Finding the Words...

Sometimes, it seems to be very difficult to say what needs to be said. Sometimes there is an elephant in the middle of the room, and nobody will say so. Sometimes, the words that need to be uttered cause palms to be sweaty, hearts to pound, and voices to crack.

Sometimes, we have to acknowledge things that are hard to acknowledge. We want to talk about light-hearted things and make someone laugh.

And that someone is dying, and desperately wants someone to say that they are willing to talk about it.

I saw such a patient yesterday. He has cancer. None of his physicians will talk about it. Oh sure, they have told him what he has, and that the prognosis is “hopeful”......but nothing else. And then, his oncologist ordered Home Health visits for palliative care.

And he knew I was there to give him palliative care. He just didn't know what that meant.

So we talked about it. We talked about what his physician told him. We talked about his religious beliefs. And then we talked about what all of it meant to him.

Simply put, there are three basic types of care: curative, seeking to find and administer a cure for the ailment; pallliative, not seeking a cure, per se, but seeking treatment to palliate the symptoms associated with the diagnosis; and hospice care, helping the patient live his last months symptom free.

That's right: Hospice is about LIVING, not dying.

It is about finding a little bit of joy in each and every day. It is about saying I Love You to those who need to hear it. It is about mending fences, if needed and possible. It is about getting one's finances and personal business in order. It is about finding serenity and calmness, while coming to terms with what is happening, pathophysiologically speaking.

I have blogged about such patients before, in “The H Word” “Arthur” and again in “Endings”...

So yesterday, I told this patient about the differences between palliative care and hospice. He is still considering chemotherapy and/or radiation, so he is not ready for hospice care. Palliative care, being a bridge of sorts, will provide him some of the things that help in hospice care, such as chaplain visits, if he so chooses.

I shared the plan of care that I had developed with his needs in mind. I asked if he thought it was appropriate, and would meet his needs. He said yes, it was and yes, it would. He asked if we could come see him each week, and that is what we are planning to do.

He had several more questions about his symptoms. I know it was difficult for him to ask me because he couldn't make eye contact while he spoke. I told him what some of his choices would be and I told him that he doesn't have to make decisions right now.

In the end, as I got ready to leave, he had a lot to think about. He needed to discuss the options with his wife, and he needed some rest, too. He thanked me for being forthright with him and answering his questions.

I just hope I found the right words...

It's a Dog's Life

My dogs are going to miss me when I go back to work on Monday...

We have had a good time together. They like it when I work outside and spend time with them. They have actually trained me quite well: the cookies flow freely when Mom is home.

We seem well-suited to each other, the Spice Girls and me. They are like all dogs, and appreciate having routines. I am a creature of habit. We work together well. But now that the weather has changed, we have had to adjust.

The usual routine: I get up in the morning, come out to the laundry room, and greet the girls. I am met with wagging tails and barks. I have noticed recently that both girls, formerly altos, have become sopranos...Hmmm.

Anyway, after our 'good mornings' are exchanged, I give each of them a cookie, then open the laundry room door so they can race across the family room and out the doggie door. Of course, they are people, not doggies, but the door IS the right height, and it IS open...

Well, cooler weather has brought a new wrinkle to our routine. If I give them the cookie in the laundry room, they will just take it and go get back in bed. So, I tried a new routine: I greet them, as usual, and open the laundry room door, as usual. Then, I walk to the doggie door, waiting to give them their cookies.

Cinnamon, the bigger one, has changed the routine: she races across the family room and out the door, then stands there and waits for me to put my hand—with her cookie in it—through the door. Being a fairly intelligent person, I quickly learned my new trick.

Not so with Ginger. She has always been a little different, in many ways. She was a “foster dog” in a home with 45 other foster dogs. You read it right, 45 other foster dogs. So, Ginger has issues.

She never takes her cookie and runs. I have to pet her first, and tell her how much I like her; and get my fingers licked, too. Then, and only then, will she take her cookie. Well, with the colder weather, she requires her loves, her cookie, and a gentle push on her rump. Otherwise, she ain't going out no stinkin' doggie door.

I have enjoyed my time with them this week. They are great helpers. I have been doing some painting projects on the back patio and, thanks to the cooler, humid weather, the paint isn't drying very fast. So, the three of us have spent a lot of time watching paint dry.

Dogs are good at that.

Living in a State of Grace..

I know lots of people. Every day that I work, I see lots of people. Those I work with, those I work for, those I know from other places and times, and, of course, my patients.

It never ceases to amaze me how different people see the same thing. Mostly, because I am a nurse, I see people dealing with illness, surgery, chronic pain, disease processes, and death and dying. Heavy stuff, indeed.

And their responses to their health conditions are as different as their physical characteristics. Some are fighting, to their last breath; some are angry and lash out at anyone and everyone; and some are dealing with their lot in life with amazing grace.

I respect each of them, their differences, and their right to face their issues in their own, individual manner. My responsibility, to those I care for as a nurse, is to honor their wishes and follow their lead. I have been cursed, accused of causing illness, hugged, and blessed.

But it is the people who are well, or in relatively good health, who amaze me the most. They are as different as night and day. I see people who approach life as a duty, to be served but not enjoyed. Life is meant to be harsh and difficult, and devoid of joy. Or grace.

And I see others who are the epitome of grace and joy. Each day is a new adventure. Life is a gift, an experience, and the ultimate joyride. They smile at the drop of a hat, greet others warmly, and try to give back as much as they receive. They have an appreciation of the important things in life.

They have grace.

This morning, as I woke up, I was thinking about this past week, my vacation. It was supposed to be a working vacation. A time of accomplishment. I have a door to paint, and six shutters to paint, too. A friend is waiting to hang the door and the shutters, and change the light fixtures on the porch.

I talked to him yesterday, and I apologized: I have had him on standby, waiting to do these things for me. And I have accomplished nothing. In my defense, the door has caused me heartburn. The paint won't dry, and I can't finish painting it until it decides to dry.

I put it out in the sun, to help it dry, only to have the sprinklers come on very early in the morning and soak it again. Not once, but two mornings in a row. Today, I got smart: I set up a fan, which has been blowing on the door for most of the day. And it is working: the door is nearly dry.

So tomorrow, I will go back to work. In between patient visits, I will try to come home and paint the door. And leave the fan out there to dry the paint. Oh, and I turned the sprinklers off, too.

The shutters are coming in the living room. It is warmer, dryer, and better lit. I can paint them in the evenings, after work. They were built specifically for my windows, and they are already primed, so two coats ought to do the trick.

And so, when I go back to work tomorrow, and my friends ask me how my vacation was, I will tell them that it was restful, peaceful, and fun. And it was.....

I live in a state of grace.

Incidentals...

I like that word. It describes so much of my life.

Incidentals....that's what happens between the small, medium and large events in life. I spend huge amounts of time making the big decision and then marvel at the incidentals that come with it.

For instance, I put a lot of thought into changing TV service providers. Weighed the pros and cons of each provider's offerings. Reviewed the literature. Took the big step. Or, I thought it was the big step. The technicians did all the work; I just answered their questions.

I have a new TV provider, new long distance service on my home phone, internet access, and WiFi. I can see, in just one week, that it has made a huge difference in my life. For one thing, I am no longer tethered to a computer, router, and DSL in my home office.

And when I say that there is nothing to watch on TV, I mean either I am not in the mood to watch TV, or I am too lazy to click through the channels. Doesn't matter which, I don't need to sit and watch TV all the time anyway.

But now, for the incidentals. Sitting on the dining room table, waiting for my attention, are two cardboard boxes from the former service provider. Sure, makes sense: return the old receivers in the boxes, using the prepaid mailing label.

Ah, could it be so simple? Of course not: incidentals. I have to climb a ladder up to the roof, and remove the little thingy from the satellite dish. And another thingy from the phone terminal. I don't really mind; I want the satellite people to be able to sleep at night, knowing that Cali is NOT stealing signal from their satellite dish.

Then, I have to go to the local shipping store and take in the boxes. Incidentals: I have to find the place first. Another incidental: I need gas before I drive all over Podunk. And still another incidental: how long will it take? I have other appointments today.

I like to take time off in October and enjoy the fall days. Last year, I went to New England to see the fall colors and it was beautiful. This summer, I had the huge trees taken out of my front yard. They were diseased and dangerous. Now they are gone and there are no bright orange, red and gold leaves to enjoy.

Incidentals.

It's all okay. I'm on vacation this week. Not working but still getting paid. How cool is that?

My Friend Mike…

I have a new friend. His name is Mike. I have only known him since about ten o’clock this morning, and I will probably never hear from him again. But that’s okay. Thanks to Mike, my laptop works again.

One of the problems that I have with my laptop is I never seem to know what I did. Or when. Or how. My philosophy is: just keep pushing buttons until something happens. And hope it is something good.

If not, oh well.

And, believe it or not, when I turned on my laptop this morning, and the print and icons were HUGE, I actually went right to the right place to fix it. In the Control Panel, in Appearance, and in Display Settings.

And I want you to know that I found it all by myself. That’s the incredible part.

Of course, it didn’t work. And I was getting quite frustrated. So, I did the only thing I could think of: I called my laptop’s tech support. I even went to the System Information screen, so I knew my laptop’s serial number, model number and one other important piece of information:

For unknown reasons, I decided to extend the warranty. So, today’s little chat was covered under warranty. How cool is that?

After pushing 1 and then 2 and I don’t remember how many more numbers, I got to talk to a real live human being. Mike. He asked me all those questions that techs like to ask, like: “what were you doing when this happened?” Well, duh! I was sleeping, Mike! It was fine last night and messed up this morning!

Did I mention that Mike has the patience of Job? He must. We talked for an hour.

He sent me to a website where he could link to my machine and take over control of the mouse. He had to read me a long, legaleze-filled disclaimer about letting him control my machine, then I clicked on Accept and he was in. I love sitting there not touching anything, and the mouse is flying all over the screen.

And guess what?? He went right to where I had been, trying to fix the problem. He was successful, mainly because he made the resolution Higher instead of Lower, which was the mistake that I made.

When it got better, I was all ready to say “bye, thanks!” but not Mike. He made me shut down and then restart my laptop not once, but twice. And then, just to prove him right, the mouse froze. You know how it becomes that little hand, pointing? Well, it was pointing at my email box but it wouldn’t click and it wouldn’t move.

So, Mike had me take the battery completely out of the laptop, and unplug the laptop from the power cord. Then, while he timed it, I held the power button down for thirty seconds. I think I could have done both but, hey! Mike was getting paid to help me.

Then, I reattached the power cord, left the battery out, and restarted the laptop. Voila! Still the right resolution but now the little arrow/hand thingy was working again!! And then, I put the battery back in and Mike asked me if I had any more questions. I didn’t.

Somewhere in our hour’s worth of conversation, I gave him my website for my blog and asked him to read it. He said he would and I hope he does, so he will see this:

Thanks, Mike!!! I really appreciate all your help!

Simply Me...

I love to decorate. I always have. When I was a child, I rearranged my room every couple of weeks, trying to find that perfect arrangement. I never found it, because I had several ways I liked my room.

As a young mommy, I still enjoyed decorating. It was more of a challenge then, because there wasn’t much money. Most of our furniture was handed down from our parents, when they got something new.

I made wall art with burlap and felt, composed of bright and cheery orange and yellow flowers. And pretty greeting cards were framed in garage sale frames, to hang alongside the pictures of my children.

This morning, I poured over my latest book, Simply French, that arrived in the mail this past week. I didn’t order it; but here it is. I belong to a book club and they know how to make money: send me the books that I forget to tell them I don’t want.

Well, this one is one that I want. It is full of pictures that please my decorating sensibilities. The homes pictured are centuries old, and some of the furnishings are too. And, by American standards, most everything needs to be updated. That term makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Updated? Why? Because the Jones have a newer one? Or because it doesn’t work, at all? Or does it work just fine and it isn’t “good enough” for me? I wonder what happens to all those things that we Americans update….

I guess I like this new book because it is esthetically pleasing to my decorating eye. It has the basics that I require: everything has a purpose, everything is clean, and there is a little clutter to fascinate me.

I do love creating vignettes. Some of them are subtle, or so personal, that you would not notice. A gathering of special objects that have meaning to me and no one else. But, every time I look at them, I have to smile.

And I love breaking the rules, too. “No personal photographs in the formal living room” is one I have always broken. Actually, if you want to be technical, I am not breaking that rule: my home has no “formal” living room. Or formal anything, for that matter.

My home is a reflection of me and my tastes. It is full of red and bright and sunny. It is fairly clean, but messy enough to make you comfortable when you are here. There are always candles lit, except in the summer, when it’s too hot. And music is playing most of the time, too.

There is nothing rigid, or strict, or unbending about my decorating style. Sometimes, when my grandsons are over, they move things around and, when I look, I like the way they arranged them better than the way I had them. In fact, I left the pillows and quilts strewn around the family room for a couple of weeks after my grandsons were here last month….I had to smile every time I looked at the room. It felt like they were still here.

And I do have a secret ingredient in my decorating scheme: Love. My mother told me that many years ago. She was often quite critical of things I did, so when she said something very positive, it was significant and has stuck with me all these years.

She was visiting with me and she looked around, quite seriously, taking in everything about the rooms she could see. And then she told me: “your home is full of love….I can see it everywhere.”

Be it ever so humble….

Look Mom No Wires!...

I am sitting at the dining room table right now. Writing and thinking and watching TV out of the corner of my eye….

Not a big deal, really, except it is brand new for me. This is the first time, in a dozen years of living in this house again, that I have been able to access the internet anywhere besides in my office.

Sometimes, I get so tired of being in my office that I want to scream. But I don’t, of course. It is actually a nice little room, but I get tired of it. My desk is in there, all my bookcases, my laptop, and all the peripherals. I pay bills in there, work on crafts projects in there, and talk to my friends online, sitting at my desk.

This is the house I grew up in, and what is my office now was my bedroom when I was a child. So, it feels natural to be in there. It has been part of me for most of my life. But, after an hour or so, I am ready to be somewhere else.

I went to the phone store last week and signed up for a bundle: internet, home phone with long distance, 450 TV channels, and WiFi. All I wanted was the WiFi but hey, why not get the whole thing?

I took the afternoon off from work today to be here for the installation. The two young men who work for the phone company were very nice, and very helpful, too. It all started when they arrived at my back door and started putting on shoe covers to protect my floors from their shoes……I made them stop. No shoe covers needed in my house!

They got all three TVs hooked up, installed the modem, and brought Cat 5 wire into the house. Then they had me access the internet on my laptop—without the DSL and the router. OMG! That is so cool!

There is a downside, of course. It is very difficult to decide what to watch on TV. Even though the guys showed me all the buttons on the remote control, it is still a little foreign to me. All the channel numbers are different from my former satellite service.

Speaking of which, I had to call the satellite company a little while ago and cancel my service. Yes, I am a pessimist: I waited until the new service was up and running before calling my old provider.

And they weren’t very happy with me, to say the least. The service rep wanted to know why I was cancelling my service and I told her I switched to another provider. She offered to discount my monthly bill by $15.00/month for the next year. Um, no thanks.

Then she wanted to know why I switched. I told her: it’s cheaper, and they bundled the other services, too. She offered the premium movie channels, for free, for 6 months. I already have them with the new service, so I asked her if the satellite company offers phone service, internet, WiFi, and free long distance…….Um, no they don’t.

Not only did I get new services, it is costing me less each month than I was paying before. So now, on to more important decisions: what to watch on TV, and where to sit and surf the internet…..

Dear Mr. President….

I am not a political person, I am a people person. Please don’t try to make something political out of this. Just give me a chance to say what I want to say….just listen.

Okay, Mr. President, you have won the Nobel Peace Prize. Congratulations! It is a prestigious honor and you are among the elite whose tireless efforts to bring about world peace have been rewarded.

By their own admission, the committee awarded the honor to you because of what you have said you will do, more than for what you have done already. You haven’t been in office even a year yet, so it is early to tally your score as a humanitarian.

But that is not to say that you won’t do what it is that your Nobel Prize denotes: work tirelessly to bring about some portion of peace in this war-torn world of ours. I am hoping that you will rise to the task and make it happen.

I also know that the weapons of war—and more specifically, their manufacture—makes work and provides jobs for those who need them. And the money spent on weapons, and uniforms and vehicles and ships and planes, puts much-needed money in the economy. So I challenge you, Mr. President, to find a way to stimulate our economy without making war.

Further, I would ask you to visit at least one VA hospital. Go see what is left of those who have served their country so valiantly: the walking wounded, the permanently scarred, and those who have to wonder why they did what they did….and got where they are now.

And don’t just walk through the wards, waving your best parade wave, stop and talk to them. Listen as they tell you their stories. Learn, Mr. President, from their experiences. Take to heart what they have to say. Recognize them as the heroes that they are, and thank them for what they have done in the name of freedom.

And then use your clout to do something about it.

Please, don’t label me with political labels. I am not a liberal. I am a nurse, and I have seen what war does to people, and to their families. And to countries and resources and life.

Use your prize for its intended purpose: make a difference.

Yes, I know that we have to maintain some semblance of weaponry to protect our freedom. And I know that those who target us do so simply because we are America. So, I am not saying to disband the armed forces and send everyone home to the family farm.

I know that we have to have a presence in this world. I also know that, to many people in this world, we represent freedom. And hope.

I know that what I am asking of you is huge. I know that it seems like a formidable task, too. But then, are you not the first duly-elected member of your race to serve in the highest office in our government? A man who made history? The President of the United States?

I think you have what it takes….so please, just do it!

Bali Hai

I have decided that it really exists. Bali Hai. And I know where it is for me. I was just there a couple of weeks ago.

For me, it is the sea. It is a place that is as familiar to me as my own home. It is a place where I can relax and get some rest. It is a haven from the trials and tribulations of everyday life.

It is familiar sights and smells and sounds that nourish my soul as much as the seafood nourishes my body. It is a place for long walks, taking pictures, and treasuring each and every sunset. It is a time for renewing my spirit and reviving my joie de vivre.

It is my "own special island," as the song says.

It might be somewhere else for you: the mountains, or a river, or the endless prairie of Middle America. Or Paris. Or London. Or Rome. Or all three. The important thing is to know where it is for you and spend some time there. Renewing and refreshing your own joie de vivre.

What I have to remember is that, even though I cannot be there all the time….it is my Bali Hai, all the time. And the feeling is always with me…

In my heart....

Leftovers...

My son came by this evening. He just recently got remarried and he is in the process of moving out of his bachelor pad and into his wife’s home in a nearby town. He brought back one of my leftovers: a little black desk.

I remember when I got the desk. I was about 8 years old and my Nana sent me the desk and a dressing table. She was downsizing, and they were leftovers.

I was quite excited because they were things that big girls had, not little girls. I especially loved the desk: inside the dropleaf front, there were all sorts of cubbies and little drawers. I planned to put all my treasures inside.

As my daddy was stripping the paint off the desk, in preparation for painting it pink to go in my room, he discovered that it was made from birdseye maple. My mother stepped in and decided that it was “much too nice” for a child’s desk.

And so, I lost my desk.

By the time I was grown up and getting married, I had completely forgotten that the desk was mine. When I moved out of my parents’ home, I left the little desk with the cubbies and drawers behind.

I did take the dressing table. It had always been one of my favorite things in my room. My mother would give me her empty perfume bottles to put on it, and my jewelry box, with the ballerina on top, held pride of place on top.

The drawers were full of girly things: ribbons and clips and junk jewelry inherited from my mother. When I was older, I would set up the sewing machine on top and make all sorts of things.

And somewhere in the seventies, during a bout of stupidity, I sold the dressing table at a garage sale. I guess it was a little too girly for a bedroom shared by a husband and wife.

In the eighties, the desk became a leftover again, when my father remarried and his wife moved in our family home. And so, Daddy decided I was finally old enough to take care of a birdseye maple writing desk. And it came home with me.

Over the years, it has held all sorts of treasures. Letters from faraway places, silver dollars, handmade cards from my children, a fancy letter opener, calligraphy pens, and all sorts of special things.

And then, three years ago, it became a leftover again. My son was living with me, after his divorce, and getting ready to move into his own place. And so, the desk went with him.

Now, as he moves on in his own life, the desk is again a leftover….

Right now, it is sitting in the living room. It isn’t really in the way, which is good, because I am not sure where I am going to put it. Or what I am going to put in it. There is only one thing that I am sure of….

It’s not a leftover anymore!

Rejection...

Life can certainly get complicated at times.

I had to take anatomy and physiology before I could get into nursing school. I had to take microbiology, pharmacology, English, Speech, and Child Development, too. And then, all the nursing courses, and pass each before going on to the next.

After graduation, I had to find a job, and then go through an orientation period. My graduating class actually got to participate in a pilot program: a nursing residency designed to prepare us to work anywhere in the hospital where we were employed.

And then, there were the State Boards. That was two grueling days of testing, in five subject areas, on anything and everything that we had been taught. Then came the six-week wait for the results…

There were two of us from my graduating class, among those working at our hospital, who did NOT receive our notification letters on April 2nd. The rest of our peers could start writing “RN” after their names; my classmate, John, and I had to continue writing “RN Permittee” after our names.

That was the longest nursing shift of my entire career. John kept coming up to me with a new and improved reason why we didn’t get our notifications. The most plausible was that we were the only two members of our class who had moved since taking boards.

Fortunately for both of us, our notifications came in the mail the very next day. At last, we were RNs, too.

For more than three decades, I have practiced the art and science of nursing to the very best of my ability. For more than three decades, I have made sure that I took classes and received my Continuing Education Units to qualify to renew my license.

And now…..this.

I received a letter in April of this year: the Board of Registered Nursing finally found me. They have required fingerprinting of every RN licensed in the state of California since 1990. Since I had already been an RN for a dozen years in 1990, they didn’t have my fingerprints on file.

And they still don’t.

I took the required forms and the cash, to a local pack and ship place that also does Live Scan fingerprinting. Basically, they roll your fingers on a glass platen and your fingerprints show up on a computer screen.

Theoretically, your fingerprints will be legible and readable. At the first place I was fingerprinted, there was an indicator light on the screen: green for a good print, yellow for one that was almost good, and red for prints that were unacceptable.

I had three yellows and seven reds. Do the math: none of my fingerprints were green.

A couple of months later, I got my rejection letter. I didn’t lose my license, but I have to be fingerprinted again. And so, I went this afternoon to another place. This time, I figured I would go to a place that ONLY did fingerprinting, and not a pack and ship.

I was getting quite hopeful when the technician had me rub corn husker oil on my fingers; I thought that might be the magic ingredient for getting my fingerprints! On her computer, the fingerprints each garnered a number; any print with a number >30 is a “pass” and anything <>

I failed….

It seems that thirty plus years of scrubbing my hands has removed more than germs. My fingerprints are gone, too!

What next? Apparently the Department of Justice and/or Federal Bureau of Investigation will run a name check. I went to that website that tells you how many people in the US have the same name as you do? I have 22 chances at a criminal record….

Wish me luck!

Photographic Memories…

It’s cold this evening. I am bundled up in several layers, including my bright pink hoodie from Morro Bay. Just putting it on makes me smile. It reminds me of my favorite place.

I have some pictures to edit, and so I was in my photo site on the web. Before going to the photos I need to label, I looked in my album from my trip this past summer. The album is entitled simply Morro Bay.

Sitting here in my office, wearing my hoodie, looking at pictures of familiar places, I was transported there in my imagination. I could almost smell the salty air. At this time of the evening, there would be a light mist and I would feel it on my cheeks.

Walking along the beach, the only noise would be the roar of the ocean as it crashed onto shore. My beautiful Pacific Ocean, rushing to shore, spreading fingers of foam, and bits and pieces of seashells, and then retreating back into the depths, only to come crashing back again.

Mesmerized, I stand and watch nature’s symphony. Dappled moonlight punctuates the cresting waves. With the darkness has come the cooler breezes and the fog is falling gently.

Nearly deserted, the beach seems huge, going on for seemingly miles and miles, without end. Looking northward, as I walk, I see the twinkling lights of Cayucos, the next little hamlet north of Morro Bay on Highway 1.

As the water laps closer and closer to my bare feet, the sand is more than just cool, it is cold. Looking ahead and not down, I am surprised by the wave that crashes into shore and surrounds my feet. Perhaps it is time to go inside.

As I walk back towards the Embarcadero, in my mind’s reverie, I see a couple walking toward me. They are about my age. In fact she looks a lot like me. And he has his arm around her, holding her close to him. It is obvious that they are in love, as they are completely oblivious to my presence.

The world is theirs, as they walk along the beach, arms entwined and stepping in unison. The symmetry of their movements lends credence to my supposition: they are in love and they have found each other, at long last.

The thoughts swirling in my head make me smile; the warmth of the picture I have painted in my imagination comforts me. The knowledge that such things can truly happen makes the imagery that much sweeter.

Just from looking at a picture…..

Ok Grandma…You Can Look Now..

Those words make me smile, thinking back to when and how they happened. Dylan was just six years old and we were watching the second Jurassic Park movie, on the television, at my house.

Grandpa was in his recliner and Dylan and I were together on the couch. He had already seen the movie, at the theater, when it first came out. So, he was well-versed in what was going to happen..

I was only watching because I wanted to spend time with my guys. I would never have chosen a Jurassic Park movie for our evening’s entertainment! I was grateful to be sitting next to Dylan and getting forewarned when I needed to close my eyes.

And when he told me “you can look now…” he was also quite kind in that he just told me that the character was “gone” and not where or how. I could use my imagination to figure out what happened.

Or not.

He was such a delightful little boy. Full of mischief, full of energy and enthusiasm, and always busy. I loved to hear him talk, and listen to the way his mind interpreted the things that he saw. He could build anything out of Legos, and frequently did.

Since he lived three hours away, his visits weren’t as frequent as I would have liked, but they were “overnighters” when they happened. He would transform the family room into his very own habitat…with pillows, blankets, Legos and anything else that suited his fancy.

He is the one who trained Grandma to serve him root beer and Lucky Charms for breakfast. He is the one who was responsible for all the sliced olives on the family room floor. He loved pizza but not the sliced olives—he threw them away—and in no particular direction, just away…

He also determined, early on, that putting his child-sized chair on top of the coffee table, and then sitting in it, made him feel bigger. So did standing on the coffee table. Since the coffee table was very plain, and solid oak, he did it no harm. The “harm” occurred when he tried the same thing at home or at his other grandparents’ home.

Oh well…

And now, this morning, I am waiting for Dylan to wake up. He has come to visit for the weekend. No longer ensconced in the family room, he is still asleep in the guest room. I am looking forward to visiting with him over a homemade breakfast, then going to his cousin’s football game.

Did I mention? He graduated from high school in June. I was there, in the delivery room, when he was born. I was there when he was growing up…where did the time go?

OK Grandma, you can look now….

A Special Blend..

The weekend is over, and my grandson has gone home. I am tired, but happy. I had the opportunity to spend time with people I love and people I

like to be around. Some are related to me and some are not.

What makes it interesting is the blend. If you attend one of our get-togethers, you will need a program. There are blood relatives, relatives by marriage, friends who were formerly related by marriage and former marriage partners who are just friends now.

It’s a special blend. It wouldn’t work for everybody, but it works for us. And it didn’t happen overnight. Some of the relationships went bad long ago, and then found a new definition when the time was right.

And the time became right because of the kids. The grandchildren, cousins, brothers and sisters….who joined our family and made us whole again.

All of the kids have grandparents, and some of them are even related to their grandparents, somehow.

None of it matters, though. It might have had a tentative start. A civility borne of the birth of grandchildren. But over the years, it has become a family. Unique and fluid, and steadfast at the same time. Partners change, but parents don’t.

And so, the parade of folks who came in and out of my house this weekend would take some explaining. Probably more than once.

It started with my grandson’s visit. His mom, my former daughter-in-law, visited with me both when she brought him over and again when she picked him up.

And there were two more grandsons, his cousins, who came over to visit. And they brought their father, my son, who is the brother of my other grandson’s father. Are you lost yet?

Other visitors at my house this weekend included former in-laws, their new spouses, former spouses, half-sisters, cousins and just plain old friends.

All of it is kind of like our dinner last night, at a Japanese restaurant: lots of natural ingredients, commonly used, brought together in a magical way, seasoned well, and cooked to perfection.

But without the onion volcano…