Reflections on Christmas 2017

Christmas 2017 has come and gone, lights and Christmas decorations around the neighborhood are coming down and it's almost time to began the post-holiday winter grind.

Some noteworthy moments for me, some good and some not so good, from the Christmas season -

• As always, playing hide and seek withe Jude and the boys in the Christmas trees at Santa's Trees (Hillsboro HS) was a highlight of the season.  Also as always, I end up wishing we had done it more than once.

•  The Elf on the Shelf.  Moving him every night, which this year was my responsibility, and watching the boys look for him every morning.  It's a joy that they still believe wholeheartedly in the Elf on the Shelf and Santa Claus.  I wonder if that will be the case, for J.P., next year.

• The weather has been nice, for the most part, and too cold until the last few days (14 degrees this morning).  That's allowed for a lot of outstanding running for me, including the other day after work when I saw a white squirrel in Pinkerton Park.

• Our last Governor's Christmas Party at the Governor's Mansion and our last Christmas tree lighting and party at the State Capitol.  We've all felt a little bit special attending these events that last six or seven years through Jude's job as Director of the Children's Cabinet.

• For me, seeing my favorite coffee shops and houses in my neighborhood decorated for Christmas has been great.  It always is.  The share sense of celebration and anticipation is reassuring.

• On a lark, the boys and I going to the Evergreen event organized by my friend, Courtney Little, as a benefit for Renewal House.  It was outside at a vacant lot he owns near Houston Station.  While kids cavorted in the dark and adults huddled around the fire, others (including me) bought handmade Christmas ornaments.

• Spending Christmas afternoon with my side of the family at my sister's house in Franklin was a memory to cherish, especially since I'm not sure how my mom will be doing next Christmas.

• It was great to spend time with James and Megan (Jude's brother and sister-in-law) over Christmas.  Watching them navigate the landscape of having two children 3 and under brought back a lot of memories, mostly good ones.

• I organized our annual office Christmas party and dinner, which was held a couple of nights ago.  Having it after Christmas really worked well.  Drinks at Bastion were fantastic and dinner at Hemingway's Bar and Hideaway was good.  It was a good time, as we recognized Alisha Warner's decade with PNM.

• In what has become, for me, a holiday tradition, I played hooky from work one day after Christmas.  I saw "Ladybird," a great movie, at the Green Hills movie theatre, followed by a beer at the Smith & Lentz craft brewery in East Nashville and coffee at Bongo Java East.

• When - sadly - the inflatable Santa Claus "in a hot air balloon" that the Elf on Shelf brought the boys a few Christmases ago died, I was prepared.  Christmas morning, Santa Claus delivered another inflatable for Jude, since she had sent a note up to him with the Elf ("Cooper Allen Elf," by the way) on his nightly trip to the North Pole.  I think I outdid myself (see below).

• The highlight that topped them all was watching the boys on December 26, when they opened up the X-Box Jude and I had gotten them.  J.P.'s reaction was priceless and I'm so happy I videotaped it.  Knowing that Jude and I are not fans of video games, he was shocked and stunned as he unwrapped the box and realized we had given them an X-Box.  Initially speechless, he jumped up and tackled Jude in a bear hug.  It was priceless.

And, last but not least, our Christmas tree.  

Christmas with Mom

I'm grabbing a quick cup of coffee in a nearly deserted Box on 10th Avenue before I head down to see my mom.  Jude, the boys and her family are planning a trip to the Opryland Hotel this morning.

My sister, Tracy, hosted our family at her house in Franklin yesterday afternoon to celebrate Christmas.  Earlier in the day, she and Alice picked up my mom from NHC Place and brought her over to Tracy's house.

The significance of the event in the context of our family history wasn't lost on me, given the relative certain of the continued decline of my mom's health.  I had to at least acknowledge the possibility that it might have been our last Christmas together, as a family, at least with my mom semi-cognizant of what was going on around her.  I hate to write that, but it's true.

For the first coupe of hours after we arrived, my mom was alert and in good spirits.  She sat contentedly in her wheelchair and seemed to enjoy interacting with her grandchildren, J.P., Joe, Kaitlyn and Matthew.  Christmas in our family has always been somewhat chaotic, particularly when it comes to opening presents.  You see, we're not an "open on present at time family," like Jude's.  We're an "everyone opens their presents at once" family.  Yesterday was no different, although perhaps a little subdued under the circumstances.

Resurrecting a tradition that my mom always acted like she loathed (but secretly loved), I tossed balled up wrapping paper toward her after I opened up one of my presents.  She looked up, surprised, saw me, then grinner ear to ear and laughed as she weakly threw the ball of wrapping paper back toward me.  For just an all too brief moment, the veil of sadness, anxiety and confusion that constantly envelopes our lives lifted and we reverted to our old Christmas selves.  Me, in the role of joker and prankster and my mom in the role of witting victim, laughing all along the way.  Just like the good old days.

Trace and Alice transferred my mom to the couch after while.  Unfortunately but predictably, the veil lowered again too soon, and I noticed my mom taking short breaths like she does when she's getting anxious.  I tried, but there was nothing I could say or do to help her settle down.  She no longer laughed at my jokes or the funny faces I made to her.  Likely, it had something to do with night falling or, maybe, she was just tired.  I walked into the kitchen and gave Tracy a knowing look and she nodded, got up, and began to wind down the gathering.  Within a few minutes, Jude, the boys and I were packed up and in my trusty 12 year old Yukon traveling north to our house in Nashville.  And Tracy, Gary and Alice took my mom back to NHC Place.

Not to be trite, but often times if you watch and listen, really listen with an open mind and open heart, there's a moment in times of sadness or trouble that you can learn from or that is uplifting.  I had just such a moment yesterday evening before we left.

As we were saying our goodbyes, I stepped into the kitchen to say goodbye to my sister's husband, Gary, and to thank him for hosting and cooking for all of us.  He stopped cleaning the kitchen for just a moment, looked at me genuinely and openly and out of the blue, quietly said a word or two to me.

"Remember to enjoy the time you have with her.  Even the tough times."  I nodded, knowingly and appreciatively, then gathered my boys and walked outside as Gary resumed cleaning the kitchen.

Gary lost his dad a couple of years ago.  His mom died this year.  He spend a great deal of time in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, helping her and spending time with her the last few months of her life.  "Gary knows of what he speaks," I thought to myself on the drive home.

And that's what I'm going to do, I decided, in 2018.  I'm going to try to enjoy the time I have with my mom.  Every single minute.

Reflections on the Morning of Christmas Eve

I'm sitting at the Frothy Monkey having a quick cup of coffee before the day begins in earnest.  The boys and I are going to go see my mom, then we'll head to church for the 4:30 p.m. Christmas Eve service.  I have some wrapping to do and some organizing of presents, but I think I'm finally done with shopping other than picking up some items from Walgreens for Jude's stocking (an old joke b/w us - Santa brings Jude and me things like toothpaste, deodorant, etc. for our stocking).

Tentatively, it looks like Tracy and Gary will pick up my mom tomorrow and take her their house, where we'll have Christmas in the late afternoon.  I think they're going to check the weather and see how my mom is feeling before making the final call on whether to take her out tomorrow afternoon.

It's been a bit of a struggle for me this year to get into the Christmas season.  My mom's plight is never far from my mind and my heart.  It's taken away from my usual enjoyment of December.  Normally, this time of year rejuvenates me emotionally and that just hasn't been the case.  I wonder if that will change for me or if this is just the new normal, given that my mom's condition is not going to improve.  In fact, it's only going to get worse.

I'm trying to appreciate the visits I have with her.  I know, at some point in the not too distant future, she's going to be gone and I'm going to wish I had the ability to stop in and see her - to see her smile and hear her laugh - even for just a few minutes.  This ride we're on with her near the end of her life is strange and complex, in terms of how it makes me feel, not just about her but about life in general. 2017 has been a difficult year for me, probably the worst of my 51 on this earth.

We had a nice visit yesterday afternoon.  When I arrived, she was watching a Christmas movie - The Christmas Project - with a few other residents.  I sat down beside her and as we watched, she laughed and laughed at the movie.  She wasn't really following what was going on but she was enjoying herself.  We didn't say much to each other, but we were content, I think, just being together.  And that meant everything to me.  It really did.

Sometimes I wonder why I continue to post on this blog, particularly since the subject matter has changed from J.P. and Joe to my mom.  Writing helps me work things out in my head, I think.  It allows me to verbalize my emotions and feelings, which in turn helps me understand them.  Part of me feels like I'm going to want a record of this time in my life, even though it's painful to experience now.  I think I want the boys to have a record of the end of my mom's journey, too.

Also - and I should have said this long ago, but I'm going to say it now - it gives me a measure of comfort to know that there are friends and family interested enough in me and my family to read this blog, even occasionally.  It feels like someone is listening to me and, I guess, thinking about me and maybe sending good thoughts my way.

So, thank you for taking the time to listen.  It helps.  It really does.

Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude

I'm sitting in the library at NHC Place having just visited my mom.  I got up early this morning, got a 4 mile run in before the rain comes, grabbed coffee, picked up donuts and arrived here.  The beginning of a busy, errand-filled day.  I needed the run this morning in a big way.

When I arrived, my mom was sitting by the open kitchen with the caregivers.  In her mind, she is still nurse so she often tried to help the caregivers and tends to hover near them when they're working.  Today, they laughed and told me she often rolls her wheelchair into the nurses' station.  Once a nurse, always a nurse.  Hell, I'll probably be living here one day in the not too distant future thinking the other residence are my clients.

My mom was happy to see me, which is almost always the case.  I got her a donut and we sat at one of the dining room tables and laughed an talked.  She was in an exceptionally good mood, which lifted my spirits considerably.

After a half hour or so, suddenly and for no apparent reason, her mood shifted.  She began breathing harder, which I've learned is a sign she's agitated or anxious.  She stopped smiling and laughing and was visibly stressed.  When I asked her what was wrong, she didn't answer me.  I took her for a walk in her wheelchair - out of Aspen Arbor but still in the building - and that didn't help at all.  If anything, being out of familiar environs seemed to make her more anxious.  I walked her back to Aspen Arbor and asked the caregivers to help her transfer from the wheelchair so she could go to the bathroom, and I said goodbye and left.

Damn, Alzheimer's disease is cruel.  I arrive and am relieved to see my mom alert and happy.  Before I leave, she's confused and anxious.  It's an emotional roller coaster for those who love her the most,   because in many ways, we're on the ride with her.

The Separation of Church and State

The boys' last day of school was Friday, so they're home today.  This morning, I got up way early and got out of the house so I can get a few things done before a 9 a.m. mediation.  A quick note here as I finish my coffee at the Frothy Monkey in Franklin, right behind my office.

Yesterday morning, when J.P. woke up and came downstairs, he hopped in bed with us to read and asked me, "Are you coming to church today, Daddy, to help us decorate for Christmas?"  Decorating St. Patrick for Christmas, the Sunday before Christmas Eve, is an annual tradition in which our family always participates.  The boys love it.

"I'm not sure," I replied.  "I'll be at Meemaw's this morning visiting with her."  J.P. didn't respond but I could tell he was disappointed.

It's no secret to anyone who reads the blog semi-regularly that I have had a difficult time finding an outlet to direct my anger over my mom's health situation.  I haven't lost my faith - which has sustained me during difficult times in my life in the past - but it's been shaken, for sure.  Early on, I met with and talked to our priest, Father David, to discuss my feelings.  I still pray and I've tried to reconcile my feelings while maintaining a close and intimate relationship with God but to date, I've failed.  That's the plain and honest truth.  Maybe I'm not praying and asking for help enough.  I don't know.

Lately, I find myself thinking about the "Footprints in the Sand" poem.  I can't help but feel like for the past year or so, there have been one set of footprints in the sand - mine.  I know that's not true but it sure doesn't feel like God has been carrying me through what has been by far the most difficult time  in my life.

On Sundays for the past few months, I get up early and go to see my mom, rather than going to church at St. Patrick.  On the one hand, I feel like I'm where I need to be when I'm there with my mom and maybe I am.  On the other hand, I also feel like I'm missing out on something by not being in church with my family on Sundays.  What I am doing, I think, is avoiding or postponing the difficult task of closely examining my relationship with God on a weekly basis in church and realizing that maybe my faith isn't as strong as I thought.  That's troublesome, to be sure.

I had a good, quiet visit with my mom yesterday.  We shared a cinnamon roll I picked up at Frothy Monkey in 12South before I drove down to NHC Place.  Mr. Tom, her friend, sat with us and ate part of the cinnamon roll, too.  My mom was in a good mood, confused about most everything but relatively happy as she sat in her wheelchair and I updated her on the boys' basketball games from the day before.  I gave her our Christmas card, too, which she enjoyed.

I left, stopped by my office, then drove to St. Patrick so I could be there to decorate the church for Christmas, although I skipped the church service.  I saw Father David as soon as I walked in and he shook my hand and welcomed me.  We talked about our new bishop and exchanged pleasantries.  It was nice.  Several other parishioners smiled at me and said hello.  It felt good and right to be back at St. Patrick, if only for a few minutes.

J.P. ran up and gave me a big hug when he saw me.  We helped decorate the church, then drove home.

  

The Jet

One of the things J.P. has asked Santa Claus to bring him for Christmas is a new basketball, which brought to mind one of the best Christmas gifts I ever received.  And it was from my mom, of course.

First, a little background.  I played basketball (and other sports) my entire youth.  I played basketball in 8th grade and Northside Junior High School, then made the 9th grade team in the fall of my last year there.  I was one of the 12 best basketball players in the school but, in truth probably not one of the 9 or 10 best players on the team.  I didn't play a lot perhaps because as a back-up point guard, I played behind Clay Whitehurst, who went on to play wide receiver at the University of Alabama.

Much like J.P. today, I was a smart basketball player with good hand-eye coordination but limited athletic ability.  I played hard, was extremely competitive and loved the game.  No quit in me, aggressive and never willing to back down.  Sound like someone?  Yep, J.P.

After I finished at Northside, I matriculated to Franklin High School.  That was the end of my formal basketball career, as there was no way I was going to make the basketball team at Franklin High School.  I didn't have enough game, for sure.

Still, I kept playing basketball in pick-up games wherever and whenever I could get on the court at a gym.  I played church league basketball with friends and, later, when I started my junior year at Brentwood High School, a buddy of mine talked his way into getting the key to the old school gym at Lipscomb Elementary School near our house in Brenthaven.  Eternal thanks to you, Jim Holcomb, wherever you are.  That's another story, but my junior and senior years of high school, my friends and I played a ton of pick-up basketball in that old gym at Lipscomb Elementary School.

For Christmas during my junior year of high school - which would be December 1982 - my mother gave me a Wilson Jet leather basketball.  I don't know where she got it, but it was the same type of basketball used in high school and college basketball games at the time.  Damn, it was a beautiful basketball and my pride and joy.  No more scrambling to find a decent basketball to use during pick-up games.

I cherished that Wilson Jet basketball.  I didn't want to deface it by writing my initials or name on it.  I never, ever dribbled it outside.  It was for indoor, wooden floor use only.  I never let anyone kick it.  And whenever I played in an unfamiliar gym, I watched it like a hawk if was being used - as it often was - in a game I wasn't playing in, when I had "next" and was waiting to play.  When I would walk into a gym - at Lipscomb, the YMCA or on campus at UT in Knoxville, guys always asked to use it in games.  I usually acquiesced but only if I could keep an eye on it.

Man, I dribbled that Wilson Jet basketball in gyms all across middle Tennessee and in the HPER building on campus at UT.  I think we often used in intramural games my freshman year of college, too.  I made a lot of shots, missed a lot of shots and won and lost a lot of games with it.  I can't remember, but I'm guessing someone finally stole it during a pick-up basketball game at UT.

What I do remember, though, is that I always thought of my mom when I played with it.

Changing Expectations

Yesterday, after the boys' Saturday morning basketball games, I was in my truck preparing to head down to my mom's place when my cell phone rang.  It was Alisha, a nurse at NHC Place, calling to let me know that one of the caregivers had found my mom on the floor by her lift chair, sleeping, that morning about 6 a.m.  Unlike how I reacted in a similar situation several months ago when my mom was at Maristone, I took the news in stride.

Most likely, she slid out of the chair during the night and simply didn't have the strength to stand up without assistance.  The concern, of course, is that she might have been on the floor for several hours.  The staff is supposed to check on the residents every one to two hours, so I'm allowing myself to believe that she hadn't been there that long.  Considering the alternative - that my mom had laid in the floor for several hours - makes me want to cry.  That much hasn't changed.

What has changed, though, are my expectations and what I'm willing and able to accept as the new normal with my mom.  Although that in and of itself is kind of sad, it's probably healthy from an emotional standpoint.  On some level, in a way, I've moved into the acceptance phase of what my mom's life - and ours - will be like from this point moving forward.  It's kind of zen, I suppose.

Now, I don't aways feel that way.  I still get upset and angry over the injustice of it all.  For her and for us, her children and especially her grandchildren.  I still can't bring myself to go back to church, which is a problem.  But I think I'm managing my emotions better, at least most of the time, anyway.  Or, alternatively, maybe I'm just growing numb - emotionally - to the whole situation.

I've been running more lately, which over the years has helped me maintain my equilibrium during difficult or stressful times.  That might be part of it, I guess.  It's my favorite month of the year, too - December - toward the end my favorite time of the year - October 1 - January 2.  I'll probably fall into a deep winter depression after the holidays are over.

I may have written this before, but the thing I miss the most is not being able to call my mom on the way to work and on the way home from work.  I used to always telephone her during my 30 minute drive, just to check in and discuss the day's events in my life, the sports world or worldwide.  I miss those talks the were about nothing and everything.  I also miss her unequivocal support in those telephone calls, when I'd had a bad day or something was troubling me.  I miss that a lot.

All right, enough for this morning.  I've had my Sunday morning coffee at Frothy Monkey and it's time to head down to see my mom.

Saying Goodbye to Pat McHale

(I'm sitting at Barista Parlor just off Division St. having a latte.  They play vinyl hear, which is cool.  Actually, everything about this place is cool.  And the coffee is phenomenal.)

This morning, I arrived early to the 6th floor of the Metro Nashville Courthouse for a hearing I had at 9 a.m.  My practice, when I'm appearing in court, is to arrive early because I don't like to feel rushed. It's an old habit.

I sat down on a bench and opened my iPad to get caught up on recent appellate cases and news from the Tennessee Bar Association.  Sadly, I saw a notice that Pat McHale, an older lawyer I knew in passing, had recently died.  I didn't know Pat well at all but he was an acquaintance and we bumped into each other occasionally over the past 25 years.

When we had a case or two together while I was working downtown for a law firm, he was really nice to me.  Those interactions helped teach me it was okay to be nice to and laugh with an opposing attorney in a case.  What we do isn't life or death, after all.  I'd like to think I've taken that lesson I learned from Pat and applied it to the relationships - most of the time, anyway - I have with opposing attorneys.

When I was in court last week in Nashville, I exchanged greetings with several lawyers with whom I have had cases over the years.  It always makes me feel good when that happens and I think it's good for clients to see me involved in those type of interactions, as well.  It makes me feel like, by and large, I'm practicing law the right way or at least the way that I want to do it.

Get along with other lawyers, argue or fight hard when you have to, but with an air of civility and professionalism.  Between the lines stuff, you know, like in sports.  Never hold grudges.

One of the things that Pat McHale and I bonded over was a mutual love of music.  Whenever I saw him, we talked about what we listening to at that particular point in time.  That made our relationship unique, I think.

Pat was his own man.  The last several years, he wore sandals with his suit - Birkenstocks, I think.  Nobody does that, of course, but that was just Pat.  I loved it.

I last ran into Pat when he mediated a workers' compensation case for me a few years ago.  He was working at the Tennessee Department of Labor then and it was nice to see him and spend some time together.

R.I.P. Pat McHale.  Thanks for teaching a young lawyer a thing or two.

  

An Athlete Finds Himself

Yesterday, from the scorers' table in the small gym at Montgomery Bell Academy, I saw something I will never forget.  Cooper, one of J.P.'s buddies, played the basketball game of his life and thankfully, I was along for the ride.

I've known Cooper since he was 5 years old, ever since he and J.P. started playing baseball and basketball together.  The boys are tight and have slept over or played at each other's houses many times.  Cooper's parents are close friends of ours.  Our families just seem to fit well together.  We love spending time with them.

Cooper is a good athlete who will become a great athlete as he gets older, I think.  He's an excellent soccer player and a good baseball and basketball player.  He's also a born leader with the maybe the best attitude, game in and game out, of any boys I have coached.  He's almost always enthusiastic and in a good mood.  He's very coachable and rarely has to be told the same thing twice.  In basketball, he plays guard, usually the point.  His only weakness - if I can even call it that - is that he hasn't yet developed a killer instinct.  He's such a good natured kid that he doesn't always play with intensity.

That all changed yesterday.

Early in the second game of a doubleheader against a pretty team, Cooper was whistled for his second foul.  He didn't like the call at all.  In fact, Cooper was really pissed about it.  From my vantage point at the scorer's table, I saw the expression on his face change from confusion and disagreement to anger.  And I loved it.

As the game resumed, Cooper began playing like a man possessed.  He contested every pass anywhere near him, stealing the basketball on multiple occasions.  He played more aggressively offensively and defensively than I have ever seen him play.  He pushed the ball up the court and set the pace.  He rebounded.  He was an absolute handful on defense, frustrating their players (and coach) at every turn.

When his dad substituted for him, Cooper cheered his teammates on the from the bench, loudly.  As is usually the case, the other boys followed his lead and began cheering wildly when a teammate made a good defensive play or tied up a loose ball.  Watching Cooper on the sideline, I could see that he couldn't wait to get back into the game.

This continued through the second quarter and for the entire second half.  Our boys won handily, beating the other team by 25 + points.  It was by the far the most complete basketball game our boys have ever played, offensively and defensively.  Why?  Because they followed the example Cooper set from the midpoint of the first quarter to the end of the game.  He lead by example and with his enthusiasm.  It was a sight to see.  It was basketball played beautifully by a bunch of 9 and 10 year old boys.

At one point late in the game, Cooper was harassing the other team's best player as he dribbled the basketball and got called for his fourth foul.  Their coach complained - loudly - saying "how many fouls does that kid get?"  It was awesome.

After the game, as is my custom, I read the stat line to the boys, focusing on rebounds, steals and assists.  I asked the group how many points they thought Cooper had scored.  Looking intently at them all, I said "zero."  I paused.  "And he completely dominated the game," I continued.  Because he did.

Truthfully, it was a bit of an emotional moment for me.  I've spend so much time around Cooper (and his family) and he's one of my all-time favorite kids to coach.  Having a front row seat to his greatest basketball game - probably his greatest game in any sport - was special.  Seeing the transformation that took place and realizing that he has it in him to get angry and dominate a game like that was also special.

It's something I'll never forget and, hopefully, a memory I'll share with him many years down the road.