Dazzle Your Children

Y'know, once in a while, I would like things to go as I envision them. Just now and then. I bought nice letter paper, figuring I would write to Dad at the nursing home once a week, like I used to write home when I was in the Peace Corps. I'm a good letter writer (believe it or not), and he can't talk on the phone. I have been putting together photos and art from the kids to decorate his walls when I get there.

I have been mentally preparing myself to see him in this desperately ill condition. How to be...cheerful without being forced; encouraging without being unrealistic?

But Mom called tonight to tell me that he's going fast. Having a lot of trouble breathing, very seldom awake, heart meds aren't helping. The stroke affected the part of his brain that controls all of these functions, and the rest of him is shutting down. She has asked them to stop feeding him with the stomach tube. He's able to take a little water by mouth.

I'll be there a week from today. Probably a little too late. I'm trying not to let it bother me.

About ten years ago, I was in Wisconsin on Father's Day. It was a big get-together of the whole family (and Simon's parents from England), for Sara's baptism. Since all four of his kids were in attendance, Dad had offered to give the Message that day at church. He called it "DAZZLE Your Children!" This has always been one of his parenting themes. His actions have often been followed by a chorus of "DAAAAAAADDDD!!" You can read that with a tone of mortification (as when he managed to find a seersucker suit that was striped in my class colors to wear to my high school graduation). Sometimes it took the tone of mortal mortification (as when he surprised me at my college dorm one day and asked me if he could take me and my four best girl friends out to lunch, then gave us all a talk about AIDS and the dangers of unprotected sex). When we were younger, the tone would denote awe (like when he used to squeeze the honey over his toast, raising the bottle higher and higher the air until he was standing over the kitchen table).

I thought of this the other day. Sara and I took a walk to the supermarket, and I bought a new laundry basket. While walking home with it, I shocked Sara by wearing it over my head. "Oh, my God! Moooooooommmmm! [hissed] Just take it off before we walk past K's house, OK?" Pfffft. Yeah, right. I did pause in front of K's house to do a special, butt-shaking dance in front of her picture window, with the basket still on my head. "Don't worry. She won't know it's me. I have a basket on my head." "Mom, you're with me. Who ELSE would you be??"

Then I realized. I WAS BEING DAD! I called him up and told him all about it. He had his stroke the next day, so I guess I won't have the chance to talk to him again. I'm glad I called on the spur of that moment. It can be an OK ending, if it has to be. I'm still sad, though. I suppose I'll eat a half-box of Junior Mints and scrub some grout. I'd go dazzle the kids, but they're in bed.

Some Things Never Change

So, recent family crises have brought about an unprecedented amount of communication with my mother and older siblings. Normally, we are not great at keeping in touch. I probably spent 45 minutes on the phone with my sister this afternoon. It is the longest conversation we have had in 5 years, easily. Not that we don't get along-we just never talk. Which may explain our relative harmony... It may seem strange to other people, but it seems to work for us.


I must tell you that my older brother and sister are a lot older than me; like seven and nine years older. It makes me laugh how we pick up where we left off. My older brother and I were on the phone a week or so ago:

Kate: I feel bad that I'm not there. You guys have told Dad that I'll be there as soon as I can, right? He doesn't think I don't care about him, right? All the rest of you have been able to see him and...

Charles: [after a short pause, in the high-pitched, breathy voice that he has used for taunting his siblings ALL HIS LIFE, which I have probably not heard for 15 years or so...] Oh, I'm sure he's noticed. All of the other children have been to see him. His older son and daughter...even his younger son has been at his bedside. But WHERE is his younger daughter? He-

Kate: (laughing) All right, all right! Enough!

I felt like saying, "It's so cute when you torment me like you did when I was a kid!"

Then today, convoluted discussions with my older sister about getting the house packed up and helping Mom move. It's difficult in a town as small as Markesan. There is no bulk trash pickup - it all has to be taken to a landfill some distance away. The estate sale people don't want to come and get our stuff. Too far off the beaten track. They WILL allow us to add our stuff to another estate sale in a larger town, if we bring it there ourselves. Can we coordinate a moving van to move Mom to her condo and the sale items to the estate sale on the same day? Kill two birds with one stone? Save $500? It has to be done on a certain day, as determined by the estate sale people.

This needs to be passed by Mom, then it has to be passed by my brother. What if that day doesn't work for him? I'm thinking, big deal. I'll be there. If he needs to work that day, it'll be all right. I can handle it, and if I need help, I will go to the minister at Mom's church and have him give me some phone numbers of people I can wrangle to help out. Like I said, it's a small town. My sister days she can't walk down the street without each persoin asking her how Dad is, and if there is anything they can do to help. I'm really good at mobilizing troops - I do it every day at work.

That's the funny thing to me. I am She Who Must Be Obeyed! Queen of the Pushy Broads. To all of us women who go through life with our hands on our hips, I guess there is a universal truth. The only people in the world who might fail to see us this way would be our older siblings. To mine, I will always be a pants-wetter who breaks their stuff. I have to admit that I find that comforting.

Pissy. Stay Outta My Way.

I am not in a good mood. I realize that being grumpy in light of crises around the world is selfish. I realize that I am capable of feeding and sheltering many Haitians at this moment, and I should be grateful for the bounty of my life. But I don't give a rat's. So there. I am petulant, I know. I also realize that, based on the calendar, this is probably PMS. That just makes me pissier.I am sick and tired of Simon's righteous smirk when he checks my planner and sees that he can attribute my mood to hormones instead of to the fact that he is a schoob.

The list:

1. I'm sick of being on this diet. I want to eat chocolate-swirl banana bread until I'm tired of eating it. I want a Scotch on the rocks after work. One more week until it's over. I weighed in this morning. So, in the first week, I went from 129 to 126. Week Two, I went from 126 to 123. Yay me! Today, I again weighed 126. Furthermore, I am tried of people telling me that I shouldn't be bummed out about it, cuz I'm already slim. These people have (thankfully) never grabbed a handful of my butt, lifted up and dropped it. The jiggling goes on for two solid minutes.

2. I am sick of being cold. I can feel the goose flesh on my shins fighting against the stretchy knit of my socks as I write this. I have boiled the electric kettle simply so I can sit here with it cuddled in my lap. My thighs are burning in fact, and my hair is damp with steam; but the rest of me is frozen. The thermostat in here reads 68. I am wearing three sweaters. I want summer.

3. I am sick of Simon. His holey socks; the way he always tucks in his shirts and buttons them way up; the way he informs me that the coupon I used at the supermarket didn't register on the receipt. Can I trade him in for a cyborg? More emotional range...

4. I am sick of queries. The minute I walk in, three voices go, "Mooooom?????" Actually, two voices go, "Mooooooom?" and the other one goes, "Kaaaaaaate?????"

5. I am sick of work. Why not just lay me down in the middle of the office floor and entomb me in a massive burial mound of paperwork? Get it set up and tell me there is a cask of Amontillado in there. Starved for alcohol, I crawl in, then you pull the tiny scrap that brings it all own on my head.

5. I am sick of being here instead of in Wisconsin with my parents.

6. On the other hand, I am sick of responsibility. I have come to the realization that while I am gone, there will be a birthday/slumber party for Sara to go to, a Girl Scout event, both children's school Valentine's parties, Nathan's birthday.... So I need to be ready to go with a cake and a present for Nate the day after I get home..a special meal for Valentine's Day the next day...Sara's birthday party the next weekend. WHY did I have my kids five days apart? And believe me, Si will be prostrate with exhaustion when I get home, owing to the rigor of keeping up with meals and homework. Cry me a river.

I'm going to take a hot shower and go to bed, where it's warm.

WOO-HOO! Or Something Like That

It's the beginning of Sunday Ski-Date season for Simon and me. The kids will be in ski-school for the next 6 Sundays, pretty much all day; Simon and I can ski alone together. Not alone, together; I mean together. Alone. For people as privacy-deprived as we are, that makes it a date.

We were off to a slow start today at 8:00 AM, joining the long line of traffic that stretched down from the mouth of Little Cottonwood Canyon. It had been snowing all night, and the Canyon had been closed for avalanche control. Si got text after text from Snowbird. Opening was delayed until 9:00. 9:15. Further delay was caused by a slide that came down on the road. I read. Si had to pee and had just climbed out of the truck to go find a place to siphon the python, when the Canyon opened and the line of traffic started moving. He had to hold it quite a while longer. I keep telling him that some old empty drink bottles in the cab are a good idea on day like this. We putzed along until we were part way up the canyon, and the traffic stopped again. This time, an avalanche had come down in-bounds at Alta and knocked 4 ski patrollers down with it. Everyone was OK, but Alta closed and so did the Canyon road. Only the people who were already partway up the canyon, on the wrong side of the closure gate, got to continue to Snowbird.

We didn't arrive until about 10:30, pulling in next to truck after truck of guys that had needed to pee all the way up the Canyon and couldn't stand it. They were all lined up at the snowbanks in front of their cars, trying to look discreet about taking a piss. Guys! Old drink bottles! Try it!The skiing was SO worth the hassle. The few of us who made it up had the resort to ourselves for an hour or two. Not much was deemed safe enough to open, but the terrain that was open was fabulous. The best moment was riding along on Gadzoom and looking down just as a patroller opened Bassackwards. He took down the rope that restricted access to a pristine run with about 18" of fresh powder,and we all made a dive for it. Skiing Lower Bassackwards in thigh-deep powder was worth howling about. The shredder dudes were screaming YEEEE-HAH! WOO-HOO! I'm a prissy English-major, so I shouted, "MY GOODNESS THIS IS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!! Then came the first of several wipe-outs that went, "WHOOMPH!" and buried my skis so deep I had to dig down to free my feet. Epic!

My boobs held up really well, (thanks, boobs) even when I was poling. I pulled the incision a little once when my pole stuck and jerked my arm back. No big deal.

It was tiring, though. Si went on a last run without me; I went to his office, lay down on his floor with my head on the mitten-bag and took a nap.

ET Phone Home

Well, Dad is not improving. The neurologists at University Hosp. say that the chances that he will rehabilitate from his stroke are slim. Because it occurred in his brain stem, a lot of involuntary function is shut down. Right-side paralysis is the least of his problems. He can't swallow, his circadian rhythms are shot. Even his heart rate is affected. He's been having incidents of tachycardia (some dangerously long) every day, just about. In the ICU, this sets the monitors beeping and people hurrying to try and solve the problem. Mom has decided to have his heart monitors taken off. These incidents don't hurt him. There's a good chance that one will go on long enough to make his blood pressure drop dangerously low. When that happens, the doctor says, he'll go to sleep and not wake up.

Well, all right. If it's a choice between that and keeping him in ICU so they can jump at him every time the monitor beeps...well, it's not going to get better and we can't keep him there forever. He hates the monitors. He's totally cognizant...when he's awake, which doesn't seem to be very often.

Mom told Dad the plan. She says that they will move him to a regular room for a couple more days until they are sure his feeding tube is working well; then she will have him transferred to the assisted living place they've picked out in Oshkosh. The condo is ready to be moved into. Mom will live there alone, I guess - Dad will need 24/7 nursing care. She told him all this, and he mustered the strength for one word: "home".

I sighed when she told me that. I feel bad for him. How would it be to go to church one morning, not knowing that you would never come back? But there's just no way. If he were even able to sit up in a car and a wheelchair, it might be managed, with a few strong guys. But he'll be transferred by ambulance. Anyway, the house is all taken apart.

Is it bad of me to say that I hope he doesn't hang on long? I hope he does have a spell of tachycardia that makes his blood pressure drop too low. Soon. Selfishly, I would love it if he hangs on long enough for me to see him (two more weeks). But. I used to work in a nursing home, and I took care of people who were just like Dad, but who hung on for years. Lying unaware and emaciated in bed all day long, unable to chew or swallow, unable communicate. Jenny Cupery was like that. I would spend ages feeding her a thickened liquid diet. Each spoonful would just sit there in her mouth as I massaged her throat and said, "Swallow, Jenny. Jenny, can you try to swallow?" Finally, a horrible gagging, and down it would go.

I can appreciate that, even when so badly stricken, people manage in their own ways to exemplify grace and patience; and in that way, they teach us gentleness and compassion. Would it be OK, though, to wish a different ending for Dad?

Kate's Kitchen Kapers, Kontinued

I haven't done a cooking blog in a while, so here we go.

Today is just the right sort of day. There is a storm coming, and the wind is howling under the eaves. I get a "meal off" from my diet, and my soul craves comfort food. And cookies. I went and actually bought chocolate chip cookies, cuz I won't have time to do any baking until the weekend. For my meal off, I can have alcohol (yay), dessert (yay) and forbidden foods like CHEESE! BUTTER! FROZEN HASH BROWNS! EGG YOLKS! and (reverently) KETCHUP.

Let's make Rosti Casserole with baked eggs. I would put an umlaut over the "o", but I don't know how to do that in Blogger. There is one though, so I guess we have to pronounce this like "rusty". Rusty Casserole. Here's a not-very-good picture.

Simon wanted to know if this was breakfast-for-dinner, an American phenomenon that he finds slovenly, somehow. Nah, I told him. It has turnips in it! That mollified him - the British love all those musty root vegetables.

And the ingredients:

1 1/4 C low-fat Greek-style yoghurt

2 T flour (I used whole wheat)

1 1/2 C grated turnip (about 8 oz.)

1 1/4 C shredded Gruyere cheese (about 5 oz.) (mea culpa)

1/3 C butter, melted (mea culpa)

1/4 C chopped fresh chives

1/1/4 t salt

1/2 t pepper

1/4 t nutmeg

1 (30 oz.) package frozen shredded hash brown potatoes

cooking spray

8 lg. eggs

First of all, this recipe is a real grate-o-rama. Grate the cheese, grate the turnip. At least the potatoes are already grated. Check out my left-handed grating technique. This allows me to grate the turnip in one hand and the cheese in the other, simultaneously, balancing the graters against my wrists. Wouldn't you like to see me do that? Sorry! Too hard to photograph.

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

2. Combine yoghurt and flour in a large bowl, stirring well.


Add turnip, Gruyere cheese, butter, chives, 1 1/4 t salt, pepper, nutmeg and potatoes to yoghurt mixture.

Spread potato mixture evenly into a 9x13 inch baking dish coated in cooking spray.

Bake at 400 degrees for 30 minutes or until bubbly. Remove from oven. With the back of a spoon, make 8 indentations in the top of the potato mixture. Crack one egg into each indentation. Think to yourself that is looks sort of ...gross...viscous...

Return dish to the oven. Bake at 400 degrees for 8 minutes or until the yolks are almost firm.
This was very popular with me and the kids. It is tasty on its own, or as a ketchup transportation device. Everyone likes turnips in my family, but if your family doesn't like turnips, don't worry. You can't taste them at all. Hidden nutrition! Simon was not so enthusiastic. He wouldn't eat the egg yolks, cause he's "watching his cholesterol" (addictions to commercial baked goods, shrimp, butter, cheese, etc..notwithstanding...), and he had a little trouble deciding whether to open a bottle of white or red.

I would say...7 out of 10. Bonus points for being vegetarian (though obviously not vegan). Additional bonus point for just being different. Serve with green salad.

My Ear Lobes?

I can't figure out where the weight loss is coming from. My butt looks as big as ever, but the scale says I have lost 6 pounds on this diet so far. My fingers are looking extra bony. At least I know it won't be coming off my boobs.