WordSisters

Tag: family

  • Life with Pets

    Our kids had a golden hamster named Pucky. While he amused them and they cared deeply for him, Pucky also spent part of each day hanging out with me or riding in my shirt pocket. 

    Hamsters’ lifespan is less than three years. About that time Pucky’s fur turned from gold to grey then developed white streaks within a month. After the kids were in bed one night, he began shaking. I wrapped him in a dry washcloth, tucked him near. He passed. There would be future hamsters and gerbils, but they were not as cuddly and left this world curled in a corner of their homes.

    We have always been a dog family, living with five over forty plus years. Our now adult children lean toward cats. Dogs’ personalities unfold over years of sharing home, food, play, work. Our pets age, we age. Like any family member dogs and cats create good memories, and some better forgotten. 

    Now we’re caring for our crazy, fun-loving, gentle Havanese in his final stretch. Just like older people, he’s developed an assortment of health issues– dementia, mild arthritis, high blood pressure. Life is still good, just quieter with more need for reassurance and assistance. We are in the palliative care time. Like Pucky, the hamster, change is more rapid which makes our time together bittersweet. 

    The most difficult part of adopting a dog or cat is the knowledge that their shorter lifespans mean some form of heartbreak down the road. Yet some of us open ourselves over and over to a companion who loves to walk in any weather, play each day, protect the front door, and loves unconditionally. Cats put on a good show, but they’re sweeties in their own aloof way. 

    If only we could move through our palliative care stage comforted by love, a few meds, an extra cookie or two, cuddles, and a few minutes of massage each day. 

  • If You See Something, Say Something

    If You See Something, Say Something

    If you see something, say something. Bags cannot be left unattended. Murmuring of voices. Click of heels, shuffling of shoes, suitcases rolling and being dragged. A baby crying. All areas of the terminal have been designated as smoke free. At the kiosk, I finished inputting the airline confirmation for our flight.

    “Stop it, Crissy,” I hissed. My stomach tensed and knotted. Sounds muffled around me. “Crystel, Stop!” I said louder with more urgency. She had stepped sideways to her own kiosk and was checking herself in. “Crystel, we are under the SAME confirmation!” I glanced at my screen: both of our names were listed. “It might screw us up if you check yourself in!” Veins stood out on my neck.

    She hesitated. Her lips tightened. With chin held high, she turned her back to me.

    Our 4-week Guatemalan trip had scarcely begun. A minute ago, we hugged Jody goodbye. I knew that defiance stance well. Even as a toddler she didn’t like to be told what to do. She insisted on dressing herself, zippering her own jacket, putting on her own shoes. It made for some fanciful ensembles. Beads adorning her hair, mismatched socks. Even her crib couldn’t hold her. After putting Juan in his car seat, I’d dash back to get Crystel who was waiting in her crib. Until the day she met me at the screen door. Grinning from ear to ear, clapping her hands.

    Crystel was an accomplished traveler; she’d spent a year in Hawaii as a national exchange student and had traveled alone to Vietnam and Korea. Yet, I was still the mother. I was holding all our valuables, the passports, global entry passes, credit cards, and cash.

    Sighing, I clicked on our names, printed our boarding passes and bag tags. “Crystel, here.” She jerked her head sharply and wouldn’t meet my gaze. I raised my eyebrows and handed her the documents.

    Crystel had invited me on this trip with a simple, “Why don’t you come?”

    Why not, I thought. Crystel and I have similar personalities. Always up for an adventure, searching for the unfamiliar. Both of us enjoy researching, planning, and arranging travel.

    Xela, Guatemala located in a remote mountain valley in the western highlands, was known for the best place to learn and improve your Spanish. Crystel and I would have a full immersion experience living with a Guatemalan family that didn’t speak English. Five days a week, four hours a day, we would attend Spanish classes and be tutored by our own teacher.

    Crystel walked with purpose towards security. Her long black hair was braided, bouncing against her back. When she was little, I researched how to perfect pigtails. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was 21 and I was 65. I inhaled deeply, relaxed my gait.

    As expected, my double knee replacement set off the alarm. I pointed to my knees. A female TSA agent was beckoned. While waiting for the pat down inspection, I scanned the conveyor belt for my backpack and tray of valuables. I held my arms out, spread my legs. I wanted to holler for Crystel to secure my possessions as they emerged from the x-ray machine. I couldn’t yell at her. I couldn’t even see her as she had gone on.

    I started sweating, my shoulders tightened. All I could imagine was all our cash, credits cards, my phone and passport disappearing. Our travel ended before we had even left the airport.

    Minutes later, I gathered my items at the end of the conveyor. Crystel was waiting around the corner out of eyesight. “CrySTEL,” I said sternly. “We know I’m going to be stopped every time at security. We need you to go through first, then secure our stuff. I have everything on the conveyor.”

    Her eyes flickered with recognition. She understood we were in this together. Our success depended on each other. We were bound. In the past hour, Crystel had also established that I was traveling with my equal, my adult daughter.

    Heading toward our concourse I tripped. We both laughed.

    “Are you up for a Chai?” I asked.

  • Happy Clean It All Up Season

    Plastic pumpkins should have been stored in the Halloween bin. A pilgrim waits to be moved with the other handful of Thanksgiving decorations. We’ll need at least a half day to put all the Christmas pretties in the basement. The outdoor lights are red and white, so they will wear well until Valentines Day.

    Even after reducing decorative stuff by many storage containers, there is so much stored.  It’s hard to trash or give away generations of ornaments, candles gifted by folks now passed, a goofy collection of singing stuffed animals. No family member wants to add these to their holiday decorations, but no one is really okay with giving much away.

    New Year’s Day I typically want to write, watch football, chill, but also find my hands impatient to empty the family room of gnomes and the singing animals. The dining room table could be stripped of a tablecloth and brought back to its normal size. I am done with the beloved clutter. Toss the poinsettias. Store the candles. Put away the stockings and hangers. 

    Storage bins, filing cabinets, pretty cloth baskets fill ads staging cleaning as invigorating, fun, a natural activity to fill dark winter weeks. With healthy athletic drinks and granola bars also advertised, there is some implication that marketing genius know of a heart-friendly link between snacks and organizing. The whole clean up season is filled with many opportunities to tweak a back moving boxes, many tiny paper cuts or tree hanging hook snags, eye fatigue correcting holiday card lists. 

    Forbes, the Cleveland Clinic, Simple and others cite the link between a healthy mind and a clean house. You must look hard to find anything suggesting a tidy house is sign of inferiority. House tidiness or messiness are both probably in one of those twenty-seven signs of dementia or fourteen indicators that you are wearing the wrong size shoes. 

    Let those who find new bins and organizing systems satisfying spend what’s left of the holiday dollars. If the tree is put away before friends come over for football’s great Sunday extravaganza and the boxes are near the storage area by Valentine’s Day, consider yourself owner of a moral victory. 

    Warning: The Easter Bunny will not leave eggs in red or green felt holiday socks left hanging anywhere in the house. Even those with pastel plastic grass sticking out the top. Do not insult the little creature.