Another Fall

It's a long, hard ride to the finish line.

Last night, for once, I went to bed early.  I was awakened from a rambling, sprawling dream - the details of which I don't remember - by the sound of my cell phone buzzing.  I answered and it was Alice, calling to tell me that my mom had fallen again.  Still half-asleep, I struggled to engage my mind in the conversation.

I had talked to my mom at 7:45 p.m., after JP's baseball practice and birthday party, and she was tired but sleepy.  I learned from Alice that Tracy had talked to her at 8:30 p.m. and she was fine.  When Alice called about 9 p.m. and got no answer, she called the staff at Maristone and asked them to check on her.  Sure enough, she had fallen out of her chair and was unable to get up.

Tracy was there and was going to spend the night.  Alice agreed to cover the morning shift with her.  I did a mental inventory of my work calendar and quickly realized I could be there from lunchtime on through the early evening, if necessary.  After that, who knows?

When I called and talked to Tracy, then my mom, just past midnight, my mom didn't even remember that she had fallen.  So there's that.

I don't know who this could get any harder.  I really don't.  For my mom and for us.

Tracy and I looked at lift chairs last weekend.  Tracy ordered one on Monday and it should arrive this week.  Maybe that will help.  Probably, it won't.

I don't know what our options are, at this point.  The staff at Maristone are checking on her every two hours, as it is.  Or they're supposed to be, anyway.  What can they do for someone who can't get out of her chair or walk without falling?  I have no idea but I guess we'll find out.

It breaks my heart to say this, but this is no way for my mom to live.

JP Turns 9

Tonight, on the eve of JP's 9th birthday, I'm thinking about the passage of time.

Five years ago, JP was about to turn four and I was 45 years old.  Tomorrow, at nine years of age, JP will be so very different than he was at age four.  And me, well, I'll be pretty much the same person at 50 as I was at 45.  Maybe a little heavier with reading glasses nearby at all times but, still, the same person.

For him, I'm sure it seems like it's taken forever - a lifetime - for him to grow from a four year old going to school at Children's House to a nine year old in the 2nd grade at University School.  For me, it's the exact opposite.  It's trite, I know, but it does seem like only yesterday that JP was four years old and we were listening to music in the kitchen every morning at our Elliott Avenue house, taking weekend walks and sitting at our table in the back at Bongo Java.  Yesterday.

How can five years of passed time feel so differently to two people?  Two people, mind you, who have lived in large part the same life for five years, in the same place.  Strange.

I went for a walk tonight after everyone was in bed.  Lost in my thoughts and remembrances as I walked across Belmont's campus after an evening rainstorm, I smiled to myself as I cued up the songs (on Spotify and in my mind) of JP's youth.  Avett Brothers - Left on Laura, Left on Lisa (the original song JP and I shared a love for and the one that will always, always remind me of him); Barenaked Ladies - Snacktime, Bad Day and Hear Come the Geese (we wore this album out every morning at breakfast in our old house for so long, often times as I danced around the kitchen with him laughing in my arms); Elizabeth Mitchell - So Glad You're Here; The Band - The Weight; Green Day - Novacaine; Rilo Kiley - Smoke Detector and Breakin' Up (we wore out that album - Under the Blacklight - with Uncle Carley); and Caspar Babypants - Itsy Bitsy Spider (it's catchy, I promise).  And many, many more.  Always, it comes back to the music.

As I walked tonight, I couldn't help but remember how much time JP and I had spent together at Belmont U, inside and outside, and the surrounding neighborhood, when he was 2, 3, 4 and 5 years old.

Stomp rockets on the old soccer field; playing "college" upstairs in the student center, night after night after dinner; exploring the bell tower; playing soccer while he pretended to be Landon Donovan when the tennis courts were still adjacent to the soccer field; rolling his soccer ball off the awnings outside the cafeteria on Belmont Blvd.; watching college students play music inside the cafeteria on Belmont Blvd. on our after dinner walks; JP toddling up to college kids, at night, sitting on the soccer filed playing guitars and sitting down with them to their immense delight; JP getting impromptu soccer lessons from a college student playing soccer with friends on the soccer field; playing in "the Sports Czar's office; many, many breakfasts at Bongo Java; and countless walks through the neighborhood while he slept in the Baby Jogger City Elite stroller (sitting sadly, forlornly in the basement as I type this).

All of those times and activities have passed by so quickly, gone forever, but certainly not forgotten.  Not by me, anyway.

And no, almost, JP is nine years old.

He's a sweet kid.  Sensitive and caring.  He's kind to others.  He's a leader at school.  Responsible.  He loves church and is really taking seriously the Sunday school class leading up to his first Communion in a little more than a month.  He's a good athlete who loves sports (just like his old man).  He's smart.  He's conscientious.  He loves playing Madden Mobile and NBA Jam on his iPad (and Joe loves to watch him).  He loves all things Vanderbilt.  He loves the Predators.  He loves reading.  He loves collecting baseball, football, basketball and hockey cards and lately, Pokemon cards.  He's into trying new foods (His New Year's resolution was to try sushi with me).  He's a got hell of an arm (baseball) and big leg (soccer).  He plays his ass off on the basketball court, especially defensively.  He would watch sports on television all day long if we would let him (which we don't).  He loves and misses Uncle Carley (Meade) and treasures every stolen minute he gets to spend with her.  He loves his friends and sleepovers with his friends.  He's his daddy's boy, typically siding with me, while Joe sides with his mommy.

And my God, does he ever love his little brother.  He is so patient, almost always, with Joe.  He plays hockey upstairs, in the playroom, with Joe.  He reads to Joe.  He lets Joe sleep between he and whatever friend is sleeping over, all three on the floor of the playroom in sleeping bags.  He is helping "coach" Joe's baseball team (as my assistant).  Every Saturday or Sunday morning, he and Joe crawl into our bed at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m. and he lets Joe watch him intently as he plays Madden Mobile or NBA Jam on his iPad.  He and Joe watch Dude Perfect videos on JP's iPad and take turns picking which video to watch.  JP is Joe's superhero, literally.

I've been blessed with so much in my life I don't deserve, for sure.  I've already had almost twice as much time with JP on this earth as my dad had with me.  For that, I am eternally grateful.

When you read this someday, JP, know this, my son - I am proud of you.  You've everything I could ever have wanted my oldest son to be.  To coach you and watch you play sports is amazing.  To listen to you and your brother, Joe, play together upstairs makes me so happy.  I know you'll always look out for Joe and your mother.  And I love you.

A Port in the Storm

Yesterday was a gift for me, probably from God.  I need to believe that, anyway.

After my mom's fall, Tracy, Alice and I agreed that someone should stay with her at all times for a few days.  Alice spent Thursday night at Maristone and Tracy spent last night there.  The staff at Maristone also agreed to check on mom every 2 hours.  We also got her a new pendant and instructed her, again, on how to use it if she needs assistance, not just if she falls, but with anything.

Since I already was off work for what would have been the boys' spring break trip to Atlanta, my calendar was clear yesterday.  We agreed I would relieve Alice at 9 a.m. and stay through mid-afternoon.  Alice would stay with mom for a couple of hours, then Tracy would take the night shift.

For the first time in well, forever, my mom and I spent several quiet hours together.  As she sat in her chair and I sat on the couch, we just enjoyed each other's company.

• She marveled at my typing skills as I answered e-mails on my laptop.
• She thumbed through a Nashville coloring book I had gotten for her, asking questions with childlike curiosity about landmarks she had forgotten existed.  She asked about restaurants or bars she didn't recognize that were featured in the coloring book.
• Prompted by a drawing of the new Johnny Cash Museum, I played part of a video for her on my cell phone of Johnny Cash singing "Hurt," not too long before he died.  She was transfixed, although it made her sad to see him looking so old.
• We worked on her technique getting out of and into her chair, in an effort to avoid her slipping on to the floor (which we learned from staff had happened on occasion).  
• We walked the halls upstairs, outside of her apartment, as I encouraged her to stay centered and inside the walker.  I also encouraged her to take larger, normal steps, rather than shuffling her feet (which I've been told is a common characteristic of Alzheimer's patients).
• We watched daytime television and asked a myriad of questions, mostly about commercials.  
• When a staff member arrived to clean my mom's apartment, we joked with her and each other.  Predictably and comfortably, my mom and I fell into our time honored routine of lightheartedly making fun of each other to the delight of the staff member.  That part was like old times.
• I walked her down to lunch.  Although she didn't want me to leave her in the dining room by herself, I did, and she was fine.  Strangely, I ate lunch at a table at Publix, of all places, and ran into Baird Harris.  I got back to Maristone just as she was finishing lunch.
• Before lunch, we walked the floors of the lobby downstairs and even went outside the front doors, just for a minute or two.  She joke with Tim, the maintenance man, whom she adores.  
• I watched her pet a large, shaggy dog who visits Maristone weekly.  My mom loves dogs and that was good to see.

It was a day to just be.  And I loved it.  The lesson, I think, is to schedule time with my mom when I don't have to be anywhere or do anything.  I want to try to do that weekly and just work it into my calendar, if I can.  

I felt a sense of peace and maybe, just maybe, acceptance.  That feeling is precarious, I know, and may disappear entirely today.  But I'm thankful I had it yesterday.  

It's time to close my laptop and leave the oasis that is my Saturday morning cup of coffee, this morning at Frothy Monkey on 12th Avenue.  I'm headed to Maristone.

The Fall

I was awakened yesterday morning by the sound of my cell phone ringing.  The boys were in bed with us and Jude was reading to them.  I looked at my phone and saw that my sister was calling.  It was an odd time for her to call, so I answered the phone with a sense of dread.

"Maristone called," Tracy said.  "When mom didn't come down for breakfast, they checked her room and found her on the floor in the bedroom."  I fought back a sense of panic, as Tracy continued.  "They're taking her to the emergency room and I'm going to meet them there."

Just like that, our spring break trip to Atlanta with the boys was off, at least for the time being.  I took a quick shower and drove to Williamson County Medical Center.  My mom was in triage when I arrived and, fortunately, x-rays taken of her hip, elbow and shoulder were all negative.  No broken bones.  A CT scan confirmed she hadn't sustained a head injury.  Other than some bruising around her right eye and being a little shaken up, she was okay.

A nurse helped her into a wheelchair and we rolled her out to the emergency room entrance, where Tracy was waiting in her minivan.  After the short drive to Maristone, my mom was back in her apartment sitting in her chair.  I hung around for a two or three hours, while my mom dozed on and off in her chair.  She was exhausted, clearly, which lead me to believe she might have been on the floor of her bedroom for most of the night.

I had talked to her at 9 p.m. the night before and she was awake and fine.  There's just no way to know if she fell trying to get ready for bed or getting into bed, or if she fell getting out of bed the morning the staff found her.  And, of course, my mom had no recollection of falling which, in retrospect, might be a good thing.

I went into the office for a couple of hours, then stopped back by Maristone to relieve Tracy.  She went home for a bit, then came back to wait on Alice, who was going to spend the night.  After I got home, Jude, the boys and I watched the NCAA tourney and Predators-Flames (huge 3-1 Preds' win), then put the boys to bed.  I walked down to Edley's and had a couple of beers.  Afterwards, I walked the neighborhood for close to an hour, listening to music and lost myself in a swirl of memories, regret and sorrow.  I shed more than a few tears as I walked down Belmont Boulevard and across Belmont University's campus.

While on a rational level, I knew we had dodged a bullet.  Yes, my mom had fallen.  But she hadn't broken and bones and it sure as hell could have been a lot worse.  Still, the thought of my mom laying on the floor of her bedroom, unable to get up or to press the button on her pendant to call for help was devastating.  Also, I realized there are more falls to come, most likely.  And that's the saddest thing of all.

Basketball and a Son's Love for his Mother

Without question, I inherited my love of sports from my mom. 

For good or bad, sports of all types have been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember and for that I can thank my mom.  When I was growing up, it was a race as to who would get the sports page first from the Tennessean and, in the afternoons, the Nashville Banner.  I practically learned to read by perusing the pages of Sports Illustrated.  When my mom gave me a subscription to The Sporting News and it arrived weekly with my name and our address on the subscription label, I thought I had arrived as an adult.  At the age of 8.

I accompanied my mom to countless Vanderbilt basketball games, sitting in our seats in the top row Bill Liggon, Willie "Hutch" Jones, Mike Rhodes, Charles Davis, Mike Rhodes, Tommy Springer, Jimmy Grey and many, many other players.  I, no we, lived and died with Vanderbilt basketball.  Even today, I can talk 1970's and early 1980's Vanderbilt basketball with the best of them.

So many nights, we left Memorial Gym together after a game and walked briskly to the car, my short legs struggling to match her long strides.  On the way home, we listened to the post-game show and celebrated a Vandy victory or commiserated over a Vandy loss.  In so many ways, my childhood is a patchwork of memories with the common thread of Vanderbilt basketball running throughout.  Vanderbilt basketball was our thing.

My mom was hilariously superstitious when it came to Vanderbilt basketball.  She always order the same thing when we arrived at Memorial Gym for a game - a coke, a candy bar and peanuts.  She always saved the peanuts of the second half of the game.  She and I always sat in the same seats, too.  That was a big one.  When a game was tight, late, she was forever elbowing me in the middle of an important sequence on the court.  Many times, in the second half of games, she left our seats - we sat in 2L two rows from the top - and stood in the concourse, smoking a cigarette and peaking through the small square window in one of the doors, too nervous to sit in her seat and watch the game.

We shared a common bond, my mom and me, in our love for all sports, but especially basketball.  Basketball was her thing and in many ways, it became mine, too.

My mom played basketball in college, believe it or not, for the University of Tennessee School of Nursing.  In the lat 1950's when she played, there was no "Lady Vols."  Hers was the only women's basketball team affiliated with the University of Tennessee.  This was in the days of 6-on-6 basketball and my mom was one of the players who played defense at all times.  She stayed on the defensive end of the basketball court and never crossed mid-court.  According to her coach, Jim Stockade - who is a family friend, expert on Lady Vols' basketball and a national treasure - at 5'8", she was a fierce defender and rebounder.  All elbows and not afraid to use all of 5 fouls during the course of a game.

My mom's not 5'8" anymore but damn, she still loves basketball.  Yesterday afternoon, when I was visiting her, she asked as she always does, "Are there any games on?"  And by that, she means basketball games.  When I left, I set her television up so she could watch, back to back, the Memphis-Grizzlies vs. San Antonio Spurs and the Golden State Warriors vs. Portland Trailblazers.  Although she has a difficult time following the game - a heartbreaking development in and of itself - she was content just sitting in her chair watching basketball.

Rebuilding the Wall

Tuesday morning, I woke up at 5:30 a.m. and went for an early morning run.  4 miles on my Fairfax-Blakemore route.  I felt good on the run, better than I have lately, which made me feel good.  Plus, it's always great to get in a morning run.  Metaphorically, it's like getting a B-12 shot, or at least, what I imagine it feels like after you get a B-12 shot.

The day is a bit brighter.  The colors outside as I cool down while walking back to the house are a little more vivid.  As I go about my morning routine at home, I'm in a better mood.  Unlike most mornings, I'm wide awake as I begin the day.  Pretty good stuff.

Then, last night (Wednesday), I went for a run after Jude and I got the boys in bed.  3 miles at under an 8:30 pace.  Most importantly, I felt strong and wasn't particularly winded.  Damn, it felt good.  Like old times, even.  I walked down 12th Avenue to cool down, listening to a podcast (Joe House's "Shackhouse") on a beautiful early March night.

It's coming back.  The wall.  I'm rebuilding it.

It's Gotta Be the Shoes

Sunday morning, Joe walked into the kitchen and proudly showed me he was wearing a pair of new shoes - J.P.'s hand me down, lace-up "Kobe's."

My heart soared, dropped, then soared again.  As is so often the case, I had unexpectedly climbed into a time machine that transported me backwards in time four years or so.

As Joe stood there, grinning up at me, clear as day I could see J.P. and me sitting on the front porch of our old house on Elliott Avenue.  He was taking that very same pair of "Kobe's" out of the shoebox, holding them up and grinning proudly from ear to ear.  His first pair of basketball shoes!  I think I took as much pride in ordering them online as he did receiving them.

J.P. told Joe that after he put the "Kobe's" on of the first time, he and I had gone to shoot basketball.  I have no recollection of that but it makes for a good story.

The photo above is from Monday morning, when Joe was so excited about wearing his "Kobe's" to school that he wanted to stop by Bongo Java and show them to E.J., our friend who manages it.

God, I love that kid.