In Philadelphia, the sun is shining and the day lilies are just starting to push through the mulch. Every morning, when I pull into my parking space at the office, I smile at the little green nubs fighting their way toward the sky. And save for a few tiny piles at the mall, the snow is completely gone.
With spring finally upon us, there are so many things we can do. Suggestions include:
(1) Step out for a meal. And if you're looking for some ideas, check out the newest contributor at Joonbug (she says squealing and pointing to herself).
(2) Go to the driving range, get a jumbo bucket of balls and settle in at a grassy patch off to the side. Turf cubicles are for wimps. Giggle off your whiffers and gaze admiringly at your ball soaring toward the 200yd marker. Ignore the fact that in the morning you'll awake with your right hamstring knotted up from doing 75 one-legged squats as you playfully placed the ball on the tee.
(3) Or if you'd rather stay inside, you can always read my latest post about writing at Her Plot Thickens.
Happy spring, everyone!
Friday, March 19, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
All Hail the Mighty Peep
After my father’s morning activities are done, the three of us return to his room. The staff has already made up his bed and tidied the things around the sink. My mother calls my dad’s Philadelphia neurologist to request his paperwork and previous MRIs. I ring the office and get the FedEx code so everything can be overnighted. My father sits in his wheelchair working on a Sudoku puzzle, homework from the speech therapist.
“I need to go back to the house,” my mom announces as she drops her phone in her purse.
“Okay,” I say as I glance over at my dad’s puzzle and bite my tongue, refrain from noting that 9 goes in a specific box.
At two, I wheel my father back to the PT/OT gym. I sit off to the side, cheer him on as he slowly inches his way forward. And I call him out when he cheats in OT, slyly sliding two rings onto the pole when he’s supposed to do one at a time. We don’t head back to his room until half past three.
“Want a snack?” I ask as I peer into the wardrobe, look at the top shelf my mother has designated for food.
“Jujyfruit, please.”
I pass off a box of candy and pluck a package of Peeps from the back. While my father reads a magazine I nibble on the head of a sugary yellow chick while gazing out the four-paned window and studying the farmland dotted with tall trees and cows.
“Maybe it’s a Jujyfruit,” I randomly mutter. “A gross licorice one, no less.”
“Huh?” my dad says, resting the magazine back down on his lap.
“The tumor - maybe it’s a Jujyfruit.”
“Or a Peep! But would it be a chick or a bunny?”
Just as we start discussing the various Peep shapes, my mother shows up toting dinner from Pei Wei. “Good to see you two filling up on refined sugar.”
I hold up a Peep, offer a yellow chick. My mom walks right by it, refusing to acknowledge the confection. She places her purse on a counter, puts the dinner bag next to it. And just as she’s about to wash her hands, a nurse comes in.
“The doctor’s on the phone for you,” she says, only her head and torso visible from the way she leans through the doorway.
My mom goes out to the hall. My father and I get back to naming all of the various candies that could be lodged in his brain.
“It’s blood,” my mother says when she returns a minute or so later. “The radiologist was wrong. And according to the neurosurgeon, based on your brain trauma, it’s a puddle of blood that hasn’t yet been absorbed into your body.”
“Damn, I was sorta hoping it was a Peep,” my dad says.
“I need to go back to the house,” my mom announces as she drops her phone in her purse.
“Okay,” I say as I glance over at my dad’s puzzle and bite my tongue, refrain from noting that 9 goes in a specific box.
At two, I wheel my father back to the PT/OT gym. I sit off to the side, cheer him on as he slowly inches his way forward. And I call him out when he cheats in OT, slyly sliding two rings onto the pole when he’s supposed to do one at a time. We don’t head back to his room until half past three.
“Want a snack?” I ask as I peer into the wardrobe, look at the top shelf my mother has designated for food.
“Jujyfruit, please.”
I pass off a box of candy and pluck a package of Peeps from the back. While my father reads a magazine I nibble on the head of a sugary yellow chick while gazing out the four-paned window and studying the farmland dotted with tall trees and cows.
“Maybe it’s a Jujyfruit,” I randomly mutter. “A gross licorice one, no less.”
“Huh?” my dad says, resting the magazine back down on his lap.
“The tumor - maybe it’s a Jujyfruit.”
“Or a Peep! But would it be a chick or a bunny?”
Just as we start discussing the various Peep shapes, my mother shows up toting dinner from Pei Wei. “Good to see you two filling up on refined sugar.”
I hold up a Peep, offer a yellow chick. My mom walks right by it, refusing to acknowledge the confection. She places her purse on a counter, puts the dinner bag next to it. And just as she’s about to wash her hands, a nurse comes in.
“The doctor’s on the phone for you,” she says, only her head and torso visible from the way she leans through the doorway.
My mom goes out to the hall. My father and I get back to naming all of the various candies that could be lodged in his brain.
“It’s blood,” my mother says when she returns a minute or so later. “The radiologist was wrong. And according to the neurosurgeon, based on your brain trauma, it’s a puddle of blood that hasn’t yet been absorbed into your body.”
“Damn, I was sorta hoping it was a Peep,” my dad says.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Pile On
A week after my father fell, he started complaining of headaches. It was so bad that for two days he couldn’t sleep lying down.
“Of course the man has a headache!” I said to my mother when she rang me from the rehab hospital. “Slamming your skull against the pavement can do that to you.”
All kidding aside, when someone suffers brain trauma, headaches are a bad sign. They’re especially concerning when they start an entire week after the trauma. Friday the physician overseeing my father’s care ordered an MRI. Saturday afternoon the scan was completed. And Sunday afternoon, after setting out at four o’clock in the morning, I touched down in Sarasota.
Waiting outside baggage claim, I listened to the warm breezes rustling the nearby palms. When my mom pulled up to the curb, my feet were already sweaty, my wool cardigan was already rolled up and shoved in my bag. We quickly stopped home so I could change out of my boots and jeans and into a skirt and flip-flops. Then we headed to the hospital, stopping to pick up lunch on the way, including corned beef for my dad.
“I’m like Meals on Wheels,” my mom joked as we waited for the order.
“Is the food at the hospital that bad?”
“No, you’re father is just that much of a pain.”
Once at the hospital, my mom checked to see if the doctor had any news about the MRI. Nothing. Monday morning, arriving to my dad’s room in time to accompany him to his PT and OT sessions, we were greeted by the physician. Still no news, but she hoped to have the report sometime before lunch. The doctor then set off for her office and we set off for therapy.
The patient gym on my dad’s floor isn’t that big. And it can feel cluttered with multiple patients and therapists jockeying for space. As my father took a break in his wheel chair, his legs tired from walking up and back, my mother and I plopped down on a platform. We were out of the way but still able to cheer my dad on when he scuffed past. I took gentle sips of my Izze soda while my mother jotted notes in her binder, the paper already filled with progress notes and suggested exercises.
“So we have the results,” the doctor said from the doorway.
“Go ahead,” my mother started, lowering her pen and lifting her eyes. “You can tell me and I’ll relay the results.”
The doctor sat down next to us. I noticed her black clogs, the polished leather lacking a single scuff. A gold bangle slid across her slender wrist as she reached to tuck her hair behind her ear.
“According to the scan he has a brain tumor,” the physician said, her voice gentle yet confident. “We don’t know what this means but I’m sending everything over to the neurosurgeon. Once he looks at the file, we’ll know more.”
My mother started asking questions. Where was the tumor? What brain functions occur there? Meanwhile, I looked up, glanced around the room. There was an older woman wearing a neck brace and it seemed that without it her head would just fall off. Another patient, a man, was practicing shaving. As I looked to my left, my father caught my gaze. He was still seated in his chair, still waiting to recover. Before I could look away, he motioned with one hand – thumbs up or thumbs down?
I offered the only signal I could, extending my index finger while mouthing ‘one second.’
“Of course the man has a headache!” I said to my mother when she rang me from the rehab hospital. “Slamming your skull against the pavement can do that to you.”
All kidding aside, when someone suffers brain trauma, headaches are a bad sign. They’re especially concerning when they start an entire week after the trauma. Friday the physician overseeing my father’s care ordered an MRI. Saturday afternoon the scan was completed. And Sunday afternoon, after setting out at four o’clock in the morning, I touched down in Sarasota.
Waiting outside baggage claim, I listened to the warm breezes rustling the nearby palms. When my mom pulled up to the curb, my feet were already sweaty, my wool cardigan was already rolled up and shoved in my bag. We quickly stopped home so I could change out of my boots and jeans and into a skirt and flip-flops. Then we headed to the hospital, stopping to pick up lunch on the way, including corned beef for my dad.
“I’m like Meals on Wheels,” my mom joked as we waited for the order.
“Is the food at the hospital that bad?”
“No, you’re father is just that much of a pain.”
Once at the hospital, my mom checked to see if the doctor had any news about the MRI. Nothing. Monday morning, arriving to my dad’s room in time to accompany him to his PT and OT sessions, we were greeted by the physician. Still no news, but she hoped to have the report sometime before lunch. The doctor then set off for her office and we set off for therapy.
The patient gym on my dad’s floor isn’t that big. And it can feel cluttered with multiple patients and therapists jockeying for space. As my father took a break in his wheel chair, his legs tired from walking up and back, my mother and I plopped down on a platform. We were out of the way but still able to cheer my dad on when he scuffed past. I took gentle sips of my Izze soda while my mother jotted notes in her binder, the paper already filled with progress notes and suggested exercises.
“So we have the results,” the doctor said from the doorway.
“Go ahead,” my mother started, lowering her pen and lifting her eyes. “You can tell me and I’ll relay the results.”
The doctor sat down next to us. I noticed her black clogs, the polished leather lacking a single scuff. A gold bangle slid across her slender wrist as she reached to tuck her hair behind her ear.
“According to the scan he has a brain tumor,” the physician said, her voice gentle yet confident. “We don’t know what this means but I’m sending everything over to the neurosurgeon. Once he looks at the file, we’ll know more.”
My mother started asking questions. Where was the tumor? What brain functions occur there? Meanwhile, I looked up, glanced around the room. There was an older woman wearing a neck brace and it seemed that without it her head would just fall off. Another patient, a man, was practicing shaving. As I looked to my left, my father caught my gaze. He was still seated in his chair, still waiting to recover. Before I could look away, he motioned with one hand – thumbs up or thumbs down?
I offered the only signal I could, extending my index finger while mouthing ‘one second.’
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Baby Steps
My father has fallen before. One time, when he was home alone, he opened the bathroom window and tripped the alarm. In an attempt to get from the sink to the keypad to turn it off, he toppled. There were only seconds to spare and four feet to cross. He stretched his cane farther than he should have, it couldn’t hold his weight and down he went.
Another time he caught his toe. At the base of the driveway, edging his way closer to the street, the tiniest lip of concrete held his stubborn foot in place. I was too far away to help, close enough to witness his tree-like descent. His head hit the macadam while his legs, stiff and locked at the knee, rested on the slope of the driveway. Brown leather clad feet hovered inches above the earth while blood trickled from a gash on his cheek.
“I’m okay,” he usually yells from the ground.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I usually answer as I grab his hands and slowly help him to his feet, the effort similar to maneuvering a two-hundred pound sandbag.
This time was different. This time my father was knocked out cold, the impact so hard his brain ricocheted back into his skull. My mom said his legs and arms were in spasm like a seizure. His left eye, probably where he landed, was swollen shut, the flesh puffy and purple.
“I can’t get a flight out,” I say to my mom when she calls me back at two o’clock in the morning, four hours after ringing me from the ER. “Anywhere from five to eighteen inches of snow and Southwest has already canceled all flights in and out of Philadelphia for tomorrow.”
She updates me on the status of things. It wasn’t a stroke. He’s in a lot of pain. An internist stopped by but neither a neurosurgeon nor neurologist has visited. “They probably outsourced his scan to some facility in India,” I offer, though I’m not sure if this fact is comforting or concerning.
The next day my mother calls her Philadelphia neighbor, conveniently or perhaps ironically a neurologist. He runs through the protocol, provides instructions of how my father should be handled. I research rehab hospitals in Sarasota. Leslie has the kids draw pictures. We’re hopeful he’ll recover but also realistic it will be a long and difficult road.
Forty-eight hours after my father was found on the ground outside the club house, his body tangled up with his scooter, my mother calls to tell me he’ll be okay because he just asked for a Cherry Coke. Then she passes him her phone.
“I hear you had a fight with the sidewalk and the sidewalk won,” I start.
He laughs. He tries to talk. His speech, already slurred from his PLS, comes out as a string of noises. It reminds me of listening to adult characters in Charlie Brown holiday specials. I squint my eyes as if this will somehow enhance my hearing. He mumbles for a minute and then hands the phone back to my mom.
We all know this time is different. My mother can see it, I can hear it. We know he might be in the rehab hospital for another month. And even with all of that care, attention from speech therapists and occupational therapists and physical therapists and physiatrists, he may never get back to where he was. We all understand that. But we’re too busy exhaling to be concerned about what-ifs.
PS: I just want to say thank you for all of your comments and emails. Your support has been incredibly comforting, like wrapping myself up in a warm blanket pulled fresh from the dryer.
Another time he caught his toe. At the base of the driveway, edging his way closer to the street, the tiniest lip of concrete held his stubborn foot in place. I was too far away to help, close enough to witness his tree-like descent. His head hit the macadam while his legs, stiff and locked at the knee, rested on the slope of the driveway. Brown leather clad feet hovered inches above the earth while blood trickled from a gash on his cheek.
“I’m okay,” he usually yells from the ground.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I usually answer as I grab his hands and slowly help him to his feet, the effort similar to maneuvering a two-hundred pound sandbag.
This time was different. This time my father was knocked out cold, the impact so hard his brain ricocheted back into his skull. My mom said his legs and arms were in spasm like a seizure. His left eye, probably where he landed, was swollen shut, the flesh puffy and purple.
“I can’t get a flight out,” I say to my mom when she calls me back at two o’clock in the morning, four hours after ringing me from the ER. “Anywhere from five to eighteen inches of snow and Southwest has already canceled all flights in and out of Philadelphia for tomorrow.”
She updates me on the status of things. It wasn’t a stroke. He’s in a lot of pain. An internist stopped by but neither a neurosurgeon nor neurologist has visited. “They probably outsourced his scan to some facility in India,” I offer, though I’m not sure if this fact is comforting or concerning.
The next day my mother calls her Philadelphia neighbor, conveniently or perhaps ironically a neurologist. He runs through the protocol, provides instructions of how my father should be handled. I research rehab hospitals in Sarasota. Leslie has the kids draw pictures. We’re hopeful he’ll recover but also realistic it will be a long and difficult road.
Forty-eight hours after my father was found on the ground outside the club house, his body tangled up with his scooter, my mother calls to tell me he’ll be okay because he just asked for a Cherry Coke. Then she passes him her phone.
“I hear you had a fight with the sidewalk and the sidewalk won,” I start.
He laughs. He tries to talk. His speech, already slurred from his PLS, comes out as a string of noises. It reminds me of listening to adult characters in Charlie Brown holiday specials. I squint my eyes as if this will somehow enhance my hearing. He mumbles for a minute and then hands the phone back to my mom.
We all know this time is different. My mother can see it, I can hear it. We know he might be in the rehab hospital for another month. And even with all of that care, attention from speech therapists and occupational therapists and physical therapists and physiatrists, he may never get back to where he was. We all understand that. But we’re too busy exhaling to be concerned about what-ifs.
PS: I just want to say thank you for all of your comments and emails. Your support has been incredibly comforting, like wrapping myself up in a warm blanket pulled fresh from the dryer.
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