Glenbrook, Nevada
Billy and I have come to Glenbrook to spend time with Sandra and John. Sandra, my frister extraordinaire and blog namesake has been struggling with cancer and the difficult treatment that goes along with it. We had not seen Sandra since last September when they came to Carmel for a visit. She was gaining her strength back at that time, and the prognosis was good. But, alas, as Sandra wrote to me late last year, the cancer came back big time.
The second round of chemo took a lot out of her, but was successful in shrinking most of the tumors. I attribute that to the chemo, but I'm not so sure that the chemo did all the work. I cannot imagine how many prayers have been sent up for her. Bizillions, I think. And, if that didn't do the trick, I'm sure it worked in concert with the chemo.
Sandra looks thin, but with attractive, short, spikey hair. But most importantly, she is the same Sandra. She has a glow that comes from within and from, I believe, being the best person I know on this earth. She is kind, generous, a rock when you need one, and yet is the wickedest-funnest person I know. The chemo has taken a lot out of her, but it hasn't changed who she is. I just wish there was more of her, but she is trying hard to put weight back on.
Billy and I drove up to Glenbrook on US 395 which my family used to call the back road. I grew up with cousins who lived in Nevada, and we traveled there often when I was young. 395 takes you to Carson City. It's Mojave Desert for the first third or so of the drive, and then you begin to see trees. You have to slow to drive through little towns like Bridgeport and Tom's Place. Quaint places that look like they provide some civilization for folks who are mostly in those parts for fishing. Lots of sporting goods stores with big fish signage.
Once we turn onto Highway 50 at Carson City, and proceed up Spooner Grade, we begin to look forward to our first glimpse of the lake. It's a lot like driving into Carmel and anticipating the cypress trees, or, as we did when we were kids, trying to catch that first sighting of the Matterhorn on our way to Disneyland. I generally don't use the overused word awesome, but...it kinda is. When I first went to study Spanish at the Intensive Spanish Summer Institute at Tahoe in 2009, I thought I would hate being in the mountains. I'm a beach girl. But I found the lake to be so splendidly gorgeous, that I fell in love with the area. And Glenbrook, which is on the east shore, is about as idyllic of a community as I have ever seen. It is perfect.
We probably never would have heard of Glenbrook had we not been introduced to John and Sandra at the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village Resort. But we were, and we became fast friends. I have written before that we have traveled to various places together in addition to our annual October stays at the Kona Village--Rancho Santa Fe, Napa, Las Vegas, Carmel, Tahiti, and Panama. But I think of all of the places we've spent time together, besides the Kona Village, Glenbrook is my favorite. And, because John and Sandra have a lakeside home there, it is feels so relaxing to be with them. Often their large house and the guesthouse are filled with family and friends. But this time it is just us, and we have had a quiet visit together. Hopefully it feels similarly for them when they come to Carmel to stay with us.
We have made plans to see them again when we are in Carmel this September. Billy and I look forward to this. In my mind's eye I see Sandra gaining weight and strength. I see her now-spent energy increasing with each day that passes. I see us traveling together again, and having some of the wicked fun we have had in the past. Throughout her illness, Sandra has said that she believes in miracles, and so does her doctor. And so do all of us who are sending up those prayers.
We will drive home tomorrow, back down 395 through those small towns and speed traps. Eventually we will hit Palmdale. When we drove through Palmdale last Friday, Billy remarked: Have you ever noticed that there are no palms in Palmdale? Sometimes things aren't the way you expect them to be. And you just have to accept that. I do that every day as I watch my elderly mom diminishing. But I cannot do that with Sandra. She's the best of the best, and everyone who knows her wants her to rally and recover. Miracles happen, even in modern times. And while nobody needs palms in Palmdale, everyone who knows Sandra needs her. For me, she will always be my special friend/sister; my role model, my travel companion partner-in-crime. For me, she will always, always be Girlfriend--my irreplaceable Frister Extraordinaire.
July 29, 2013
July 21, 2013
Same Time, Next Year
Los Angeles, California
But. Then. In the midst of all of this, Brendan and Diana came to stay, as they have done every summer since...a while back. We've tried to figure it out, and have decided that it's been about a decade since their first visit here. The first two years, they brought their lovely daughters, who were high school and college-aged. Then they began coming a deux.
Since shortly after Diana and I became friends, after meeting on a cruise ship where we had been assigned as dining tablemates along with our moms and my errant sibling, I labeled Diana and her family as family, but in a good way. And I feel that the most when they are sharing our home. They remind me of some of the best times I have had with family.
From the time when Billy and I bought our first home, my parents would often join us for dinner. We lived about ten minutes away from each other, and often those dinners were last minute throw-togethers. We had a nice patio at our first, small house, and bought our dining room table a few years after we purchased the house. Up until that time we were using a table made from an industrial spool, which my boyfriend (*see ex-fiance--I'm kidding there is no reference to this, so far...) had finished for my use. It was popular to use these as coffee tables, but I had a marble coffee table which had been my grandparents', so what I really needed was a dining table, since I was already cooking up a storm. But I digress, once again, to the past...
The best part of having family over is that you are already in a familiar pattern. You know what everyone drinks and what they will or won't eat. We were a family who set a good table with cloth napkins and decent glassware. During this time, my eclectic period, my glassware, silverware, napkins, and even plates were carefully mismatched, by design. I was already collecting table linens, and napkin rings (which I have ceased to use). And I was cooking from The Silver Palate, Gourmet, and Bon Appetit, as we all were at that time.
When we moved to our current home, which was about twenty to twenty-five minutes from my parents home, the parties continued. We now had a large courtyard in the shade of a gigantic old oak tree. Billy and one of our male guests (often my brother-in-law), would move our dining room table out onto the courtyard, and we would dine under the oak tree. Our homage to Tuscany. And it was a magically fun time.
When the oak tree went down, we pondered what to do. That oak tree was about a century old, and we could not replace it with a tree even a quarter of that size, plus there was a root fungus in the ground which would make it risky to plant any tree in that location. Our house is U-shaped and lined with french doors which all looked out to the tree as a focal point. I missed the tree desperately, but I saw water there. We talked about a pool, but Billy was hesitant. I persevered. I told him if he didn't want a swimming pool, we should install some kind of a shallow water feature. I had it in my mind's eye. We consulted a pool contractor who designed a small, narrow pool for us--only 10x28, and edged in the same terra cotta tile as had around the courtyard. We built and finished it in 2001, and our friends arrived with their daughters a year or two after.
What I love about having Brendan and Diana as house guests is that, like with family, we fall into an easy routine. This year, they arrived on July 4th, coordinating with our plan to have all of the pre-visit prep done by the evening before. Of course that didn't happen, but we were close. By the time they arrived, we were in our swimsuits and ready to hold down the teak lounge chairs at the far end of the pool--an extension of the pool area supported by a retaining wall on our hill. OK, too much information, I'm thinking...
We hung out by the pool all day. This is what we do every day during their visit. We eat a mid-afternoon lunch in the style of tapas or mezes (which Billy calls snackies). As the sun dips, we go inside to shower and dress. Cocktails on the patio, followed by an easy dinner, eaten by candlelight. Then we go inside and play cards until early in the morning. There is usually cake involved. Later, off we go off to bed, to rise easily and on our own schedule in the morning, pouring coffee or tea and wandering back out to the patio to hang around, chatting and laughing, before a late (very) breakfast. And then to the pool...
We laugh a lot with Brendan and Diana. And we talk, and share, and eat, and drink. And for the past two years, we pay pool basketball. They brought the hoop and balls last year. Not that we're competitive with all this card playing and basketball lobbing. We're as happy when someone else wins as when we do. Well, almost...
So now, July has passed, and it will be another year before B&D come to visit us again. Then, once again we'll toast, and talk; laugh, and light candles. What with all of the sadness and upheaval in my life, it is sustaining to have these events to count upon and eagerly await. One thing I know for sure is that a year goes so fast these days, and soon it will be July again--the same time, next year. Thank you for reading my blog, and thanks for the memories, D&B!
But. Then. In the midst of all of this, Brendan and Diana came to stay, as they have done every summer since...a while back. We've tried to figure it out, and have decided that it's been about a decade since their first visit here. The first two years, they brought their lovely daughters, who were high school and college-aged. Then they began coming a deux.
Since shortly after Diana and I became friends, after meeting on a cruise ship where we had been assigned as dining tablemates along with our moms and my errant sibling, I labeled Diana and her family as family, but in a good way. And I feel that the most when they are sharing our home. They remind me of some of the best times I have had with family.
From the time when Billy and I bought our first home, my parents would often join us for dinner. We lived about ten minutes away from each other, and often those dinners were last minute throw-togethers. We had a nice patio at our first, small house, and bought our dining room table a few years after we purchased the house. Up until that time we were using a table made from an industrial spool, which my boyfriend (*see ex-fiance--I'm kidding there is no reference to this, so far...) had finished for my use. It was popular to use these as coffee tables, but I had a marble coffee table which had been my grandparents', so what I really needed was a dining table, since I was already cooking up a storm. But I digress, once again, to the past...
The best part of having family over is that you are already in a familiar pattern. You know what everyone drinks and what they will or won't eat. We were a family who set a good table with cloth napkins and decent glassware. During this time, my eclectic period, my glassware, silverware, napkins, and even plates were carefully mismatched, by design. I was already collecting table linens, and napkin rings (which I have ceased to use). And I was cooking from The Silver Palate, Gourmet, and Bon Appetit, as we all were at that time.
When we moved to our current home, which was about twenty to twenty-five minutes from my parents home, the parties continued. We now had a large courtyard in the shade of a gigantic old oak tree. Billy and one of our male guests (often my brother-in-law), would move our dining room table out onto the courtyard, and we would dine under the oak tree. Our homage to Tuscany. And it was a magically fun time.
When the oak tree went down, we pondered what to do. That oak tree was about a century old, and we could not replace it with a tree even a quarter of that size, plus there was a root fungus in the ground which would make it risky to plant any tree in that location. Our house is U-shaped and lined with french doors which all looked out to the tree as a focal point. I missed the tree desperately, but I saw water there. We talked about a pool, but Billy was hesitant. I persevered. I told him if he didn't want a swimming pool, we should install some kind of a shallow water feature. I had it in my mind's eye. We consulted a pool contractor who designed a small, narrow pool for us--only 10x28, and edged in the same terra cotta tile as had around the courtyard. We built and finished it in 2001, and our friends arrived with their daughters a year or two after.
What I love about having Brendan and Diana as house guests is that, like with family, we fall into an easy routine. This year, they arrived on July 4th, coordinating with our plan to have all of the pre-visit prep done by the evening before. Of course that didn't happen, but we were close. By the time they arrived, we were in our swimsuits and ready to hold down the teak lounge chairs at the far end of the pool--an extension of the pool area supported by a retaining wall on our hill. OK, too much information, I'm thinking...
We laugh a lot with Brendan and Diana. And we talk, and share, and eat, and drink. And for the past two years, we pay pool basketball. They brought the hoop and balls last year. Not that we're competitive with all this card playing and basketball lobbing. We're as happy when someone else wins as when we do. Well, almost...
So now, July has passed, and it will be another year before B&D come to visit us again. Then, once again we'll toast, and talk; laugh, and light candles. What with all of the sadness and upheaval in my life, it is sustaining to have these events to count upon and eagerly await. One thing I know for sure is that a year goes so fast these days, and soon it will be July again--the same time, next year. Thank you for reading my blog, and thanks for the memories, D&B!
July 12, 2013
Falling Off the Edge of the Earth
Los Angeles, California
Remember when I wrote funny posts? Do you recall my writing two, even three posts per month? Can you think back to my missives about the joy of those three things in my life: cooking; dancing; writing? How about: Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow, and oh so mellow (if you're very lucky, you hear Jerry Orbach singing this in the ear of your brain)? Anyway. Mom was hospitalized, and now continues her residence in the rehab facility. And. Still. I am the only family she has who is willing to help.
Lest we forget, I do have a sibling. An older sister. But she opted out of Mom's care, let's see, just about as soon as Mom needed care. Billy has stepped into her shoes (well, not literally). So I have those Chinatown moments: he's my husband/he's my sister/he's my husband, he's my sister . . . Come on, you know what I mean. Like we all don't have those moments.
So I've been absent from my blog -- giving my faithful (or faithless) posse a respite while I have been spinning out, trying to figure out what happens next in the morass of complications that make up elder care. All the while watching my mom diminish to a shadow. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Anxious? Depressed? Hurt? Yes, yes, and yes. But as I wrote to a frister recently: We've either been through this; are going through this; or will go through this. And that is probably the truth, mas o menos.
Life becomes a run when you have someone in the hospital. You get up; you get dressed; you do some work; you run. A lot of things fall by the wayside: hanging up clothes, balancing checking accounts (with taking on the responsibility for my mom's finances, I currently have seven); spending quality time with the spouse. Because he's running, too -- picking up the slack around the house, if not the pile of clothing on the bedroom chair.
I always think that she will be ok each time. But her congestive heart failure is weakening her. This stint at rehab to try to shore up her diminishing mobility is not as successful as in the past. And as she nears the fifty-day mark, she will need to leave rehab. Why? Because Medicare only pays for 100 days, and you cannot regenerate those days until she has avoided hospitalization for several months. Therefore, I always try to keep some days in reserve. So I will request her discharge shortly. And after that; who knows? My goal is to find the best place for her. As I have traveled this path, deeper and deeper into the woods, I have learned what she doesn't need. I have learned what to look for in board and care. And, what, at all costs, to avoid. Again, I just want to find the best place for her. All of this requires practical education in maneuvering the minefield of elder care. There is a lot of care to be had, but one quickly becomes cynical when you get caught up in the system. It's all about keeping the person going, my friend, Lydia (a doctor's daughter), recently commented about elder medical care. No, I corrected her. It's all about keeping the Medicare going. I know that sounds awful. I want my mom to keep going; to live out her lifespan. But when a myriad collection of "specialists" are called into the rehab center to see my mom and bill Medicare -- dentists, ophthamologists, podiatrists, it makes me wonder whether the Medicare pie is set out, and then everyone scrambles for their piece of it. After the doctors go away, Mom might be left to languish in bed if I were not there to advocate that she be up, and dressed so that her energy isn't further sapped.
I wish I could be around to see how you do when you're my age, my mom once snapped at me. And it was food for thought. My mom tells everyone that she was an acrobatic dancer. I'm not exactly sure what that means, as the story has changed throughout the years. My mom's bendable legend is that she was a dancer -- ballet, tap, and what was known as acrobatics, which, presumably, was like gymnastics. She also played tennis, and she bowled and roller-skated. But from the time I was born, when Mom was in her thirties, I never saw her engage in any physical activity, much less the ones listed above. When she reached her seventies, and we could see she was spending too much time sitting, I implored her to get moving. Use it or lose it, as the saying goes. But even as I talked to her about this, I knew that I was not the boss of her. The atrophy continued, and she is now wheelchair-bound.
Maybe I will be the same when I am her age. And, perhaps, that is the irony--that I will find that her statement about wanting to see how I do when I am her age is prophetic. But I am past middle age. And, unlike my mom, I move. I do Pilates. And I really dance -- last night, for about six hours, until my hair was literally dripping. Well, as I have written before, salsa dance--not for the squeamish.
Meanwhile I ponder where she will go from here. And I question the wisdom of elder care. I want to give her the gift of dying of old age as both her parents did. But you have to rage against the machine. You have to learn about palliative care. You have to focus on comfort. And it is a constant battle. Even as I write this, I was talked into authorizing metabolic lab tests for her, though I suspect it was, ostensibly, just about one more charge-off to Medicare. Elder care is a business. It is for profit. And, it is a shame.
So, at times it does feel as if I am balanced on the edge of the earth. Billy; my fristers and frothers; salsa dance; Dodger baseball; a brand-new taste for Negronis made with bourbon (thank you, Christopher!); a prospective return to Carmel in September, this ALL keeps me from falling off that edge. When I start to waver, I get pulled back. But even if you don't really fall, it still feels like the edge of the earth. And that is plain, damn scary...Thank you all for hanging in with me. Believe me, I KNOW it's not been pretty...And I thank you for reading my blog.
Remember when I wrote funny posts? Do you recall my writing two, even three posts per month? Can you think back to my missives about the joy of those three things in my life: cooking; dancing; writing? How about: Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow, and oh so mellow (if you're very lucky, you hear Jerry Orbach singing this in the ear of your brain)? Anyway. Mom was hospitalized, and now continues her residence in the rehab facility. And. Still. I am the only family she has who is willing to help.
Lest we forget, I do have a sibling. An older sister. But she opted out of Mom's care, let's see, just about as soon as Mom needed care. Billy has stepped into her shoes (well, not literally). So I have those Chinatown moments: he's my husband/he's my sister/he's my husband, he's my sister . . . Come on, you know what I mean. Like we all don't have those moments.
So I've been absent from my blog -- giving my faithful (or faithless) posse a respite while I have been spinning out, trying to figure out what happens next in the morass of complications that make up elder care. All the while watching my mom diminish to a shadow. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Anxious? Depressed? Hurt? Yes, yes, and yes. But as I wrote to a frister recently: We've either been through this; are going through this; or will go through this. And that is probably the truth, mas o menos.
Life becomes a run when you have someone in the hospital. You get up; you get dressed; you do some work; you run. A lot of things fall by the wayside: hanging up clothes, balancing checking accounts (with taking on the responsibility for my mom's finances, I currently have seven); spending quality time with the spouse. Because he's running, too -- picking up the slack around the house, if not the pile of clothing on the bedroom chair.
I always think that she will be ok each time. But her congestive heart failure is weakening her. This stint at rehab to try to shore up her diminishing mobility is not as successful as in the past. And as she nears the fifty-day mark, she will need to leave rehab. Why? Because Medicare only pays for 100 days, and you cannot regenerate those days until she has avoided hospitalization for several months. Therefore, I always try to keep some days in reserve. So I will request her discharge shortly. And after that; who knows? My goal is to find the best place for her. As I have traveled this path, deeper and deeper into the woods, I have learned what she doesn't need. I have learned what to look for in board and care. And, what, at all costs, to avoid. Again, I just want to find the best place for her. All of this requires practical education in maneuvering the minefield of elder care. There is a lot of care to be had, but one quickly becomes cynical when you get caught up in the system. It's all about keeping the person going, my friend, Lydia (a doctor's daughter), recently commented about elder medical care. No, I corrected her. It's all about keeping the Medicare going. I know that sounds awful. I want my mom to keep going; to live out her lifespan. But when a myriad collection of "specialists" are called into the rehab center to see my mom and bill Medicare -- dentists, ophthamologists, podiatrists, it makes me wonder whether the Medicare pie is set out, and then everyone scrambles for their piece of it. After the doctors go away, Mom might be left to languish in bed if I were not there to advocate that she be up, and dressed so that her energy isn't further sapped.
I wish I could be around to see how you do when you're my age, my mom once snapped at me. And it was food for thought. My mom tells everyone that she was an acrobatic dancer. I'm not exactly sure what that means, as the story has changed throughout the years. My mom's bendable legend is that she was a dancer -- ballet, tap, and what was known as acrobatics, which, presumably, was like gymnastics. She also played tennis, and she bowled and roller-skated. But from the time I was born, when Mom was in her thirties, I never saw her engage in any physical activity, much less the ones listed above. When she reached her seventies, and we could see she was spending too much time sitting, I implored her to get moving. Use it or lose it, as the saying goes. But even as I talked to her about this, I knew that I was not the boss of her. The atrophy continued, and she is now wheelchair-bound.
Maybe I will be the same when I am her age. And, perhaps, that is the irony--that I will find that her statement about wanting to see how I do when I am her age is prophetic. But I am past middle age. And, unlike my mom, I move. I do Pilates. And I really dance -- last night, for about six hours, until my hair was literally dripping. Well, as I have written before, salsa dance--not for the squeamish.
Meanwhile I ponder where she will go from here. And I question the wisdom of elder care. I want to give her the gift of dying of old age as both her parents did. But you have to rage against the machine. You have to learn about palliative care. You have to focus on comfort. And it is a constant battle. Even as I write this, I was talked into authorizing metabolic lab tests for her, though I suspect it was, ostensibly, just about one more charge-off to Medicare. Elder care is a business. It is for profit. And, it is a shame.
So, at times it does feel as if I am balanced on the edge of the earth. Billy; my fristers and frothers; salsa dance; Dodger baseball; a brand-new taste for Negronis made with bourbon (thank you, Christopher!); a prospective return to Carmel in September, this ALL keeps me from falling off that edge. When I start to waver, I get pulled back. But even if you don't really fall, it still feels like the edge of the earth. And that is plain, damn scary...Thank you all for hanging in with me. Believe me, I KNOW it's not been pretty...And I thank you for reading my blog.
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About Me
- Bronte Healy
- California, United States
- Once, I came up with this brilliant idea (well, I thought so, anyway) that the key to happiness was to concentrate on three things -- to choose three interests, then focus and funnel your energy into that trio. I was an English major in college and have always written in some shape or form. So, my first choice was writing. I've always kept journals, and have also written plays, novels, poetry, and shopping lists. I do have a day job. It deals with numbers (assets and finances). Go figure. I went to college at a California University. I live in California, Los Angeles, but not downtown. No children, and sadly, between dogs at the moment (dog person, not a cat person). Enough info? I was going for just enough to not be a cypher, yet not enough to entice a stalker. And, I started my blog after being dragged, kicking and screaming, to do so. Blogs! Read about ME here, right? But I have been advised that this is a way to write regularly, and to put your writing OUT THERE. So, here goes. My name is Bronte Healy. Thanks for reading my blog.