This isn’t the first time something precious has been stolen either. A few weeks back, the thief walked off with a very nice portable stereo with detachable speakers that was perched high up on a shelf in the very same coffee shop. So now the old folks are left without two basic neccessities: a clock to watch time slip by and a radio to play their polka music.

Because of these recent thefts, my mom has worked herself into a tizzy and now eyes every nursing home worker and outside visitor with suspicion. The nurses’s aide letting us back into the locked building last night is a suspect, the custodian with the shifty eyes could be the one and it’s never occurred to my mother that maybe it’s actually a resident that took these things.

Alicia, the administrator, came back from her 3-month maternity leave yesterday and was forced to deal on her first day back with many residents loudly voicing their concerns that they’ve been infiltrated by a no-good crook!

I tried to tell mom last night that there’s nothing to be worried about, but she reminded me about the break-in about a month ago. “Well, that was just kids looking for Oxycontin from the medication carts.” “Oh, Yea?” she asked, “What if they break in again and take one of us hostage?” (Now that would be pretty funny, wouldn’t it?) I asked her, “How much do you think they would get for you?” She thought for a second and replied, “Huh..not much.”

It’s pretty pathetic that anyone would steal from a nursing home when these facilities have so little to begin with. But theft of personal property is a major concern It’s been my first hand experience that residents have things stolen from them all the time-bottles of perfume, cans of soda left on nightstands, money in change purses left hidden under pillows next to dentures.

My mother has actualy woken up in the middle of the night startled by a strange noise only to discover a CNA worker rifling through the top drawer of her nightstand. When my mom demanded to know what she was doing, the aide actually had the nerve to say my mother’s top draw had come off it’s track and she was simply putting it back in place–at 3am in the morning. Now what do you think she was really doing?

My mother has even had inconsequential things taken from her such as pages from her Horse page-a-day calendar and recently a favorite tie-dyed shirt. Upon discovering another resident wearing her t-shirt, she marched right up to the woman and demanded to know why she was wearing her shirt. “You know damned well that’s not your shirt. That’s my shirt. Who the hell wears a tie-dyed shirt in this place except me!” The woman replied, “I didn’t have any clothes so the aide gave it to me.” Really? So now my mother’s closet is a back-up option to other residents if their clothing hasn’t come back from laundry?

To combat theft, I bought my mom two inexpensive filing cabinets with locks. She keeps her most valuable possessions inside these four drawers. I do realize that if anyone really wanted to steal something they could just jimmy open the lock and take anything they wanted. These filing cabinets are meant to secure documents rather than personal treasures. But it’s at least a small deterrent to anyone looking to score off of my mother.

The realization that I can no longer give my mom gifts such as a nice figurine or a beautiful picture frame can be very depressing at times. And if I buy her expensive clothing, I understand there is always the chance that the laundry department could lose or ruin the clothing. When you live in a nursing home, every purchase has to be weighed heavily because you just don’t know how long you’ll get to enjoy it.

Keeping track of your own stuff is hard enough. But it seems now residents have the added worry of wondering when the next big thing will be stolen out of common areas such as their coffee shop and dining hall. Unfortunately for the residents in my mom’s nursing home-they’ve got one more thing to worry about. When will the thief strike next?

Aside from the potential hostage crisis, that is.

Nosey No More June 29, 2005

I was visiting my mom last night at the nursing home and as usual, I was hustling her out the door so we could make our weekly trip to CVS before they closed for the night. I decided to pass on stopping in across the hall to say hello to her friend Helen because we were kind of in a hurry. Thinking I could just stop in to see her another time, my mom says, “Well, I just thought you’d like to say hello seeing that she’s only got half a nose now.” I stopped walking, stunned by what she just said. And then my mom laughed saying, “Well, at least she won’t be so nosey anymore!”

Recently I found out Helen-in the neighborhood of about eighty-five years old-had a relapse of skin cancer. My mom explained that Helen didn’t want to have the surgery, but her sons kept pushing her to do it. I hear stories like this all the time from the residents at my mom’s nursing home. Something really serious happens to them such getting Cancer or having a heart condition and they want nature to take its course and leave them out of it. It’s almost as if they’re telling Death, “Go ahead. Surprise me.”

I did end up visiting with Helen when we returned. She was propped up in her chair watching Law&Order and enjoying the cool breeze outside. Her left eye was bruised and shut from the surgery and her nose was completely concealed in white bandages with crusty bits of blood from a pretty vicious nosebleed earlier in the day. She looked horrible. I said, “Helen, you look like you’ve been in one hell of a fight.” She replied, “Yea, but you should see the other guy.” I laughed knowing that it was a good sign she could make a joke being in so much pain.

But Helen was in pretty good spirits and I think her pain meds had kicked in full force by the time I talked with her. She said she was feeling much better, but was having trouble blowing her nose because it kept bleeding. (My mom whispered loudly in my ear, “I bet she doesn’t even know she’s got half a nose!”) I glanced sharply back at my mom to let her know she should shush about the lack of nose.

Helen went on to tell me how she only had the surgery for the sake of her sons and that she didn’t want to be bothered. “Let me die and then they can have my money.” I brushed off her comment and tried to change the subject. The rest of our visit went okay, but I could really tell that she had no idea just how rough of shape she was in with her nose.

Helen told me they still had one little spot of cancer that they couldn’t get to because it was too close to her eye. “Hey. If I go blind then I go blind. I don’t care.”

I can’t help but feel badly for Helen. I wish her sons would have respected her wishes and not pressured her into the surgery for their sake. I told my own mother that I would never do something like that. I may not agree with her decision, but after all–it’s her body and her choice to make. As her daughter and legal guardian, it’s my duty to make sure she understands the consequences of her decisions.

Helen is the one suffering with post-surgical pain and bloody nosebleeds–not her sons. How do you think she’s going to feel when she finds out that surgery took away half of her nose? She’s going to be constantly reminded of what she lost everytime a new resident enters the home and meets her for the first time. They will ask, “What the hell happened to your nose?” And I continue to wonder what her sons were thinking knowing the doctor wouldn’t be successful at removing 100% of the cancer.

On the surface it’s easy to guilt a loved-one into doing something you want if you say the right words. But my advice is before you do that, take a moment to put yourself in their situation to try and see things from another perspective other than your own.

In the case of Helen, she didn’t even have a visit from her sons after letting the doctors take half of her nose and that’s just wrong!

Happy Birthday January 12, 2005

My mom’s roommate Bea is going to be turning 100 years old this Friday which incidentally is one day after my 35th birthday. Unfortunately, Bea was on the verge of passing away last night when I went up to visit my Mom at the nursing home.

We don’t know exactly what happened or how she got sick, but her blood pressure dropped dramatically so a few of her daughters were called to be with her. It was as they say, ‘Off and On’ last night so my mom stayed out of the room as much as possible to give the family privacy with their mother.

But eventually my mom had to sleep so I walked with her back to the room to get her settled in for the night. Sitting in a chair besides Bea’s bed was a nurse’s aide who presumably was keeping watch over the I.V. and blood pressure cuff to make sure Bea’s vital signs remained stable. My mom went into the bathroom to wash up for the night and I stayed on my mom’s side of the room waiting for her to finish up so I could say good-night.

As I was standing there, I heard mumbling like someone was talking to themselves. I looked over to Bea’s bed and realized the mumbling was coming from the nurse’s aide. Apparently she was having a conversation on her cell phone! And then the giggling and laughing started. I simply stared at her in disbelief. Poor Bea was potentially lying on her death bed three days before her 100th Birthday and this disrespectful person was carrying on a rather lively conversation in her presence.

Now I know Bea probably didn’t know what in the world was going on, but still…so as I walked to my car last night and started up the car to head home all I kept thinking about is how this woman is nearly 100 years old and potentially her life is going to end in the presence of this aide rather than being surrounded by her family. How utterly sad.

I think to myself: Will that be me someday? Will I get the blessing of living a long life only to pass away being surrounded by some minimum-wage disrespectful worker who is only sitting next to me because it’s part of her job?

I don’t know if Bea survived the night, but I hope that she lives to enjoy the rightful celebration of her years this Friday surrounded by people who care about her.

Happy Birthday Miss Bea!