Tidings from Tim

It takes a village to fight cancer.  I am not alone in this battle.

Since my diagnosis of multiple myeloma on June 18, 2011, I have been encouraged by family and friends, health care professionals and church pals, neighbors, and former students.

These people know me well.  They pray for me.  They cheer me on.

But this is a story about three women who had an outsized influence on my journey, whose stories were compelling, but unlike most of the residents of my village, were barely known to me.  Marianne came into my life for about two months.  Cathy and I spent an hour together.  And Eleanor?  I never met her!        

Marianne

One look at Marianne and you knew that her time was almost up.  She was ashen and emaciated.  She wore a beanie or a baseball cap or a do-rag to cover her hairless pate.  When she was not in her wheelchair, she moved painstakingly slow.  Because her veins had worn out, she had a visible “pick line” and also a “port” for IVs and for the drawing of blood.   

Our paths crossed only a few times, and on one of those crossings we sat side-by-side in the treatment room and talked about our cancers.  I was new to the cancer club; she had been a member for four years.  Cancer Club members do this — talk openly with each other about diagnosis, prognosis, treatment, fear and frustration, victories, and defeats.  We tend to open veins in front of prefect strangers.

She had three forms of cancer – all women’s cancers, and all in advanced stages.  The surgeries, the infusions, the chemotherapies, and the brutal and searing doses of radiation were too numerous to count; but those were not her main concern.

She mainly worried about her dad, who was her chauffeur, wheelchair attendant, and nurse maid.  He sat with her in the waiting room, and his face wore the mask of a deer in the headlights.  Frozen with fear.  Frozen with anguish.

Marianne had come to a place of acceptance, but he had not.

Marianne was at peace, but he was not. 

Marianne was ready to die, but he was not ready to lose her.

When I heard that she had succumbed, I was not ready either.  I found a quiet place to weep and raised my face heavenward and shouted, “Oh Lord!  Why couldn’t you give me ALL the cancers and send that gracious young woman home to her family and her life.”

The thought of Marianne’s dad made the pain especially acute.  You see, when she passed away in the summer of 2012, she was twenty-eight, the same age as my youngest daughter. 

Cathy

Cathy was an ordained minister and on the clerical staff of an Episcopal church in Orange County when, in the fall of 2011, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.  We were introduced by a mutual friend and sat down for a chat in June of 2012, when she shared her story. 

Regular mammograms had not revealed any abnormalities, but that year on her bi-annual checkup she learned that an aggressive cancer had invaded her body.  It was life threatening, requiring immediate and radical attention.  A double mastectomy was followed with radiation and chemo.  She was violently ill and lost her hair.

Many women who are battling cancer are astounding in their grace and courage.  If I lost my hair, it would be no big deal.  I would channel my inner Telly Savalas or Shaquille O’Neal and move on.  Friends might notice the difference, but strangers would not have a clue.  When a woman loses her hair, it is like wearing a neon sign.  “Hey, over here.  Look, I have a killer disease.”

But Cathy did not bemoan her loss; she embraced it.  When she felt well enough to resume some of her normal routines at church, her husband accompanied her on a shopping spree for wigs.  They bought four of them in different styles and shades of color.  On her first Sunday back in the pulpit, she took off the one she was wearing to reveal her bald scalp; then tried on the other three wigs one by one.  She asked for a show-of-hands vote as to their preference, and that became her work wig.

Cancer did not diminish her faith.  It strengthened her faith.  Having faced the possibility of dying, she vowed to live her fullest life and to share the goodness of God wherever she went.  She regarded the treatment center for women where she received her chemo as her “mission field.” 

Cathy has been in remission for almost ten years.  She has regular checkups and maintains a digital presence where she encourages, comforts, and prays for other cancer patients.  Cancer has never dominated her life.  Cancer has never been her focus.  The Lord and His mercies are her center of gravity.

Eleanor

At a student leadership conference many years ago, the keynoter was an Olympic medalist and motivational speaker.  She was sharing with the attendees about dealing with adversity, overcoming failure, turning obstacles into opportunities for growth.  She told the story of her own mother, Eleanor, who had died about ten years previously.  She missed her mom terribly, but her mother was still an inspiration for her, because Eleanor had a “kickass” attitude in the midst of her own battle.  Eleanor had said to her daughter:

“Cancer has ruined just about everything.  Cancer has ruined my health.  It has ruined my life expectancy.  It has ruined my career and my finances.  It has ruined my ability to do the things I love to do.  Cancer has ruined my sex life.  But I have decided that cancer is NOT GOING TO RUIN MY DAY.”

Among evangelical Christians there is an expression we use to describe a meeting or an encounter that is thoroughly unexpected, but which yields great personal meaning and spiritual power.  We call it a “divine appointment.”  Three women came into my life in the most unexpected circumstances, and very briefly.  Yet their impact on my life has been immeasurable.  As sure as I am writing these words, I know that the Lord scheduled these encounters with Marianne and Cathy and Eleanor’s daughter.

Their words inspired me to appreciate and care for the people who care for me.  They taught me to regard cancer with an eternal perspective.  They allowed me to laugh when I can and not to allow cancer to determine my mood or attitude.  They affirmed for me a most important Biblical lesson — you can find joy, laughter, peace, and purpose in the middle of any trial, any setback, any circumstance, or any bad tidings.

“In Good Hands” is the title of a post to this blog which appeared on June 6^th of last year.  It is the story of my first day of cancer treatment in July of 2011.  Following that first visit to the treatment center at Kaiser Woodland Hills, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the care, the comfort, the peace, and the assurance of hope from these amazing and dedicated front-liners in my life.  What could I do to express my appreciation?

In the early days they hit it hard, twice a week with two different chemo therapies and other powerful drugs to counter the inevitable side effects.  Two days later was my second treatment, on a Thursday.  At the entrance to the hospital was a farmers’ market, with growers selling fruits, vegetables, flowers, baked goods, and the work of artisans under those blue pop-up canopies.

Perfect!

I bought about three dozen beautiful organic plums and passed them around to the receptionists, the people in triage, the pharmacy unit, the back office medical assistants, and the nurses on the front line in the treatment center.

Since that first week of treatment, there have been more than three hundred visits in almost ten years, and now there is settled and familiar routine for this incurable, but treatable cancer.  Twice monthly my blood is drawn at the local Kaiser clinic on a Wednesday; on the ensuing Friday I show up at the hospital for chemo.  This is likely to continue for many years, as the Lord allows.

When the day of treatment changed, the farmers’ market was no longer an option; but within a mile of the hospital there is a TJ’s, a Sprout’s, a Whole Foods, a Vons, and a Ralphs.  Besides, the fruit of the pop-up vendors is generally overpriced, and I have become a good shopper.  Oh, occasionally I will spring for Honeycrisps, if they drop to $1.99 a pound, which will set me back about $30.00.  Once I ordered three dozen of those unbelievable pears from Harry and David, which required taking out a “second” on the house.

However, most of the shopping is from the right-hand side of the menu. You can get three dozen “Cuties” for about $12.00.  When the Fuji or Gala apple varieties are at $0.99 a pound, it will set you back about $15.00.  Last week was bananas; at $.59 per pound, the tab was $7.74.

Over three hundred trips!  Over three hundred bags of fruit!  As in most things, it is not what it costs, but what it’s worth; and the people at Kaiser are worth the world to me.  They have become friends.  They have become family.  And I have never considered that I might stop the fruit deliveries. 

Years ago my daughter asked, “Dad, are you the only person in the world who actually likes going to cancer treatment”?  She noticed something – that I would bound out of the house.  She knew that I stopped for my fruit on the way to Woodland Hills.  She noticed my enthusiasm, and it wasn’t just because they were keeping me alive.  She noticed the deep-down joy in my connection with the caregivers.

And there are two reasons why it has always been fruit, and not bagels or donuts or other less healthy munchies.

Number One.  They ask me not to.  These heroes at Kaiser are health care professionals and want to stay health themselves.  They always say, “Thank you” for the fruit, and “Thank you” that it is fruit.

Number Two.  This might sound a bit mystical, but I just might have someone looking over my shoulder.

As a kid I spent many weekends, holidays, and summer vacations at my grandparents’ four-acre farm in Northern San Diego County, the avocado capital of the world.  In addition to his avocado grove, granddad also had orange, peach, fig, pear, and apple trees, as well as a large truck garden and a stand of sweet corn.

Most of the avocados went to market; but some of the avocados and most of the other fruits from his grove and garden went into crates and loaded into the cavernous trunk of his Plymouth business coupe.  Several times a year we would deliver this provender to a local orphanage, and they always thanked Mr. Johnson for filling up their larder. 

And he did not bring his leftovers.  My granddad was a man of faith, often quoting his favorite passages from Scripture.  In the Pentateuch, the people of ancient Israel were taught to tithe their best offerings, their first fruits.  For these trips to the orphanage granddad would pick only the unblemished.  He would raise the fruit to his face and breathe deeply, knowing which pieces would be the sweetest and the freshest.   

At the market on Friday mornings of treatment days, I think fondly of my grandfather as I hand-pick each apple or peach or pear or banana.  In memory of this dear man who taught me about avocados and tools and introduced me to the Bible, I can do no less for my cherished caregivers at Kaiser. 

Another Sweet Goodbye

When my mother was a little girl, her mother called her a “caution,” because she got into one scrape after another – like the time she was four years old and decided to lock my grandmother in the basement.  Audrey lived to the ripe old age of ninety-nine, and she never stopped being a “caution.”      

When she moved to her new skilled nursing quarters at the age of ninety-seven, she discovered that they had some rules, and that chafed her.  For example, she was not allowed to leave her room to wander the hallways alone.  She did more than fight that rule.  She plotted a jail break, got herself dressed, rolled out the walker, sneaked out of the building, and traveled across the grounds to the independent living apartments, where she knocked on the door of her lifelong friend Grace.

Because of her escapade, they put a sensor on her easy chair that sounded an alarm at the nurse’s station if she got out of the chair.  Audrey did not take that sitting down.  She was always good with tools and fixing things; it didn’t take her long to disable the gadget.  It would not be the last time she tried to beat the system.    

Her frustrations grew as she needed more and more help:  help walking, help dressing, help in the bathroom.  She was in increasing need of a wheelchair.  Many of the seniors were physically fit but haunted with dementia.  Audrey was just the opposite, and that really contributed to her restlessness.  She was a quick-witted woman trapped in a body going bad, and this was especially evident in the dining hall. 

Audrey’s table mate was Edith, a strong, vigorous, and mobile woman of ninety -two who was lost and lonely in her own mind.  The only thing she could say was the number “seven,” which she repeated on an endless loop: “Seven … seven … seven … seven …”  She would say it softly, barely above a whisper; then loudly, and with inflection, turning the heads of everyone in the room.  Had it not been pitiable, it would have been a stand-up routine.

One day I was with Mom at lunchtime.  She was annoyed with Edith’s mantra and asked me to sing to her while she ate.  I was only a few bars into “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” when I realized that Edith was not saying the number “seven” anymore.  She was quietly mouthing the same words I was singing.  Somewhere in the labyrinth of her memory she had recaptured the words of a long-forgotten hymn. 

Audrey was brought to tears.  She told me that her friend’s few whispered words reminded her of the thing she feared the most – that she might also lose her memory and slide into the indignity of dementia.  Happily for her, and happily for us, she did not grow dim.  Even as she became more physically frail, she remained funny and feisty, scrappy in spirit.

She had an exercise routine that consisted of a daily walk.  In addition to her walker, she also had an aide who held onto her belt to prevent her from falling.  One of her legs was a little weaker than the other.  When her tour guide told her that she was listing to the left, she quipped, “That’s because I am a democrat, young man.”     

On another visit, she was alone in her room, sitting in the wheelchair.  The orderly had taken her to the bathroom but had not finished getting her dressed.  There was a cord attached to the back of her blouse with a safety pin.  That cord was also attached to a “beeper” on the handle of the chair that would alert the staff if she tried to get up before they returned to dress her.  She was turning and stretching this way and that, trying like mad to reach the pin and take it off, looking for a way to work around an alarm, as she had done before with her easy chair.  I told her to wait a minute and ran to the nurse’s station to tell them I was in the room and would make sure she did not get up, and possibly hurt herself.

When I returned, Audrey had figured out how to outsmart another system.  She had unbuttoned her blouse, taken it off – pin, cord, and all — and stood up.  There she was in the middle of her room, teetering unsteadily back and forth, wearing nothing except for an adult diaper, half off her hip.  I told her, “Mother, this is not a pretty sight,” referring to the fact that age and gravity had taken their toll on my mother.  A naked ninety-eight-year-old woman is a lot like a Picasso painting in which none of the woman’s parts are in the right places.  Her response was one for the ages:

“Son, I birthed you.  I have seen everything you have.  Now, you have seen everything I have.  Deal with it!”

No, Audrey did not go quietly into that good night.  She raged against the machinery of the world and her keepers right until the end.  She lived so long and so enthusiastically, it seemed as if she would always be around; and indeed, she did last a long time – just short of a century.  She was not cut short.  We were not robbed.  We cannot complain.

Still, when she became bedridden…

Audrey was luckier than most of the other residents, many of whom never had a visitor.  She had a constant stream of family in her last days.  My brothers and their wives, Liza and I and our kids, and several of our kids’ cousins kept the vigil.  But you are never quite ready for the call you know is coming.

They said it might be a matter of hours.  My brothers had spent the morning at her bedside.  My wife and I and our daughters arrived for the afternoon shift.  Audrey was lying in repose.  Her pulse was weak.  Her breathing was labored … and slow!  I sat on the edge of her bed, held her hand, and sang to her, just as I had done when putting her to bed when she lived in our house.  My wife and daughters joined in.  We sang for at least two hours, prompting each other on the words to a hymnal and the Broadway songbook — Audrey’s favorites.  The nurse checked in regularly and told us that Audrey could probably hear us.    

Her breaths became fainter and farther apart.  Just when we thought she had breathed her last, she came back for more air.  We kept calling for the nurse, and we kept singing.  If Audrey did hear us, we wanted to serenade until her last gasp.  When she had been still for several minutes, we called again for the nurse who confirmed that she had passed away. 

We were not aware of the exact moment, but somewhere between “How Great Thou Art” and “There is Nothing Like a Dame,” my mom drifted off into eternity.  We were all weeping; yet for me there was peacefulness and joy in the room that defied all comprehension.  When my father died, I was holding him in my arms in that very moment.  Thirty-two years later, here I was, holding my mom’s hand when she died.  They brought me into this world, and I ushered them out.

What a privilege!

As we sat there, and our daughters reminisced about their Grammy, a smile spread across my face, and I began to chuckle.  I suddenly remembered this game that my mother used to play with my brothers and me.  You see, she loved See’s Chocolates, and we would often invade her apartment, hoping to find the delicious plunder, which she used to hide from us.  And I wondered…

Still holding my mom’s hand, I reached over and opened the drawer of her bedside table.  And Voila!  A one-pound box of “assorteds.”  My daughters were horrified when I pulled it out, opened it up, selected and ate a dark chocolate peanut cluster – one of Audrey’s favorites. 

“DAAAAD!  HOW CAN YOU DO THAT?”  Oh, the gnashing of their teeth!

In my defense I offer up two justifications for my behavior.

#1       My mom was never going to eat it; and on that, my logic is unassailable!

#2       My parents shared a great sense of humor, able to laugh at each other and at themselves.  Ted would have grinned from ear to ear.  And if Audrey had been present at that moment, she would have feigned umbrage and then said, “Pass the chocolate.”

Audrey Marie Johnson Piatt did not want to set the world on fire.  She did not seek fame or fortune.  She was a devoted wife and mom with an incredible work ethic, a life of integrity, and a keen sense of duty.  She carved out a career and was widely admired by scores of faithful clients who admired her for her talent as a designer/decorator.  She was a resolute woman of faith, praying daily for those around her.  Her last outing was Christmas Eve 2002, four months before she passed away, at my brother’s house for the annual Piatt Family Holiday Homemade Pizza Party.  There were about sixty of us, four generations of a close-knit clan, all leading good and productive lives, loving Grammy, loving each other.  That is her legacy.               

A Sweet Goodbye

The decision to move my mother to a senior care place after four-and-a-half years in our house was a difficult one.  Our house had become her home, and she was not eager for another big life change.  Plus, she balked at the expense; but my brothers were ready and willing to pay the freight.  They were so grateful that Liza had given so much of her time and energy to our mom, and they wanted to step up and contribute to Mom’s care.

Audrey’s diminishing eyesight, her unsteadiness, and her increasing needs for personal care were becoming more complicated for Liza to manage.  I had promised my wife that we would find another home for Audrey when her care became more than Liza could manage.  Because Audrey fell a lot, Liza developed a sore back from lifting her up, and she feared further injury.  I would feel guilty at times for “kicking my mother to the curb,” but our whole extended family had my back.  It was time.   

We were also at the point where Audrey could not be left alone in the house, so for a while we contracted with an in-home health care service to take care of her when we could not be around.  The brochure crowed about their years of experience with elder care and the skill of their “trained professionals.”

When the doorbell rang as the first caregiver showed up, I opened the door to Margaret and thought to myself:  they just might have exaggerated a bit.  Standing in our doorway was a young woman, nineteen or twenty years old and right out of the pages of a teen magazine.  Doc Martens, knee high socks, jean shorts, bare midriff, various face piercings, and spiky hair.  Audrey was sitting in her armchair when we introduced them, and Audrey’s first glimpse of Margaret was her navel, also pierced. 

We rolled our eyes, but Margaret turned out to be great.  As we were leaving the house, they were laughing it up.  When we got home, she had checked off all the boxes on the checklist for Audrey’s care.  Audrey made it clear that she would not allow anyone else to Grammy-sit.  Only Margaret. 

Still, that was stop-gap.  Liza was still the main caretaker, but in Mom’s last few months in our house I had to raise my game.  In the same way a mom of small children hands off her brood to hubby around dinner time or on the weekends, I took charge of Audrey most Saturdays and many evenings.  Some lovely things took place in the waning weeks of her time with us.

She loved it when I took her to the market.  I kept a small plastic step stool in my pickup, which she needed to climb into the cab.  She loved the truck.  It was easier to get in and out of the truck than to get in and out of the car, and she felt SO HIP perched high up in the Dodge Ram.  And she loved the market, because she could push a shopping cart, much more to her liking than being tethered to her walker.

Walking up and down the aisles at the local Pavilions was a lot like hanging out with my youngest grandson, who is eighteen months old.  Like him, Mom wanted to touch everything in the store.  And to know the price of everything as well!  She was always that frugal Depression-Era housewife on a tight budget.  No longer able to read the little price tags on the front of the shelf, she asked, “Is that the cheapest coffee?” when I grabbed a one pound can of Yuban.  When asked about the price of Yuban, or any other purchase in the store, I did what any self-respecting and dutiful son would do.  I lied.

And we always went through the checkout line where Nancy rang things up.  She caught my signal and knew what to do.

Audrey:       

“Is that the cheapest coffee?”

Nancy:          

“Not normally. Today it’s on sale. Your son is a smart shopper.”

Whenever I was home of an evening, our goodnight routine was delightful.  After helping with her nighttime ablutions and getting her in her jammies, I tucked her into bed, connected her to the oxygen, sat on the side of the bed and sang her to sleep.  We kept a hymnal on the bedside table; she loved those old hymns of the church.  It reminded her (and me) of the holiday gatherings at my grandparents’ house.  At the end of the day, we would gather at the piano in their parlor and have a multi-generation family sing-along.  “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” “Living for Jesus.” “God Be with You ‘Til We Meet Again.”  She loved ‘em all.       

She also loved show tunes.  Broadway!  For years she and three of her buddies had season tickets for the Los Angeles Civic Light Opera, and occasionally she roped me in.  I was nine or ten when I sat for the first time in the center front row of the mezzanine and watched and heard Gordon McCrae belt out, “There’s a bright golden haze on the meadow…”  I was hooked like a fish and became a rabid fan of musicals.  “Oklahoma.” “Kismet.” “South Pacific.” “Guys and Dolls.”  She loved ‘em all.

Sometimes she wanted me to read to her.  It took two or three weeks to get through “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom.  The author wrote about the conversations he had over several months with his favorite professor and mentor from Yale, who was in the throes of ALS.  At one point, Albom asks, “Are you afraid of dying?”  The prof answered that he was not afraid of dying.  He was afraid of something else.  He was afraid that soon enough someone was going to have to “wipe my butt.”

Audrey laughed so hard that I was afraid she might hurt herself, but it was no laughing matter.  She made it clear that she did not want me, or Liza, or our daughters, or any other family member to be the ones to wipe her butt.  She did not want any of us to share the indignities of aging that were to come.  Mom was so resolute and stubborn about not being a burden, she investigated the possibility of living alone again in an apartment — ninety-seven, legally blind and immobile.      

Audrey fought it a little longer, but down deep she knew; and in the last few months in our house, Mom and I shared some tender moments and memories.  One evening we emptied a bottle of wine, and Audrey turned maudlin.  She told me about the most painful experiences of her life, the loss of two babies.

My parents were married in 1927, and she became pregnant with their first child in 1929.  In those days there was no ultrasound.  They found out that the baby was a girl the day she was born.  Janine was a striking redhead, but it was immediately apparent that this baby would be severely handicapped.  A breech delivery had resulted in severe birth trauma, and she never made it home.  She died in the hospital at six weeks.  Then after both of my brothers were born, and before I came along, Mom became pregnant again in 1940; and that baby was stillborn at 14 weeks.         

Two girls.  I had heard about this heartache from family members, but never from my mother’s lips.  The grief over her loss was overwhelming to me:  the daughters that my mother would have loved, the daughters she would have mentored in all the arts and crafts and handiwork which she learned from her own mother!  The grief over my loss was also overwhelming:  the big sisters that I would have dearly cherished, but never got to know.   

To this day I believe that my mother conspired to open a vein and share this intimate grief to comfort me.  To tell me that she and I were OK!  That she trusted me with this bolt from her gut!  That this departure from our house would not be a departure from the ties that bind us together.  She put up some resistance right to the end; but I was able to cajole her with humor and she finally left her beloved room behind and got in the car.  At the end of the day, she bid our home a sweet goodbye. 

To be continued…

Next week:  Audrey, Part Five

                        Another Sweet Goodbye

The Later Years!

“The Last Samurai” is a beautiful film about an American expat veteran of the American Civil War (Tom Cruise) living in Japan, who encounters the last samurai warrior of the title (Ken Watanabe).  They form an unlikely friendship, and they are the last men alive on the battlefield, when the Cruise character assists his friend to depart this world in a noble and “good death.” 

At the end, the American limps into the royal palace and presents the emperor with the sword of the departed warrior.  The emperor says, “Tell me how he died.”  The American pleads with the emperor, “Let me tell you how he lived.”        

My mother died a good death at the age of ninety-nine; but before I tell you about that, let me tell you how she lived, starting with a story.

She was in her late eighties when she booked a flight to visit her kith and kin in Dallas and Austin.  We drove to the Van Nuys Flyaway, where I stood in line to buy her ticket for the shuttle bus to LAX.  When I caught up with her, she was in an animated conversation, and it was a striking tableau.  My five-foot-three, 105-pound mother was chattering with this African American man who was at least six-four, two-seventy-five.  Their laughter and their familiarity led me to believe that she had run into an old friend.    

No, they were perfect strangers.  They had never laid eyes on each other before; but in less than five minutes they were lifelong chums, sharing pictures of their grandchildren.  That was Audrey all right.  It didn’t matter your race, creed, color, national origin, or station!  She embraced others with enthusiasm — young or old, man or woman, black or white, gay or straight.  She had an open and curious nature, turning otherwise ordinary encounters into adventures.

Well into her eighties, she had been the picture of health, energetic and buoyant, defying gravity and expectations for the elderly. She was the inspiration for the Energizer Bunny.  Always ready to get up and go, she was eighty-eight the last time she undertook the four-hour, five-bus trip from her apartment to our house. 

But not long after her ninetieth birthday she began to deteriorate; and since she was still living by herself, there was considerable worry throughout our extended family about her future and her care.  Especially when she admitted that she had taken a few falls.  Perhaps because she was petite, didn’t weigh much, and didn’t have far to fall, she had not broken anything; but one fall severely damaged her rotator cuff.   That set things in motion for her last chapters.

Audrey was ninety-three years old when she came to live with our family.  We thought she might last another year — maybe two — because her body had been letting her down, but she fooled us.  She lived until two months into her hundredth year, and she did not go quickly or quietly into that good night.  She was convinced that old age was a temporary condition, from which she would soon recover.

It griped her no end that she could no longer do the normal simple things; like take a pot off the stove, or peel the yams, or get in and out of the tub on her own.  She needed a walker which was also an aggravation.  She loved it when we took her to the market where she could push the shopping cart; it made her feel younger and less conspicuous. 

One day she was standing in our kitchen, hands on the walker and muttering to herself because she was stuck.  She couldn’t lift her feet enough to walk.  She looked down and said, “C’mon feet.  Get to movin’.”  She rocked back and forth until one foot came off the floor, and then the other, took three or four steps and stopped.  Her frustration bubbled up and she swore, “DAMN!  I WISH I WAS NINETY AGAIN.” 

That was some perspective, right?  Truth be told, Audrey had a keen sense of perspective all her life.  She knew how to hold onto a buck, but she was never enamored of the world’s goods.  She always put people over things, but the few things she had were of good quality and well cared for.  She was a woman of enormous talent and creativity, and she never bragged about it.  For any and all successes in her life, she gave thanks and due credit to the Lord.    

That perspective served her well in her last few years.  She boiled her life down to the things of real importance:  A fresh peach from our tree!  The sun streaming through the living room window onto her shoulders!  A newly picked rose from our garden which she could hold up to her face to catch the scent.  Books on tape with a big-button tape player from the Braille Institute!  Getting to the bathroom on time!

And most importantly, connections!  We got for her a phone with huge buttons so she could ring up family and friends.  It was de rigueur for any of our daughters’ friends to drop in on Grammy when visiting our house.  It was not unusual to pass by her room and find two or three high schoolers sitting crossed legged on the floor near her, being regaled with stories from her childhood almost a century before. 

Through all her frustrations with aging, there were three things that kept her going, three things that made it workable for all of us, three things that made us all grateful.

Number One.  She had a strong mind.  Frail of body, yes; but she did not show signs of serious dementia.  She had most of her wits about her until the last month of her life.  

Number Two.  She had a sense of humor.  Audrey could laugh at herself, her condition, her life.  She told wonderful jokes and anecdotes about getting old.  With a chuckle she said, “Son, getting old is not for sissies.” 

Number Three.  She had a daughter-in-law.  There are many jokes about mothers-in-law, and that is because the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship has risks.  Even my brothers questioned her sanity when my wife proposed that we invite Audrey into our home.  Later they would consider a flight to Rome and an audience with the Holy Father to submit a petition for Liza’s sainthood.  They knew very well that our mom’s feistiness and her strength of will could be troublesome.

Indeed, there were moments.  It was not always silky smooth.  It was an adjustment for Audrey to give up her independence, but it was also an adjustment for Liza, who added Audrey’s care to her already busy life with teen age daughters at home.  Liza took on the responsibility to feed and bathe my mom, get her dressed, keep her company, manage her health care, get her to the doctor, organize her meds.

And in the day to day, they found common ground and an endearing friendship.  Each morning they shared toast and coffee.  They discussed the news of the day.  They prayed together; that was the connection that blunted the sharp elbows and sanded over the rough spots.  In brief, Liza had made a home for Audrey.

Liza also had to pick Audrey up when she fell, which happened with increasing frequency until she was falling at least once a week – maybe a total of one hundred times during her stay with us.  There came a time when it was no longer possible for Liza to provide the physical care that Audrey required.  We had some in-home care, but it was not enough.  After four-and-a-half years with us, Audrey moved to a skilled nursing facility, where she lived the last sixteen months of her life.  It was far from us, but close to both of my brothers, who took on the financial responsibility and the communication with her caregivers.  I could only get there once a week, but between the brothers and their wives and a nephew or two, Audrey had a visitor almost every day.

And when Audrey got to her new digs, she was as feisty and funny as ever.

To be continued…

Next week:   Audrey, Part Four:  A Sweet Goodbye.

NOTE:

This post appears on Sunday, February 21, 2021.  Exactly one hundred seventeen years ago in 1904, Audrey was born on this date.

My mom’s career as an interior decorator/designer started humbly enough when she answered an ad for a seamstress in the workshop of a prestigious interior design firm.  She had always been nimble with a needle and for years had done piece work at home in the sewing room she fashioned out of our enclosed porch.  She learned her craft at the knee of her mother who was a milliner who owned and operated her own shop in the 1910’s and 20’s, thanks to a determined spirit and the full-throated support of my grandfather. 

When Audrey was hired by the family-owned design firm in 1948, they were well known throughout the area for the quality of their handmade French-pleat draperies.  For my mom, it was like a duck to water.  She often brought the work home to complete on her own worktable, and she was meticulous in her craft.  Her ruler was in constant use as she made sure that every pleat, every fold, every stitch, and every drapery hook was perfectly placed.

And her handiwork was not just limited to sewing; she had learned the use of tools from her dad.  She could fix a lamp, perform simple carpentry, reupholster the cushion on a dining room chair, replace the washer in the drippy faucet, install a traverse rod, hang wallpaper, paint the interior of the house … well, you name it.  Yep, she could wield a hammer, a screwdriver, a drill, a level, a crescent wrench, a pair of pliers, or a paint brush.    

Speaking of paint, she had another ability that was quite amazing; in this she was an outlier, and it had to do with color.  She could look at the floral print on someone’s sofa, and later instruct the clerk at the paint store what to add to the white paint base to create that same color.  Add a drop of yellow, or two drops of burnt umber, or magenta, or whatever, and Voila!  A perfect match.

It did not take long for the husband-wife team who employed her to recognize her practical skill set, her demand for excellence, her work ethic, her total reliability, and her outgoing and gracious demeanor.  Soon enough she was transferred to the sales force; and over the next 30-plus years she lovingly improved the homes and offices of a large, loyal, and diverse clientele.  When our dad died without much in the way of assets, Audrey was not left bereft.  She was sixty-seven years old.  She was a professional.  She could earn a buck.  Which she did, well into her eighties. 

She finally stopped working, but she didn’t stop going.  It seemed as if she would go on forever, and at high speed.  She was just a little spit of a thing, about five-two and 110 pounds, but her personality was huge.  Her enthusiasm, her independence, and her curiosity drove her life.

And her stubbornness!  When she wanted to visit our family, she refused to allow me to pick her up.  Instead, she walked to the corner by her apartment building in San Dimas and boarded a bus to El Monte, where she transferred to a bus bound for Los Angeles.  From the downtown bus depot, she walked four or five blocks through Skid Row to board a bus to Chatsworth, which is in the northwest corner of the San Fernando Valley.  She caught the bus to Simi Valley where she hopped on the local transit that loops around the town, debarking at the Simi Civic Center.  She walked about half-a-mile and showed up on our doorstep.  It took four or five hours and five buses to cover the sixty miles, and all the while she was shouldering her bright red canvas duffel bag. She was eighty-eight years old the last time she embarked on this adventure.

About that time, she suffered a bout of pneumonia, which did slow her down.  Over the next three or four years she lost more than a step.  She was losing her eyesight and was diagnosed with macular degeneration.  Her breathing became labored and she needed to wear a canula and get an oxygen boost at night.  Her heart skipped a few beats; it was congestive heart failure.  She was also unsteady on her feet; she had taken a few falls.

The year was 1997, Audrey was ninety-three, and my wife made a most perspicacious observation.  She said, “Hon, it took her a very long time, but finally your mom got old.”

My brothers and I — and many other members of our clan — pondered the dilemma of Audrey’s failing health.  We asked the question that is asked by extended families everywhere.  The question that has provoked anguish in grown children all over!  The question about end-of-life care for our aging parents!                 

What are we going to do about Grammy?

To be continued…

Next week:  Audrey, Part Three:  The Later Years.

As February 21^st approaches, my thoughts turn to my mother Audrey who was born on that date in 1904.  To lend a bit of perspective, just two months earlier on December 17^th, 1903, Orville and Wilbur Wright successfully flew their experimental biplane at Kitty Hawk on the outer banks of North Carolina.  The beginning of the Age of Aviation!

Audrey died in 2003, just two months after her 99^th birthday.  Her life span was the 20^th Century, and aviation was just one of the wonders she witnessed.  Oh, the stories she loved to tell.  And she did, with gusto, to whomever would listen.

My students loved it when she came to speak about her life as a young girl.  Born in Oak Hill, Texas; her family had no running water, no indoor plumbing, no electricity.  They read by oil lamp and cooked and heated with a wood-fueled cast iron stove, where they also boiled water for bathing in a bathtub.  And a shower? Never heard of it.   

When she was eight, they moved to Pasadena, California; and one day she saw and heard a “newsie” shouting, EXTRA!  EXTRA!  READ ALL ABOUT IT!  TITANIC SINKS!  They moved to Pomona where she attended high school during World War One.

The students were fascinated — and somewhat in shock — when my mom described things that they did and did not have.  It was not easy to grasp that when she was their age, the only things in her house driven by electricity were a lamp, a radio, and a telephone.  The telephone was on a “party line,” which meant everyone within a mile shared the connection.  You had to take turns and be patient, and occasionally relay a message to a neighbor who did not yet have a phone.  No TV, computer, refrigerator, washer, dryer, garbage disposal, hair dryer, vacuum cleaner, microwave, blender, or toaster.  No electric toothbrush.  No power tools!

They also had no wheels.  My granddad walked to work or took a trolley to his job as a ticket agent for Union Pacific, my grandmother walked to her millinery shop, and Audrey walked to school.  After school she walked to the shop and learned a world of “home ec” skills from her mother as they created hats and fascinators in the fashion of the era.  Grandfather bought their first car in 1922, the year my mom graduated from Pomona High School.

How did she survive?

Quite well, actually!  Obviously, she didn’t know what she was missing or what wonders were to come; but in many ways she was just like my students.  As an eighteen-year-old young woman, she loved the popular music that drove her parents crazy.  She wanted to drive the car.  She “shingled” her hair in the fashion of the day, and she loved to dance.  She wore a “flapper” dress that came just above the knee, and the dress was lined at the hem with fringe that shimmied when she rocked the “Charleston.” 

Thirty years later she decided that I should learn how to dance.  I was in 7^th grade when she put me in a crisp shirt with a bow tie, a sports coat and shiny shoes, and became my dance partner on the red faux-brick linoleum floor of our kitchen.  We danced the waltz, the foxtrot and occasionally cut loose with the “lindy hop” and the “jitterbug.”  Wow! My mom was a hoofer!

In 1926, she became engaged to an earnest, steady, reliable, hard-working, and sober young man whom she knew from school and who already had a responsible position in a bank.  He also attended the local Congregational church.  Her parents heartily approved of this match.  However, before the wedding could take place, my grandmother died of cancer; and just about that time, Audrey met Ted, and she fell for him – hook, line, and sinker.  

Compared to her fiancé, Ted was less reliable, less responsible, less sober – but more dapper, charming, intelligent, and witty.  Granddad was of sane mind and a good judge of character, saw the flim-flam, and was beside himself with worry.  He must have been apoplectic on January 15^th, 1927, when Ted Piatt and Audrey Marie Johnson eloped and tied the knot in San Diego.

Not surprisingly, Ted and Audrey had some real struggles in their marriage.  Some of those struggles are chronicled in previous posts to this blog:  Boater, 5/26/20; Tears on My Space Bar, 6/16/20; Lace, 6/30/20; How Great Thou Art, 9/15/20; and One Last Basket, 10/13/20.    

At the same time, they loved each other deeply and had a shared goal that cannot be overstated in terms of its impact on our lives and the lives of our children and grandchildren.  Although Dad went only as far as 8^th grade in school, and Mom had just one or two years of community college, they were determined to get their three sons through college and beyond.  They never took a vacation or spent money on entertainment.  Every available dime was put away for college.

This decision required my mom to go to work.  She would have loved to be a fulltime wife and mom; but needs must.  At a time when there were few working moms, she started as a seamstress.  The skill set she learned in the millinery shop qualified her to sew high-end French-pleat draperies for an exclusive home design center.  This was the beginning of an unexpected and splendid blessing in her life.

Soon my mom moved from the drapery workshop to the design floor, and over the next thirty years she developed a loyal clientele as a much in-demand interior decorator/designer.  Her eye for color and her sense of style took her to the homes and offices of college professors and other professionals.  Plus, she had a killer work ethic.

When I was in graduate school, one of my professors invited the class to his home for wine, cheese, and conversation.  Just walking in the door, I was struck with a sense of deja vu.  The arrangement of art on the wall, the placement of the furniture, the quality of the drapes, the scheme of fall colors; they were all familiar to me.  When I introduced myself to the professor’s wife, she asked, “Are you related to Audrey Piatt?”

Audrey did more than get a job; she got a career.

To Be Continued…

We always loved the annual holiday set-up.  Around Thanksgiving we would get the Christmas boxes out of storage.  Year after year our girls were eager to bring out all those familiar family treasures and hang them in the same places.  We put up the household decorations, hung our string of red, green, and white outdoor lights along the roof edge out front; and by the middle of December, we had shopped for our perfect Noble Fir and festooned the tree.  Yes, everyone loved the annual holiday set-up.

But no one loved the annual holiday clean-up.  It felt like drudgery.    

Eventually there emerged a new tradition, and we all loved it.

On New Year’s Day my wife and I and our three daughters got up at 8:00, huddled under a blanket, and passed around the platter of Pillsbury orange rolls while we watched and listened to Bob and Stephanie call the Rose Parade; and when the parade was over, it was time for football.  The women in my life agreed to leave me alone, and they would even stock the fridge with my favorite binge food.  In return, I would take down and box up all the household decorations and Christmas tree ornaments and put them in the holiday-stuff storage cabinet in the garage.

I took great care in undecorating, packing, organizing of the cupboard, removing the bare tree to the curb, vacuuming the living room, and pushing the furniture back in place — much of which was done during halftime, time-outs, penalties, and advertisements.  And I took great pleasure in glutting on football from 10:00 to 10:00.  My wife pitched in throughout the day; this Type-A girl of mine wanted to make sure that all the boxes were properly labeled.  The family all drifted back in to watch the spectacular halftime show of the Orange Bowl, the last telecast of the day. 

When I tucked my girls in for the night, I lingered a bit longer in our youngest daughter’s room, because her bedroom window faced the front of the house.  She loved to fall asleep to the glow of the outdoor lights as they cast a soft kaleidoscope of color on the blinds.  For that reason, we did not put the outdoor lights away quite yet.  Like my daughter, they stayed up later.   

For many years, our New Year’s Day tradition was special.

And then, it all went wrong.

You see, once upon time it was delicious to celebrate New Year’s Day, because the college bowl games on January One were meaningful and exciting.  For starters, there were not as many bowl games.  We did not have the Famous Idaho Potato Bowl or the Cheez-It Bowl (Really?) or the Belk Bowl (What’s a belk?).  The Poulan Weed Eater Bowl just does not have the same dactylic resonance as the Gator Bowl or the Cotton Bowl.  In recent years there have been as many as forty bowl games, as if you could find eighty teams worth watching.

No sir!  Back then there were great matchups all day long, with all of the top ranked teams playing on New Year’s Day. It started at 10 AM in L.A. (1 PM Eastern) with the Gator Bowl in Florida and the Peach Bowl in Atlanta.  The Sugar Bowl in New Orleans and the Cotton Bowl in Dallas were on the air around 11:00 (1 PM Central).  Obviously two TV’s were necessary.  At 1:00 came the “Granddaddy of the Them All,” the Rose Bowl.  And just when you thought you could not take in any more pigskin pleasure, they returned you to the Orange Bowl at 5:00 (8:00 PM in Miami).

At the end of the day, you could argue – and they did — that many of the winners of the New Year’s Day games could have become Number One.  The Sportswriters of America and United Press International each announced a national champion.  If they disagreed, we had co-champions.

There was a great hue and cry that a committee should not pick the national champion, but that it should be determined on the field.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.  Enter the College Football Playoffs (CFP).  It started with the two top ranked teams at the end of the regular season, and that soon expanded to four teams, the current format. 

The problem is four-fold.

Number One.  A committee still makes the big decision.  In the first week of December, the CFP Select Committee names the four teams who will play for the national championship.  At that precise moment we know that one of those four teams will be crowned national champion, and the other three will end up 2, 3, and 4.

Number Two.  The arguing continues.  Each year some strong teams are shut out of consideration for the national championship.  When one of the four finalists plays a lousy game, the second guessing goes into overdrive.  Did they belong there?    

Number Three.  The CFP is crazy making.  The narrowing of the playing field has driven universities to spend enormous sums to find the right coach, and they are impatient with their coaches.  This year a coach was dismissed with three years remaining on his contract, a contract which included a buyout.  In this case, the university paid the coach twenty-one million dollars NOT to coach next year.  TWENTY-ONE MILLION!  DOLLARS!  Sheesh!

Number Four.  Many of the traditional bowl games have lost their relevance.  When the championship was not decided until all the bowl games were played, many great teams had a shot right until the end.  To be fair, this year’s champion – Alabama – would have ended up #1 under any selection method.  They were just that good.  But it is still a sad outcome when a great 5^th or 6^th ranked team plays in a great bowl game that has zero bearing on the championship race.

As a result of all this, my New Year’s Day tradition is much less exciting, and I want it back.  I want a whole bunch of teams to be in the hunt right up to the last minute of the last game.  I want to argue about who is Number One while putting away the Santa mobile, The Christmas mugs, and the old creche with the poor one-legged donkey. 

Here are my recommendations:

• Move all the bowl games back to January One.
• Let the sportswriters decide.  They know better.
• Pay the college football coach a teacher salary. 
• Pay the teachers seven million a year.    

Another Love Letter to Liza

They say that our ability to remember grows dim with age.  They are both right and wrong.  For example, my short-term memory is impaired – cannot recall what I had for breakfast this morning or where I left my glasses.  However, my long-term memory is like crystal; because I can clearly see your animated face and hear your eager voice on one of our first dates more than fifty-four years ago.  You told me how you caught the winning touchdown pass in the annual Arcadia High School Powder Puff Football Classic, leading the junior girls to victory over the senior girls for the first time in school history.  You had worn the number 37.

The thought of you streaking down the sidelines still lasts in my imagination.  Oh, the frisson that rippled down my spine that I might be falling in love with this incredibly smart and gorgeous girl who just might like sports generally and football in particular!  And indeed, we have shared many great sports moments.  This makes me lucky and grateful.

I love it when you beat me to the sports page and store up trivia.  You love it when I ask you a multiple-choice sports question, and you get it in one.  I love it when you learn the names of the QB’s of all thirty-two pro football teams, and you love it when I quiz you and you get a perfect score.  I love it when you curl up beside me to watch a football game or a Dodger game or a golf match – the same sports you enjoyed watching with your dad.  You love it when I get up to fetch my own Polish dog and a cold one, because you love that I never expect you to serve me food while watching TV like a couch-potato. 

Of course, there have been some occasions when I abused the privilege.  Like the time I was glutting on college football Saturday and was vaguely aware that you were trying to break through my football fixation.  You were leaning on the entertainment center; and when you partially blocked my view of the TV, I noticed that you were wearing one of my T-shirts, on which you had printed 37 in huge black letters with a jumbo marker.

Me     “What, Liza?”

You     “I figured if I want your attention, I need a shirt with a number on it.”

Ouch!  That hurt!  But I loved you even more, because you did not murmur or complain or grumble or dispute.  You poked fun at your husband instead.  That was the day I went online to NFLSHOP and ordered your birthday present.  You loved it when you unwrapped your gift of an authentic RAMS jersey with 37 on the front and your name on the back, and I loved it when you immediately put it on. 

You have been an enthusiastic sports fan with me, and a big grin spreads across my face when I think of a defining moment in our shared sports-watching history.  It was a Sunday afternoon in the fall, and I was channel-surfing from the World Series to the golf Players Championship to pro football.  You hate that part, the channel surfing.  You have never wanted to mix sports watching with multi-tasking.  Finally, you had enough.  You poked me in the ribs and said these words which have warmed my heart and have made me the envy of football fanatic husbands everywhere.

You     “Please turn back to the football game and LEAVE IT THERE!”      

What do I love about you, Liza?  Just about everything, but what I especially appreciate today is that you have lovingly chosen to take an interest in something that interests me.  With all due respect for Lou Gehrig, I am the luckiest guy in the world.

Love you!

Love, Me!

Hello Kirk,

My name is Tim.  Although we have not met, we have something important in common; we both profess to be born-again Christians.  I have long admired your boldness and your defense of the gospel in the TV and film industry, which does not always show respect for people of faith.

You came to my attention recently when you hosted a Christmas party where several hundred people gathered.  Oh, how I wanted to be there to participate in the caroling; but I am at high risk for the coronavirus because of my age, history of respiratory problems, and ongoing treatment for cancer.  I will have to wait until next year.

So, it was disappointing, Kirk, to see that you did not wait until next year, because those attendees at your event were crowded together, singing out loud, with very few of them wearing masks.  Granted, it was outdoors, but in my opinion your guests were at an increased level of risk of catching or spreading the disease.

We all share the frustration and the inconveniences of this health crisis.  We all want to return to normal, to once again crowd into the pews.  But what I fail to understand is why so many Christians, including some notable church leaders, regard the governmental restrictions as an assault on religious liberty.  They have spoken of their right to worship and assemble — defying or disregarding local, regional, and statewide mandates.

What rights are we talking about, Kirk?          

Many years ago, I knelt at the foot of the cross and begged the Lord to invade my heart, pledged my fealty to the King of Kings, and declared myself all in as a believer.  And at that moment I relinquished every right.  In the words of the Apostle Paul, I had become a bond servant, a slave by choice.  To use a sports metaphor, I was no longer a free agent.  I was under contract, and my contract was purchased with the shed blood of the One who saved me.

In the New Testament of the Bible, it is written that if we are to be His followers, we must “… deny ourselves, pick up our crosses daily, and follow Him.”  Furthermore, we are instructed in the words of Christ to obey the governing authorities – “… to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”  If the governing authorities demanded of me to behave immorally, to practice violence, or to stop worshipping God; then I would be obliged to resist.  However, the government has asked you and me to limit our numbers and to wear a mask — not what I consider violations of the First Amendment, and no First Amendment right is without some limitations.

Take our church for example.  In the sanctuary there is a small sign on the wall that says MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY.  It is posted by the Ventura County Fire Department and states the maximum number of worshippers for meetings and banquets.  In the church kitchen there are strict guidelines for food preparation, handwashing, and face coverings, which are posted by the Ventura County Health Department.  These ordinances and many others are commonly accepted as reasonable constraints for the health and safety of the people who work and worship at the church. 

If you and others are correct, that the mask and the distancing are of no significance and do not stop the tide of infection, then the wearing of the mask would be silly and uncomfortable.  But it would do no harm! 

On the other hand, if Dr. Fauci, the CDC, and health professionals worldwide are correct, then not wearing a mask would be more than silly.     It will be deadly.  Yes, wearing the mask is inconvenient; but it is not insignificant, because more than 340,000 people in America are dead already … and counting.

One of my church friends asked, “What’s the big deal about masks?”  My question exactly!  What is the big deal?  The mask is such a little deal, a piece of cloth.  Why fuss over it?  Why not just wear it?  I do not consider the mask and social distancing as infringements on my personal freedoms, so I have no problem obeying this mandate. 

However, that is not my main reason.  I wear the mask because as a Christian I am compelled to love my neighbor.  The Scriptures tell us that we will “… be known as Christians by our love,” — our love for one another, and our love for people of all nations, tribes and tongues – all of whom are living with this pandemic and its restrictions just like us.  In this perilous time, I can think of no better way to demonstrate this Biblical admonition than to do my small part, to practice a minor inconvenience, and to consider the well-being of the people around me.

To me, that is Bible 101.

If you have another caroling party next year, I hope that distancing and masks are no longer necessary, that I get an invitation, and that with full throats we can sing the hymns, the psalms and the spiritual songs of the season.

Sincerely,

Your brother and neighbor in Christ,

Tim Piatt, Thousand Oaks