Finding the Plateau (Again)

I just left my mom's place after a late morning visit.  We went for a walk and stopped in the sitting area.  I sat on a couch, with her next to me in her wheelchair.  For the most part, we sat quietly.  She dozed a bit and I did too.

It was reminiscent of the old days at Maristone when I would sneak away from work and to see her.  While she sat in her chair and watched television, I often laid down on the couch - in my suit and tie - and catnapped for 15 or 20 minutes.  It made her happy when that happened . . .  almost like she knew, somehow, that she was providing me a place of refuge during a busy, stressful work day.  It made me happy to be there.

We seem to have arrived at a different place - a place to stop and rest for a bit - along my mom's journey.  I'm in a better place, emotionally, the last week or so, probably because I'm becoming more accepting of where my mom is now.  She's quieter and doesn't talk much, which is very different for her.  If I ask her a specific question, sometime she'll answer but mostly she just nods her head.  Sometimes the surprises me and speaks a complete sentence but that's rare.  She doesn't say much unprompted, though.  Almost any speech from her is promoted by a question.

She smiles a lot and, thankfully, is never in a bad mood.  She doesn't complain at all that I can see, which may explain why the staff seem to love her so much.  Other than having to transfer her to and from her wheelchair to go to the bathroom and to clean her, I don't think she's too much trouble for them.

She's just . . . content.

We've reached a new plateau.  I hope we stay here for a while.

I know - I mean, I really know, based on several of the other residents that I see in the Courtyard on a regular basis - that there is a silver lining in all of this.  My mom could be so much worse off, right now.  She likely will become worse off, but she's not there yet.  And, yes, that's a blessing.

This time with her, right now - as she is, right now - is a gift from God, really, and I think it's important that I treat it that way.  With appreciation and thankfulness and relief.

Just being with her, out of her room, and holding her hand while she dozes, or while I doze, is an opportunity to experience something that sooner than I want will be gone forever.  The rational part of my being knows that.  The emotional part of my being has to work harder to know that, I think.

It's part of living in the moment, which is maybe the most important thing my mom is teaching me as we travel this road together.

Christmas 2018

The day after Christmas Day is always a bit of a letdown for me, as it's almost the official end of the my favorite time of year, Oct. 1 - Jan. 2.  It's the end of the holiday portion, anyway, Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas.  All that's left is a lot of football, a light work schedule this week and New Year's Day.

It's been a pretty good Christmas season, all things considered.  Some memories made.

• One of favorites, always, was playing hide and seek with the boys at Santa's Trees when we went to pick out our Christmas tree just after Thanksgiving.  The main lot had moved from Green Hills to closer to our house and though it seemed a bit smaller with slightly fewer trees, we had fun hiding and looking for each other, as always.  A signature moment for our family every Christmas.
• The Christmas brunch at the Courtyard at NHC Place, with my mom, was a highlight, for sure. Though she was quiet, as she has been lately, it was nice to see so many families there visiting with residents.  Everyone sang Christmas carols and Donna did a few activities with the residents.  There was a lot of staff there, too.  The mood was happy and relaxed and there was a feeling of thankfulness, it seemed, even if it was only for a morning.  I think the family members present felt a sense of kinship and understanding with each other, too.
• Cooper, the Elf on the Shelf, was a big hit, as always, especially for Joe.  I think there only was one night, early on after he arrived, when I had to get out of bed at 2 or 3 a.m. to move him because I'd forgotten to do so before I went to bed.  There's something about the arrival of the Elf and moving him every night that reminds me that Christmas season is really upon us.  It's a special time and one that is fleeting, for sure, as before long Joe will stop believing in him and a part of Christmas will be lost to us forever.

• J.P. believes or doesn't he?  It's hard to say, really.  J.P. is a pretty innocent, naive boy and he seems to still believe.  A couple of days before Christmas, he left the Elf the most adorable note asking him to tell Santa that, if possible, he would like hockey gear for Christmas.  This was somewhat alarming news to me, since all of Christmas shopping was basically done and it was Dec. 23.  I got up early and made my way to Play It Again Sam's in Cool Springs where I was able to find hockey pads, pants, shirt, gloves and a stick.  It was quite the undertaking but all worth it, as J.P.'s face lit up on Christmas morning when he saw it all.  He let something slip at Tracy's house yesterday, though, that made me think the jig is up with Santa Claus.  I'm on the fence as to what he believes, but I think I'm going to assume he believes and that this might be his last year as a true believer.

• We visited Santa Claus at the Green Hills Mall the week before Christmas, after work one night.  Watching the other young children with their parents brings back a lot of memories for me of the days when it was just Jude, J.P. and me, then later Joe, too, and seeing Santa Claus was a big deal.  We missed the Christmas tree lighting at the state capitol this year, which is where we have seen Mr. and Mrs. Claus the last several years.  It was kind of nice to go back to the mall for old time's sake. 

• Last Saturday, I ran 10 miles on the trails at Shelby Bottoms in the mud, listening to Christmas music on a Spotify Christmas playlist the entire run.  That was nice and may have been my run of the year.  Certainly, it was in the top 10.  I saw a deer just of the Cornelia Fort Trail.  He jumped and startled me from my reverie as I ran around a corner near a small wooden bridge over  a creek.  I stopped and we just stared at each other for a moment.                                          
• The Governor's Christmas party at the residence - Governor Hallam's finale Christmas party - was a singular, special event for reasons I talked about in an earlier post.  It's been fun to attend those type of events with Jude over the past six or seven years, to feel like we're a party of something larger than ourselves.  
• Our Christmas tree is particularly beautiful this year, maybe our best one yet.  Tall - we had to have the delivery guys snip of the top - but really, really full, too.  It looks great in our living room with all of the ornaments on it. 
• The Christmas season has gone by so fast and I've missed some things or been rushed on others, because I've been so busy.  Work has been crazy and didn't slow down in December like it usually does.  Getting to see my mom and worrying about her has occupied my mind and time, too.  I didn't get my Christmas cards out until a couple of days before Christmas, in spite of my intentions to get them out earlier.  I was still buying last minute gifts on Dec. 23.  Lastly and what disappointed me the most is that J.P. and I didn't put my Christmas Village out this year, even though the box containing it has sat in our dining room since early December.  I'll do better next year (famous last words).
• Father Hammond sitting in the to play the organ at St. Patrick for the Christmas Eve service was memorable.  Actually, it was fantastic.  We're adjusting to having him as our priest.  As part of that process, I'm trying to recommit to attending church more regularly on Sundays.  I need that, I think.
• My mom.  So much of the time this Christmas season, I've been lost in my thoughts, thinking of her.  I've been more down, at times, than ever before this year in what, again, is always my favorite time of year.  I've rallied the last few days, but it's been incredibly hard for me.  She's dropped to another plateau lately and we're having to adjust to her not talking and not being as animated.  It's just where we are.  When I look at how much she's changed and, well, declined over the last three Christmases (2016, 2017 and 2018), it breaks my heart.  I have to face the fact that this might have been our last Christmas with her, or our last Christmas with her where she could interact with us at all.  

So, that's it, I guess.  Jude's brother, James, and his wife, Megan, and their young children, Caroline and James, are coming in tomorrow to stay with us.  The boys are excited and so are we.  It's going to be fun to have young children in our house for a few days.  Jude's parents are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary this year, too, and we'll be attending a big party over the weekend, too, which will be fun.

Christmas 2018.  It arrived quickly and then it was gone.  

Christmas Eve

It's the morning of Christmas Eve and I'm having a cup of coffee at my coffee house of the year for 2018, hands down - Honest Coffee Roasters in the Factory in Franklin.

I'm going to pick up a dozen donuts from Five Daughters Bakery a few shops down, then head over to see my mom this morning.

I've been better the last couple days.  Not nearly as down.  Maybe it's that Christmas is quite literally upon us and the boys are so excited.  Maybe it's because the year is almost over.  Maybe it's because I've been making a concerted effort to get to St. Patrick's on Sundays with Jude and the boys.  Maybe - probably - it's because I've been running more and that seems to clear my head and my heart.

In fact, I ran 10 miles not he trails at Shelby Bottoms the day before yesterday.  I haven't had a double digit run in a while.  It was so great to be out on the trails, in the mud and water, for 10 miles.   I listened to a Spotify Christmas playlist for the entire run, which was nice.  I saw a deer on a small branch of the Cornelia Fort Trail I don't often run.  I stopped and snapped a photo of him and he (or she) just stood and stared at me.

I also ran out and back on the runway at the Cornelia Fort Airport which, of course, has been closed for a few years.  A lot of history there, for sure.  It's always strange to run out there and see the abandoned airplane hangars and the runway with grass and weeds growing all around it.

Anyway, I felt good and strong as I ran.  An ancillary benefit of dropping a little weight is that it's just easier to run longer, I think.  That's what no bread, no potatoes, no pasta and no sugar to speak of for 5 + months will do for you, I suppose.  When I'm in a decent running groove like I have been lately, the middle of the week 3 mile runs magically turn into 5 and 6 mile runs.  The mileage just piles up.

I'm thinking about - only thinking about - trying to run 1,000 miles in 2019.  The last time I did that was 2010.  I looked back on the blog today and read the entry where I ran my 1,000th mile that year - in Shelby Bottoms on the trails, of course.  I remember finishing that run in the morning and having an ice cold Newcastle in the park afterwards.  Then, I met Uncle Carley and J.P. for lunch at Battered and Fried in East Nashville.  J.P. was almost 3 years old.  The photos are hilarious.

I digress, because I also might feel better because we had a perfectly wonderful brunch at my mom's place on Saturday morning.  There were a lot of family members and staff there.  Tracy and Alice came and I brought J.P. and Joe.  I met a woman who is the daughter of mom's friend, Carol, and we had a nice conversation.  I also ran into a guy who has sold me clothes for years.  It turns out his mom has been at the Courtyard since last summer.

Donna, who is the activities director, had the residents in a circle singing Christmas carols when I arrived.  It was a singular and beautiful moment.  Then, she took 2 or 3 balloons and went around the circle, hitting the balloon to each resident and encouraging them to hit it back to her.  Tracy and another woman hopped into the circle and helped Donna.

There was a lot of love in the Courtyard that morning.  A lot of family, a lot of food and, really, just a lot of love.

I wish every day was like that.

Merry Christmas 2018.

Taking a Breath

Saturday morning, early, at the Frothy Monkey.  The boys and I are heading down for my mom's Christmas brunch at 10 a.m.  They're at home - up early as usual - watching "Dude Perfect" on JP's iPad in the bed w/Jude while she reads.

I finished up at work mid-afternoon yesterday having done all I could do before Christmas, really all I could do before New Year's Day, because I'm planning on taking next week off.  The longer I practice the law - 25 + years now - the less it bothers me to tell a client, realistically, that I just can't get to something.  My mom's situation puts work in perspective, too, I think.

Some work can wait.  Some work has to wait.

I've been completely covered up the last four months.  Long hours - in early and staying late - a lot of mediations, too.  A lot of mentoring, so to speak, with two new attorneys starting the last six months. A lot of hiring, too, with staff changes.  Then, late in the year, a lot of work on a new business opportunity that my partners and I are involved in.  Just, really, a lot.

Maybe it helps me to stay busy at work.  I suspect it probably does because it keeps my mind off my mom's declining health.  I was having a drink with my paralegal, Julie, the other night, after we had gotten a great result in a trial earlier in the day.  It was a case we'd worked hard on - I had busted my ass - so we were quietly celebrating our good fortune.  It was more a feeling of relief because I really, really wanted a good outcome for my client.  She needed it and it was the right result, but you never know what will happen in trial.

At one point, Julie looked at me, took a sip of her wine, and said, "I don't know how you do it.  I don't know how you manage everything."

"I compartmentalize," I replied, which I guess is what I do.  Family time is family time.  Work time is work time.  Time with my mom is time with my mom.  I try not to worry too much about anything else when I'm doing one of those activities.  Maybe that's being present and in the moment.  Or maybe it's just survival.

Sometimes it all catches up to me, which is kind of what happened the last week or so.  I've been more down, I think, than I've ever been.  I had a mini-breakdown of sorts, nothing serious, just a conversation with Jude where I told her how hard it all was for me and how much I was struggling.  I normally keep my deepest feelings about all of this to myself.

I also confessed, in a text, to my law partner, Mark, how hard it all was.  I think it surprised him a bit for me to verbalize it.  He told me that he thinks about my family every day but really doesn't know what to say.  And that he's praying for us.  That helped.  I'm not sure why, but it did.

Sometimes, just knowing that I - we - are on people's minds and in their prayers is of comfort to me.

I don't want to burden anyone else with my struggles - with my family's struggles - it's my journey and I've got to complete it myself, accompanied at times by Tracy and Alice.  Mostly, though, I have to go it alone.  I've got to see it through to the end and trust that those I love and that love me will be waiting for me when the journey is over.

It's strange, but I think I take solace in the familiar.  What I mean by that is I go to the same coffee shops (the Monkey or Honest Coffee Roasters) or bars for the occasional drink (Edley's), where I easily and happily converse with people I know, but don't know too well.  By and large, they don't know about my mom's situation or how down I am or have been.  We smile and laugh together and talk about superficial subjects but nothing too deep, at least not on my side of the ledger.

Often, over time, I learn about their lives.  Why?  I'm a good listener and I'm naturally curious about people.  And it's just easier.  For me, there's comfort in the familiar - I've always been a creature of habit.  But there's also comfort in going somewhere that I don't have to talk about my mom, how I feel or how sad I am.  The superficiality, I guess, is comforting.

At work, Julie has been such a good friend.  We work together so closely.  It's the same with Alisha, too, an attorney with whom I've been working side by side for more than a decade.  They know my moods, I think, and can tell if I'm down or having a bad day.  And, every now and then - like this week - in a weak moment, I'll unburden myself and tell them how hard it all is.  I'm not sure I can ever repay them for listening and for being there for me.  But I'll try.

So, Christmas is upon us.  Time to take a take a breath, forget about work, and be present for my family.  Really present.  I'm looking forward to some time with Jude and the boys.

And I'm in a better state of mind.

Can't Look Back, Can't Look Ahead

It's been a tough few weeks for me.

Maybe it's because holidays are here, normally my favorite part of the year.  My mom loved the holidays and a I find myself sad - I mean, really sad - that she can't share them with us.  More than that, she'll never be able to share the holidays with us again.

I think that reality hits me even harder when I go see her, like I did yesterday and will in a little while this morning.  She's here but she's not here, you know?  It's like the mother I knew my whole life - the one who was my best friend - is out there, constantly just out of reach - I see her but I can't get to her.

Every time I get to her, every time I go to see her, I'm reminded in the starkest terms that she's not here.  And she never will be here again, not as my mom and not like she was before.

It's so hard to explain why I feel so down or even what it feels like.  Often times, when someone asks me about her, usually someone I don't see that often or who isn't a close friend, they insist on telling me about a relative who had Alzheimer's disease and how terrible it was for him or her.  I know, on some level, they're trying to connect with me an create a shared experience, but it has the opposite effect on me.

Sometimes I want to yell at those well meaning souls that it's not the same.  They don't know my mom and they sure as hell don't know how special our relationship was.  They don't know - and, in truth, I probably didn't either - how much a part of me my relationship with my mom was and how much I depended on that relationship as the fuel for the engine runs my life.  The daily telephone calls to check in, to talk about nothing and everything - those telephone calls centered me somehow and kept my emotional compass pointing in the right direction.  They don't know that I can't possible explain it to them.

I can't tell them I've lost my emotional compass or that it's broken, perhaps beyond repair, although I think and hope I'll be okay.  I can't say something to make them feel worse for me, for my family and for my mom.  So, I listen and nod at the appropriate times and tell them I'm fine.  I always use the line that yes, it's tough, but every family goes through something like this.

But I don't really believe it, even as I say it.

How many families - how many sons, like me - can't look back and remember their mother (or father) for who she was?  How many can't look back because it's just too fucking painful to recall the memories of the good times, the special times, and then see their mother like she is now.  That's exactly what I'll be doing in an hour or so.  How many people can't reflect on good times from holidays past because it makes it virtually impossible to enjoy the holidays now, with their mom confined to a wheelchair with a bunch of strangers without any idea that it's a week from Christmas?

I just can't look back, not right now.  For someone who is nostalgic and sentimental, sometimes to a fault, it's very, very hard to live this way.  I think my memories - my many, happy memories in general, somehow helped me to soldier on in life because I had faith that their are more happy memories to come.  I've lost that faith to a certain extent.

Which brings me to my next point.  I can't look forward into the future either.  The inevitable future is one without my mom.  It's one of holidays and birthdays - things she enjoyed so much - without her.  It's baseball and basketball games the J.P. and Joe will be playing in that she won't get to see.  It's telephone calls with me that she won't have and telephone calls with her that I won't have.  It's a life - my life - without her in it.  And I can't bear the thought of it.  I really can't.

Sometimes, like now, the weight of all of this crushes me.  I try soldier on, so to speak, to be myself and try to maintain my outgoing, upbeat personality, because that's what my mom taught me to do.  And that's what those around me, at home and at work, need from me.  But it's hard.  It's damn hard sometimes.

I can't look back and I can't look forward.  I'm stuck in this moment - this terrible, unfair and cruel moment - in which I watch my mom disappear a little more every time I see her.  She's fading away. And I'm powerless to stop it or to make what is left of her life even a little more bearable.            

A Christmas Party to Forget . . . and to Remember

It's Friday morning and sitting in Honest Coffee Roasters waiting on my coffee.  15 or 20 minutes of solitude, then I'm off to the races.  I'm dog tired.  I was up late last night working on a project for a client.  Unlike most holiday seasons when I'm able to gear down near Christmas, this year I'm simply covered up.  It's been that way the last quarter of the year.

Tuesday night, Jude and I attended our 7th and final Christmas Party at the Governor's residence, hosted by Governor Haslam and the First Lady, Chrissie Haslam.  Jude worked as Director of the Children's cabinet for almost severn years.  She's very fond of the both of them, as am I.  Her job was challenging but rewarding and she learned so much.  Jude's fiercely loyal and part of the reason why she stayed on until almost the very end of the Governor's second term was her loyalty to the Governor, his administration and the importance of the work she was doing.  It probably shows, but I'm very, very proud of Jude.

We've been blessed to be invited to several events over the last 7 years at the Governor's residence and elsewhere.  Christmas parties, summer picnics, inauguration celebrations, etc.  Likewise, the boys have been with Jude to trick-or-treat at the Governor's residence and to see the Christmas decorations there every years.  As a family, we've attended the Christmas tree lighting at the state capital almost every year.  J.P. has attended the Governor's State of the State Address every year, proud to dress up in a suit and tie.  It's been a good and special run for Jude, and for us.

This year's Christmas party was different.  No formal address from the Governor, just quiet conversations with him for a minute or two as he made the rounds.  Attendance was down, which is to be expected.  There were few younger people there.  So many people have moved on to new jobs in and out of state government.  The mood was subdued and not as festive as in years past.  There was a nervous energy, as many of the attendees don't yet know where they will end up or are waiting for a decision from the new Governor, Bill Lee, as to whether he will keep them in their current position, move them or let them go.  In fact, one young man I talked with - whom I see at every event - has an interview scheduled on Monday with Governor Lee.  He desperately wants to remain in his current position and I hope it works out for him.

The contrast between the atmosphere or mood at this year's Christmas party and in years past was profound.  Melancholy is probably the word that best describes the overriding feeling at the party.  For many people - certainly, some of the older commissioners of various departments - the last eight years has been the culmination of long and sometimes storied careers.  There was a feeling of nostalgia, too.  Gone was the feeling of promise, of optimism, of work yet to be done and policy goals to be reached.

When Jude was contacted by the Haslam administration about the job, she was pregnant with Joe.  Very pregnant.  She was working as a consultant to Mayor Karl Dean, cloistered away in an isolated office, or maybe a cubicle, working on a long-term planning project.  That was the way she wanted it after a seven or eight year run as Executive Director at Renewal House.  She was working 24 hours a week.  Perfect for a woman with an almost 4 year old and another son on the way.

Suddenly, roughly seven months pregnant, Jude was working in the mornings at the Mayor's office and in the afternoons for the Governor.  Full time.  It was a whirlwind until she had Joe, after which she took three months off for maternity leave.  Then, she was off to the races as Director of the Children's Cabinet.

It was a good run.  It was nice Christmas party, kind of a bookend to Jude's seven year run working in the Haslam administration.  I'm glad we went.

A Requiem for a President

George H.W. Bush, the 41st president of the United States, died yesterday in Houston, Texas, surrounded by family and friends.  The New York Times, as always, published the definitive obituary.

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/30/us/politics/george-hw-bush-dies.html?action=click&module=Spotlight&pgtype=Homepage

President Bush was a single term president, serving from 1989 - 1993.  He was popular, immensely so after the success of he first Gulf War, then almost suddenly, he wasn't popular.  In the presidential campaign he eventually lost to Bill Clinton in 1992, he appeared disconnected and out of touch with the problems every day people faced as a result of the recession.

Above all, though, President Bush was a good man.  A family man and a patriot.  A man who served the country in one capacity or another for 40 years.  His death makes me sad and I've been wondering why.

I voted for President Bush when he ran against Michael Dukakis in 1988.  This, in spite of the fact that a few of my fraternity brothers called me Michael Dukakis during the campaign after noticing that my eyebrows resembled those of Mr. Dukakis.  That's a fun fact, for sure.  I'm smiling now as I remember my friend and fellow fraternity president, Goat Neal, pointing at me in the hall of the fraternity house and yelling, "Michael Dukakis!!"  I saw him at a Predators' game the other night and, as always, he brought a smile to my face.  I digress.

I was 22 years old when during that presidential campaign.  I was finishing my final semester of college in Knoxville, living in the fraternity house, coasting though the two or maybe three classes I needed to graduate.  It was an innocent and fun time in my life.  I quite literally had my whole life in front of me.  As I recall, I had a job in sale with Wallace Computer Services lined up in Nashville.  I was still dating my longtime college girlfriend, Jenny DeWitt, graduated that fall with me, I believe.  I assume we would get married at some point in the near future and raise a family together in suburban Roanoke, Virginia (her hometown) or in Brentwood (my home town).

30 years later, I find myself living in a thriving neighborhood near downtown Nashville as a 52 year old father of two boys, 6 and 10.  In my 22 year old mind, I thought Jenny and I would have four or five kids.  I also thought by age 52, all of my kids would be out of college or, at worst, finishing college.

Man plans.  God laughs.  Right?

So, I find myself this morning at 52, thinking about my 22 year old self.  Idealistic and naive.  Supremely confident.  Probably overconfident.  Immortal, for sure, and unbowed and unbroken by life's travails.  Blessed with a youth that I thought would last forever.  Blissfully unaware that there were hard times ahead, for me and for my family.  Good times, too, to be sure, and many of those.  but hard times, as well.

At 22, I couldn't possibly imagine what it would feel like to be 52.

I also couldn't imaging that Jenny and I would break up, reunite briefly a year or so later, then end our relationship for good.  First, she would break my heart, then I would break hers, not out of ill intent or maliciousness, but because that's the way life goes.  I couldn't imagine, then, that I would find myself in law school in Knoxville in the fall of 1990.  I couldn't imagine that I would meet my future wife in law school or that Anne and I would later divorce after a few years together.  I couldn't imagine how heartbroken I would feel in late 1997 and early 1998.

I also couldn't imagine, at age 22, that I would meet Jude and that we would get married in February 2003.  And, without question, I couldn't imagine the pure, unadulterated wonder and joy I would feel when I held J.P. for the first time on March 28, 2008, and that I would feel the same way when I held Joe for the first time in February 20, 2012.

And, of course, I couldn't imagine - at age 22 - what it would feel like to be sitting at Portland Brew in 12South, sipping a cup of coffee and gathering the mental and emotional strength and energy to go visit my mom in the memory care unit of an assisted living facility.  I couldn't - and wouldn't - have imagined that my mom, the rock of my life and my biggest supporter and best friend for as long as I can remember, would be reduced to a shell of herself at age 78.  I couldn't have imagined that she would be confined to a wheelchair and unable to carry on a coherent conversation with me.  I couldn't have imagined that the very light that is her personality - her soul - would grow dim and that I could do nothing to prevent it from happening.

President Bush said goodbye to those he loved the most.  I'm glad it worked out that way.

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/01/us/politics/george-hw-bush-last-days.html?action=click&module=Spotlight&pgtype=Homepage        

Our situation is different with my mom.  Sometimes I feel like we didn't really get to say goodbye, or, alternatively, that we're saying goodbye a little bit at a time, every day and every week.

 

Sunday Morning at the Monkey

I'm sipping my coffee, sitting at my favorite table in the corner at the Frothy Monkey and listening to  Neil Young before I head down to see my mom this morning.

The Christmas decorations are in bloom, which I love.  Employees' stockings are hung from the winding staircase leading to the upstairs office.  White Christmas lights line the windows and hang from the office doorway.  The early Sunday morning regulars are shuffling in sitting in their usual places.  

I typically get here early on Sundays, around opening time at 7 a.m.  I like to watch the coffee shop open up.  Josh, Grant and the other employees laugh and banter easily back and forth, comfortable in the rhythm of their conversations.  There's a familiarity to it all which I find comforting, like an old sweater or a pair of old jeans.

Josh and his wife, Rachel, run the Frothy Monkey in 12South.  I don't know them well, although Josh and I exchange small talk whenever I stop in.  They're two of the most positive, optimistic people I've ever met in the way they deal with people and seemingly in their approach to life.  It rubs off on all of the employees and, as a result, the vibe at the Monkey is unmatched at any coffee house I've visited in town, although Honest Coffee Roasters comes close.

I've never seen Josh not seem happy to be here.  Grant, his friend and a talented barista and fellow musician, is the same way.  Always friendly, always has a kind word for me.  Neither of them know that part of the reason I come here on Sunday mornings is to recharge my batteries and gather my emotional energy before I visit my mom.  He's almost like a bartender, speaking to the regular customers about sports or asking about their morning as he makes a predictably excellent coffee drink.

Virtually every new employee seems to take on Josh's personality (and Grant's personality).  It's a leadership thing, no doubt.  Frequenting coffee houses as much as I do, I've learned that so much of the vibe flows directly from the manager.  The Frothy Monkey in 12South is a perfect example of that.

Time to get up and get on with my day, a good Thanksgiving weekend almost behind me.  

   

Grandparents' Day and a Twinge of Jealousy

Yesterday, I had coffee with a high school classmate of mine, Joe Imorde.  Joe is a great guy who grew up in my neighborhood.  He joined the army after college at Western Kentucky and served 20 years before ending up with his family in Virginia.  I rarely see him, so spending an hour together was a treat.

I've known Joe's family for years.  His sister married my law partner, Mark.  Joe's parents are the best and I was happy to hear they're doing well.  His dad plays golf almost every day and his mom stays busy, too.  I also felt a twinge of jealously as I thought of my mom's plight, confined to a wheelchair in a small wing of NHC Place as the world continues to shrink around her.  Why her?

I try to avoid those type of thoughts, emotions and existential questions.  They're unanswerable and to ponder them too long is like staring at the sun for more than a split second.  Too long contemplating the injustice of my mom's fate sends me into an emotional tailspin.  So, I compartmentalize and move forward.  Always moving forward.

Grandparents' Day for the boys was Tuesday at University School.  Jude and I attended the dress rehearsal on Monday.  It was bittersweet, of course, because I knew my mom wouldn't be able to attend.  Still, it was the one and only Grandparents' Day that the boys would participate in together, since J.P. will move on to middle school (gulp) next year.  Needless to say, watching them sign and dance, together, was special.  I was too busy taking photos to cry when all siblings danced together at the end of the performance.  I can't say the same for Jude, who ended up passing some of her Kleenex to other moms.

Notice the focus and concentration.  Singing and dancing is my either of my boys' favorite things.

J.P., thinking, is it over yet?

The turkey costume is killer.  We still have J.P.'s.

J.P., dancing with Mom.

J.P. and me before the performance.  He was an usher.

Ushering.

Joe and Myles, his book buddy.  Joe's almost as big as Myles.

J.P. and Mom.

Do they look like they were glad it was over?  

Ms. Hagan taught J.P. in kindergarten.  This year, she's teaching Joe.

Tears.  Nothing but tears during the sibling dance.

Joe, dancing, sort of.

Saying Goodbye Twice

It's hard to say goodbye twice.                

My sister, Tracy, and I had a rambling telephone conversation on my way home from work last night after a long week.  We compared notes on my mom, as we often do.  Knowing that she remains the tie that binds us together would make her happy.

I had given Tracy and Alice my tickets the Belmont-MTSU basketball game on Monday night.  I have great seats on the third row, almost dead center court, between the benches.  The Curb Center is a great college basketball venue and Belmont has a very, very good men's basketball team.  My friend and childhood neighbor, Scott Corley, is the athletic director.  Grayson Murphy, a good friend of mine's son, is a redshirt freshman and starting point guard for the team.  And I can walk to the games.

Tracy and I were lamenting how much mom would have loved going to Belmont basketball games with me.  She was such a huge college basketball fan.  So many of my early sports memories are of her taking me to Vanderbilt basketball games and living and dying with her as they won or lost.  It was something we shared and those are memories I'll always treasure.  I can easily see my mom transitioning from going to Vanderbilt basketball games - where she had season tickets for more than 40 years - to going to Belmont basketball games.

Scott Corley would have doted on her.  She would have met Coach Byrd and become a huge fan.  She would have loved watching Grayson Murphy play.  She loved guards, especially point guards - shout out too her favorite point guard of all time, Kaitlyn Hearn (aka the Short Answer) - and she would have been so taken with the way Grayson plays the position and the game.  She would have loved getting to know my friend Russ's mother-in-law, Connie, also a season ticket holder.  Going to Belmont basketball games at the Curb Center would have been a bookend of sorts, something we shared.  Again.  It makes me terribly sad that we didn't get to do that together.

It also makes me sad that I never really got say goodbye to that version of my mom.  I miss her terribly, all the time.  It's like a dull ache in my heart that never really goes away.  I compartmentalize, I smile for others, I immerse myself in my work, I find quiet time for myself to recharge my batteries and sometimes, when I'm alone, I cry.  Not a lot, but sometimes.

As Tracy and I lamented our loss and, more importantly, my mom's loss, we reminisced about how much and how quickly things have changed for my mom since she moved into Maristone two years ago this month.  In some ways, that seems like a lifetime ago and, in other ways, it seems like yesterday.  That's another post for another day, though.

"It's hard to say goodbye twice, isn't it?"  I quietly said to Tracy, as I sat in the dark, in my Yukon, driving to J.P.'s basketball practice.

Like magic and through the miracle of modern technology, she answered through the speakers in my Yukon, as if she was sitting right beside me.

"It sure is."  Then, she sighed and we were quiet for a moment.

It's hard to say goodbye twice.

   

The Terrifying Randomness of Parenthood

I was in mediation next door to my office on Wednesday afternoon - Halloween - when one of our staff knocked on the door and asked me to step out of the conference room so she could talk to me.

"Call Jude," Lisa said.  "There's been an accident at the playground and Joe is hurt."  My heart sank and I rushed outside to call Jude.

As always in times of stress, Jude was calm and cool when I reached her.  "I'm on the way to University School.  Joe fell on the playground and his arm is hurt.  I don't know any more than that."

Jude agreed to call me when she got the nurse's office at school and assessed the situation.  It turns out that Joe had fallen, or gotten pushed, off a tunnel on the playground he was walking on and had stuck out his left hand and arm to soften the blow as he hit the ground.  He was crying quite a bit when she arrived and saying his arm hurt.  The nurse didn't think it was broken but Jude thought it best to take him to see his pediatrician anyway.

Dr. Godfrey examined Joe and suspected he had broken his arm after all.  He called ahead to the radiology department at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital so Jude could get Joe in without waiting.  X-rays revealed a fracture in the ulna, nearer the elbow than the wrist.  He was casted from the wrist to above the elbow and told to come back in four weeks.

Shit.

Joe's been awesome about it the whole time, never complaining, at least no so far.  He trick-or-treated (as Luke Skywalker) that night.  He's slept well, maybe because I made a big deal out of giving him the pillow I've used four different times when I've broken bones in my left hand over the years.  He's miffed about missing basketball, particularly after he scored six points in the first half last week (turning to the crowd after each basket and making the money sign with his hands).  Overall, he's been great.

Me, not so much.

Joe's broken arm is a reminder of the randomness and helplessness of being a parent.  I do everything I can to keep the boys healthy, send them to best school and keep them safe, and still, Joe gets hurt.  I know it could have been worse but I can't shake this feeling of helplessness, like I'm in boat on the ocean with no way of steering in any particular direction.  The wind and the current are going to take me wherever they want me to go and I'm just along for the ride.  That's parenthood, I guess.

I'm also struck by a feeling of mortality as it relates to the boys.  I want them to be indestructible and impervious to outside forces or random chance the might conspire to injure them.  But, they're not.  Something else for me to worry about, I guess.

Joe will be okay, though.  And we've got a long way to go, raising two athletic, active boys.  Damn, it's going to one hell of a roller coaster ride, isn't it?

Be Careful

Yesterday (Sunday) morning, as I got up to leave after a visit with my mom, she instinctively said "be careful."

As I walked out of NHC Place on my way to pick up JP and drive to Bowling Green for a soccer tournament, I marveled at how much those two words meant to me.

Be careful.

So many, many times, as I left our house to go to school, to work at Walmart, to go out with my friends, to drive to Knoxville for college or law school or to return to my house after a visit, my mom always said the same thing as I walked out the door.

Be careful.

No matter how many times I told her, in later years, that I was 30, 35, 40, etc. years old and she didn't need to tell me to "be careful," she always said it anyway.  She would laugh and shake her head and say to me, "You're my son.  I'm always going to tell you to be careful.  Always."

Sometimes it mildly annoyed me, mostly when I was younger and dumber.  As I grew older and began to realize I wasn't actually 10 feet tall and bullet proof - as I began to develop a sense of my own mortality - I found those two words to be endearing.  With them came a sameness that was comforting, perhaps with the realization that no matter how much in my life changed, my mother would always love me and always be thinking about me.

Be careful.

Those two words meant that I mattered.  They meant that to someone, always, I would be one of the most important people in their lives.  Those two words were proof that my mom loved me unconditionally.  They meant I could count on her support, above anyone else's, when times were good and in times of turbulence.  They meant her love was a constant in my life, ever present.

Yesterday, those two words meant a little something different.  They meant my mom is still my mom.  This terrible, terrible disease - Alzheimer's - has ravaged her body and mind and continues to steal from her every single day.  And yet, for just a moment - a sliver of time - she was instinctively still my mom.  Her unconditional love that has supported and sustained me for 52 + years is still there, somewhere, in her mind and in her heart, maybe in her very soul.

She's wheelchair bound and, yesterday, as she dozed off and on while I read her poetry from the latest  issue of the New Yorker as we sat together in the library, her love for me was as strong as it always has been and, I think always will be.

Just this morning, a colleague at a breakfast fundraiser I co-chaired and emceed asked about my mom and how she was doing.  "You look tired," she said.  "My mom's hanging in there," I replied.  "And I'm fine."

Am I putting up a bit of a facade for others?  Perhaps.  I give a lot of myself, emotionally, to my clients, to the boys I coach and to my family and, of course to my mom.  But I am fine.  I am a survivor and I have to look no further than my mom to find the strength I need to be what are who I need to be every minute of every day.

I take a little more time to myself - like now, having a quite cup of coffee at Honest Coffee Roasters, or like last night when I ran 5 miles in the neighborhood after the boys went to bed.  I'm probably a bit more reflective.  I'm nearer to tears and my emotions are a little closer to the surface, which is saying a lot because I am nothing if not a sentimentalist.  But I am fine and I will continue to be fine, if a little subdued, at times.

My mom's unconditional love sustains me.  It fuels me in ways I will never comprehend.  And it will continue to do so, I think and hope, long after she is gone in a physical sense, from this earth.

Be careful.

Two words, only two.  They mean everything to me.

    
Thanks, mom.

The Cruelest of Ironies

I haven't posted about this because, frankly, it's depressing and sad.

I'll start by mentioning that in the early early to mid-1970's, our end of the Brenthaven Drive/Devins Drive/Knox Valley Drive/Wikle Road block was a magical place.  I hadn't turned 10 yet and my sister, Tracy, was 18 months younger than me.  Our part of the subdivision - Brenthaven - was still being built out and there was woods and a creek a two minute walk from the back door of our house at 173 (later 1422) Brenthaven Drive.

It was an idyllic time of my life and, probably, all of our lives.  Summer days that seemed to last forever and summer evenings with neighborhood cookouts.  The adults sitting on someone's patio, probably drinking beer or a cocktail, and the children playing kick the can in our backyard or chasing fireflies.  It was quite literally one big happy neighborhood family.

What really made our end of the block so special was the people.  Behind our house were the Danchertsen's (Chuck and Betty, with Kim and John about our age).  Diagonally behind our house were the Gilley's (Warren, Sandra, Terri and my best friend growing up, Warren Lee); and next door to us were the Pilkington's (Evelyn and Bill).  Across the street were the Allen's (David, Carol Ann, Timmy and Heather).

Evelyn and Bill Pilkington were older and had never had children.  Consequently, they took an active interest in the lives of all of the children on the block.  They often babysat for Tim and Heather Allen.  We called them "Mommy Evelyn" and "Daddy Bill."  They were two of the nicest people I have ever known.

As time marched inexorably one in the way that it does, things inevitably changed.  The Danchertsen's moved away but stayed in touch.  The Allen's moved away and didn't stay in touch.  The fabric of the Gilley's family unit disintegrated as Terri developed severe emotional and mental problems and Warren Lee fell into a pattern of drug and alcohol abuse that ruined his life.  Sandra Gilley died from cancer.  Warren Gilley, who was a second father to me, died after a long and arduous battle with congestive heart failure.

Evelyn and Bill Pilkinton, and my mom, were the mainstays on the block.  As time passed, they were the last remaining members of the that special group of people from that innocent time in the early and mid-1970's when all of us, grownups and children alike, were young and relatively unscathed by the hardest parts of life.  Many, probably most, spring and summer afternoons after she retired, when Evelyn and Bill were in town - they wintered in Florida - my mom walked over to their patio and had a glass of wine with them.

In fact, the day I told my mom that Jude and I were pregnant with J.P., she and I were sitting at the patio table with Evelyn and Bill on a glorious spring evening.  I had forgotten that until just now.  When she realized what I was trying to tell her, my mom got flustered, then teary eyed, as Evelyn and Bill smiled and laughed.  We all hugged each other and my mom and I drove down to Tracy's church and interrupted her choir practice to tell her the news.

Now, more than a decade later, I found myself visiting my mom on a Saturday morning.  Afterwards, I walked down the hall, knocked cautiously on a door, and walked into Evelyn and Bill's room.  Bill looked emaciated as he lay in bed and smiled at me.  Evelyn got up from her cot when she saw me.  She immediately starting crying, walked toward me and fell into my arms.

"Oh, Phil, Bill's never going to be able to leave here," she said, between tears.  I held her as Bill watched bemusedly.  It was the kind of moment that momentarily takes your breath away, fraught with emotions so heavy they crush your spirit if you let them.  I hadn't seen them in a while and Tracy had prepared me that Bill didn't look good but it was still hard, very hard, to see him in such a weakened state.  And to see Evelyn so out of sorts and upset.

In later visits, Evelyn has been better.  More herself, almost cheerful.  Still, the rawness and nakedness of my first visit with them has been hard for me to shake.

So, in the cruelest of ironies, my mom and her longtime next door neighbors and close friends, Evelyn and Bill Pilkinton, are still neighbors of a sort.  This time, however, they're neighbors in an assisted living facility, one that they will probably never leave.  And my mom doesn't really know who Evelyn and Bill are, to top things off.

As my sister, Tracy, said so aptly in a text last week, "never in my wildest dreams would I have pictured it this way."

Me neither.

The Run of a Lifetime

Through a circuitous set of circumstances, I find myself having a quiet cup of coffee at Falls City Market this Monday morning as the city of Louisville wakes up and my family still sleeps.  We've spent a thoroughly enjoyable long weekend exploring the city after Hurricane Michael derailed our planned trip to the beach for Fall Break.

_____________________________________________

Saturday evening, Jude, the boys and I waited in line at Iroquois Park, 10 minutes or so outside Louisville proper, preparing to enter the Jack-O-Lantern Spectacular.  As I alternated between standing in line and throwing the Moon Ball with the boys, I slowly began to notice my surroundings.  Suddenly, it hit me.  I think I've been her before. 

And I had.

More than 20 years ago, I drove with a running friend, Vicki Spickard, to Louisville, KY, to race the Kentucky Derby Mini-Marathon.  It was a half-marathon the weekend before the Kentucky Derby and the last road race in Louisville's Triple Crown of road races.  I ran all three races that year and, somewhere in my closet at home, I have the t-shirt to prove it.  

It would have been late April or early May and I was in the best shape of my life from a running standpoint.  I was training hard, putting in a lot of mileage - probably close to 40 miles a week - and I was racing almost every weekend.  The year or so before and after that race was the apex of my competitive running career.  

I was young, brash and seeming indestructible, of course.  And, to me, running was all about getting fast, racing and setting PR's (personal records).  Now, at 52, I run for the joy of running.  To try to stay healthy and in some semblance of shape.  I run because I can and because I love to run.  It's simply who I am and what I do.

As I recall, we stayed at some friends of Vicki's, somewhere in Louisville.  It was a little cool for a spring morning.  Perfect running weather.  I felt good that morning.  I had run four or five half-marathons before including the Thanksgiving Day Half-Marathon in Atlanta w/Todd Blankenbecler two or three years in a row.  Those t-shirts are somewhere in my closet, too.

Again, I was running a lot.  I was training quite a bit in Percy Warner Park and running the  six and 11-mile loops, which are quite hilly.  I've always run hills well and I'd read an article on how to properly run downhill, of all things, in a way that didn't tire your legs out.  I also had read an article on breathing patterns that I had applied to my running.  You might say I was a running nerd.  

My goal that morning was to break 1:40:00 and set a PR at a the half-marathon distance.  I felt pretty good about my chances because I had put in the work, for sure.

I don't recall where the race started but I do recall that I quickly found myself in Iroquois Park running up and down the hills.  As other runners struggled, I smiled to myself.  Iroquois Park bore a striking resemblance to Percy Warner Park.  It was like I had trained specifically for the the race and maybe, inadvertently, I had.  I felt fantastic, like a running machine, as I ran up the hills of the park with ease and effortlessly flew down the hills as I had learned to do and, in the process, putting little or no stress or strain on my quads and hamstrings.  I passed people left and right in Iroquois Park. 

I felt like I could run forever.  And, that spring Saturday more than two decades ago, I probably could have.  

At some point just before we exited Iroquois Park and began to run back to downtown Louisville - which I recall was about half way through the race - I checked my splits on what was undoubtedly my original, Timex Ironman digital running watch.  I think I still have it somewhere.  I did double take and checked them again, doing the calculations again in my head to make sure my projected time was correct.  I was stunned to realize I could break 1:30:00 if I held my current pace of 6:40:00 miles.

I had two choice.  I could play it safe, slow down, and get my under 1:40:00 PR easily.  Or, I could stay on the gas and see just how fast I could run a half-marathon with the risk, of course, being that I could blow up and end up finishing over 1:40:00.  What to do?

It was a perfect day for running and that's how I felt.  Like a perfect runner.  Fuck it, I thought, I'm going for it.  And that's what I did.

The last half of the race is a blur but I remember checking my splits every mile and confirming I was maintaining a 6:40:00 pace.  I was flying and the miles were flying by, too.  Memory dims over time, of course, but I don't remember struggling the four or five miles of the race.  I just remember feeling strong and, well, like I could run forever.

I finished the last mile almost sprinting, or so it seemed, and crossed the finish line in 1:29:48.  I was ebullient and ecstatic, literally on top of the world.  A part of me immediately knew I was visiting running territory I wasn't likely to visit again, I think, so I savored the feeling of accomplishment.

As a runner, I run all year long - some years more than others, but always running - in search of the perfect run.  The run where everything comes together on a run of distance, usually, and I feel like I could run forever.  The running zone, I've always called.

That spring day in Louisville, KY, so many years ago, I found it.  During a race, no less, which almost never happens.

And I've been chasing the memory ever since and enjoying every step along the way.     

A Good Day

This morning, I was up at 5:30 a.m. for a 4 mile run in the neighborhood.  Listened to Matt Damon on Bill Simmon's podcast as I ran down Belmont Boulevard and across David Lipscomb's campus before dawn.  Now, I'm finishing up coffee at Frothy Monkey before heading down to see my mom.

Our day today?  J.P. has a travel soccer doubleheader starting at 11 a.m., followed by a baseball game at 3 p.m.  Joe has a baseball game at 5 p.m.  That's on the heels of a soccer game for Joe yesterday morning and a baseball doubleheader for J.P.

J.P.'s Dodgers beat the Dirtbags, our longtime rival, 16-4, so there's that.

Yesterday morning, before things got crazy, I went to see my mom.  It's so hard for me to get by her place during the work week because I'm so busy right now.  In truth, that's probably a poor excuse and it makes me feel bad, but I have been crushed last month and it continued last week.

I arrived as she was finishing breakfast.  She drank some cranberry juice I brought, then I rolled her outside to the courtyard we often visit.  She looked at one of the two issues of the New Yorker that I'd brought with me, although she never got past the table of contents.  Sometimes the innocence - her innocence - is almost childlike and I marvel at the things that interest her or amuse her.  We're blessed in that way, I suppose, in that she's not angry, mean spirited or sad.  For the most part, she's happy and blissfully unaware of anything more than what is right in front of her.

Is that sad?  Sure it is, when I think of how closely she followed sports, politics, current events and, most importantly, her children's and grandchildren's activities in what seems like a past life.  I'm trying to find the silver lining, though.  And, for me, the silver lining is that right now, at least, she is, in a word . . . content.

She smiles a lot.  Her sense of humor is intact and she laughs, still, again with a childlike innocence at the smallest things.  She interacts with the staff in the Courtyard at NHC Place and they seem to genuine like her.  As I wheeled her out yesterday, I private pay caregiver I didn't recognize spoke to her and asked how she was doing as she waved at him when we passed by his patient's table.

Back to yesterday morning.  As we sat outside, enjoying each other's company, I read her a couple of poems from this week's issue of the New Yorker.  We weren't particularly impressed with either poem.  Mostly, she just laughed at the name of one of the authors.

Truly, it was one of those intervals I wish I could have frozen in time, so I could return to it in later years, when her conditions worsens or when she's gone.  Maybe I can look back at this post and remember that Saturday morning when, for a little while at least, my mom and sat together outside and I read poetry to her.  And she listened, and smiled.  And loved me.

The Dawg

(Sitting at Barista Parlor, early, before a client meeting at Portland Brew, listening the Jason Isbel's "If We Were Vampires" spinning on a turntable).  

I worry sometimes - actually, a lot of the time - that I don't have enough photos of Joe, that I haven't blogged enough about Joe, that I don't get enough one-on-one time with Joe, that Joe never got to enjoy the experience of being our only child, like J.P. did for almost four years before Joe was born.  

And, now, with both boys at the same school - the convenience of which cannot be overstated - I don't get "Joe Time" in the mornings.  For the last couple of years, Joe and I had 45 minutes to an hour, alone, every day before I took him to school. 

He's the second child, after all.  That's just the way it is.  I do think, though, being the first child or the second child really does inform your personality to a certain extent.  Certainly, it's not the only factor, but it's an important one, it seems.

Switching gears, I moved Joe's baseball team, the Junior Dodgers, up early from the Wookie League (4, 5 and 6 years old) to the Rookie League (7 and 8 year olds) for fall baseball.  They're all 6 year olds and I knew they would struggle hitting off the machine rather than me pitching to them.  I knew that because we did the same thing with J.P.'s group, the Dodgers, and I can vividly remember them struggling in the beginning of the fall season.  I also remember them picking it up, hitting well in the second half of the fall, and winning some games.  

The Junior Dodgers started the season 0-3.  The first game, the hitting was abysmal.  Joe had 1 of 2 hits.  It's worth pointing out here that a "hit" in the Rookie League - at least the way I score it - can be a ball that is hit through the infield (a rarity) or a ground ball that the batter legitimately beat out for an infield hit.  There aren't many 6 year old sluggers who can hit line drives into the outfield off the machine.

In games 2 and 3, the boys' hitting improved, as I knew it would.  They had begun to time the pitches and get the bat on the ball.  

Last Saturday, we played a buddy of mine's team (Andy Corts).  His boys were a little older than ours but no too skilled.  

To my delight, our boys really got the bats on track, from the top of the lineup to the bottom.  Remember, of course, that there is no real lineup on my teams at this age.  We bat the boys by their uniform numbers, lowest to highest one game, then highest to lowest the next game.  It makes for easier "dugout management," by far.  My bench coach appreciates it, I know.

Somehow, I've ended up running the machine for the Junior Dodgers.  Where have you gone, Dan "the Professor" Ayres?  It's good for a control freak like me but I die a little each time I strike a kid out and have to remind him to go back to the dugout as he stares out at me and that damn machine.  

Again, Saturday was different.  Two of my least skilled players, Noah and James, had legitimate hits their first time up.  I was thrilled!  Noah and his dad have worked their asses off since he first played for me last fall and had probably never held a bat in his hand.  He's improved tremendously.  James' father played baseball in college James doesn't appear to have touched a baseball before this fall.  To see him hit the ball down the third base line and scamper to first base, smiling, was tremendous.

Joe?  He's one of the youngest boys on the team, I think, but one of the most advanced in terms of actual baseball skills and hand-eye coordination.  Not the fastest and not the most athletic, by any means, but he has the strongest and certainly, the most accurate, throwing arm on the team.  Like his brother at that age, too, he is intense and understands the game.  

Joe wast the only player with two hits on Saturday.  He scored two of our five runs.  He also threw a kid out at first base.  The Junior Dodgers won, 5-0.  A shutout.  They celebrated like, well, 6 year olds as we ran into right field - as I've done so many times after so many baseball games - with J.P.'s Dodgers - for a brief post-game celebration.  It was cool.

Joe, or Joe "Dawg" Newman, as he's know by all on the baseball field.  Or, to me, just "Dawg."  

I'm proud of him.  

The Life Hack

When we got back from vacation out west in early August, I decided to embark on a 30-day life hack.     There was no real reason, but I thought it would be interesting to change my drinking and eating habits for 30 days, partially to see if I could do it and partially to change my lifestyle.  August 4 was my start date.

My initial plan was to give up alcohol for 30 days.  Not the end of the world, I thought, as I'm not a binge drinker by any stretch of the imagination.  I had fallen into the longtime habit, though, of having a beer or glass of wine most nights, certainly more nights that not.  I often had a glass of wine with dinner, or walked down to Edley's for a couple of beers after the boys went to bed.  Many times, I stopped by Edley's after a night run in the neighborhood.  Again, I rarely, rarely got drunk, but I rarely went more than a night or maybe two without having a drink of some sort.    

Then, I thought, I might as well give up bread, too.  And potato chips and french fries.  Hell, all potatoes.  And pasta.  And sweets and things with refined sugar (no Cliff bars, Balance bars, etc.).  

That, I thought, is raising the stakes a bit.  That, I thought, is a "life hack."  For me, anyway.  A 30-day life lack.

I didn't know if I could do it.  I didn't know how I would feel.  I didn't know if it would be hard.  I didn't want to blog about it.  I just wanted to see if I could do it.  For me.

And, as always, I was interested in the process.  I was very curious to see how difficult it would be and to see how it would make me feel.

My personality, I think, lends itself to all or nothing lifestyle adjustments.  This is probably a good time to mention that in my late 20's, I decided to see what it would be like to not eat meat or chicken for six weeks.  For no apparent reason, just to see if I could do it and to see what it was like.  Sound familiar?  I ate my first meat five plus years later - a hamburger at Brown's Diner.  You see what I mean?

So, how did the 30-day life hack go?  Swimmingly, to be honest.

Surprisingly, the alcohol prohibition was no big deal.  Especially at first, I missed the social aspect of having a drink at a bar.  Especially at Edley's, where the bartenders have become friends of mine.  I missed sitting at the bar, alone, and having a couple of beers while I quietly read that week's New Yorker magazine.  I did miss, just a bit, what I called the "two beer buzz," where I was able to take the edge off my workday or my worries about my mom, but not be impaired, intoxicated or drunk.

There's a line in a James McMurtry song - Hurricane Party - that speaks to that feeling.

The hurricane party's windin' down
and we're all waitin' for the end
And I don't want another drink,
I only want that last one again.

As for the change in my diet, once my body got adjusted to not eating bread, french fries, potato chips, etc., it seemed to stop wanting those kinds of foods.  Strangely, it became no problem to hand out to go burgers and fries from BurgerUp to Jude and the boys, knowing I wasn't eating fries and that I was just going to eat veggies.

Rather than wolfing down a sandwich an a half of a bag of chips on Saturday or Sunday for lunch, I ate what call "ham rollups."  Ham wrapped around a slice of cheese.

And, of course, no chips.  No more grabbing a handful of chips when I get home, right before dinner. No more snacking on Triscuits or Wheat Thins while I'm working late at night.  Really, for the most party, no more snacking after dinner.

What have I eaten?  A lot of salads.  Meat and cheese.  Almonds and other nuts.  High protein, low sugar/low car energy bars.  Chicken.  Burger patties with no bun.  Even a hot dog or two with no bun, of course.

How do I feel?  Really, really good.  I guess it's been kind of a gluten-free diet, thought not intended to be that way.  Kind of a Keto diet.  Kind of a Paleo diet.  Not in any formal way.

I ran 4 miles, effortlessly, at an 8:13 pace the other night.  That was cool and not because I'm running high mileage lately, because I'm not.

I'm wearing khaki pants I've not worn in a few years because they were little tight for me.  My suits pants are too big for me, which is comical but cool.  My shorts are big on me which, again, is comical but cool.  My dress shirts are looser at the neck when I put a tie on in the mornings for work.  And, I realized this morning, I've got maybe one or two pairs of jeans that actually fit.

Where do I go from here?

Well, I'm almost 50 days into the 30-day life hack.  I've eaten no bread, one popsicle, no pasta, no potatoes of any sort and no Cliff bars, etc.  I've a had a handful of beers and a drink or two, but that's it.

I like how I feel.  And that's important to me.  More important, I think, than returning to snacking and eating foods that aren't good for me.  Empty calories, so to speak.

I'm going to keep it up and if things ease up a bit at work, I think I might crank up the running and exercising to a higher level.  I'd kind of like to see what kind of shape I can get this 52 year old body in if I take a little better care of it and put a different kind of fuel in the tank.

Diminishing Expectations

More and more, when I arrive to see my mom in the Courtyard at NHC Place, she's sitting at her normal table, head nodded forward, asleep.  On weekend mornings, when I'm always there, it's quiet with no activities ongoing.  Sometimes, the television will be on, playing a box set of I Love Lucy, the Munsters or Andy Griffith.  But, from a staffing standpoint, it appears there is no activities person there on weekends.

In the beginning at Maristone and even when we moved my mom into Aspen Arbor at NHC Place, I would have been mortified to see my mom sitting in the common area, slumped over, asleep, nothing within reach to occupy her time.  In fact, I complained to the administration at NHC Place in her early days at Aspen Arbor about the inactivity on weekends.  For a while, one or two of the CNA's played dominos, cards or worked puzzles with the residents who were interested on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

In fact, I often thought to myself how sad it was when I arrived at Maristone or Aspen Arbor and saw a few of the residents slumped over, almost like they were very literally bored to death or had simply given up on life.  Or, maybe, that life had given up on them.

And, now, that's where I find my mom.  Slowly but inevitably, she has become one of those people who is bored to death, or closer to death, maybe, or has simply given up on life.  Or, maybe, life has given up on her.

The question that nags at me, that I can't stop considering is this - Have I given up on my mom?  Have we - Tracy, Alice and I - given up on my mom?

By not complaining to the administration at NHC and raising hell about the lack of planned activities on weekends, am I showing my mom I've given up on her?  Sometimes it feels that way.

Alzheimer's disease and the journey on which it has taken me, with my mom and my family, is strange.  And fascinating, in a way.  One thing I've discovered is that what I expect in terms of what my mom is doing on a daily basis - well, it diminishes over time.

She used to color in coloring books constantly when she first arrived at Maristone, for God's sake.  Not anymore.  She used to wheel herself all around Aspen Arbor and interact with the nurses and other residents.  Not anymore.

And, what I'm willing to accept in terms of how she is doing - it diminished over time, too.

I call it the law of diminishing expectations.  

It's sad and it breaks my fucking heart.

I wonder, sometimes, should I be there every day reading to my mom, insisting that she try to play games with me?  Should I be there every day taking her for walks all over the facility?  Should I be standing on a table in the Courtyard, jumping up and down, demanding more activities for the residents?  Should I be banging on the director's door and complaining about the lack of activities on weekends?

I don't how I can live my life, though, and be the attorney I need to be for my clients at work; and be the father I need to be and the husband I need to be; and be the coach of two baseball games I need to be; and be the friend I need to be; and be the runner I need and want to be; and find a new truck to buy now that mine, after 12 years and 214,000 miles is finally at the end of the road - how can I be and do all of those things and be at the Courtyard visiting my mom every day?

I think my mom would and did figure out how to do all of those things when she was caring for my grandmother and my Aunt Sara.  It sure seems that way, now, looking back.

I wish I would have asked her how she did.  I wish I would have asked her how she maintained some semblance of balance in her life.  I wish I would have asked her how she answered the nagging little voice in her mind that was telling her she wasn't doing enough.

But, I didn't ask her then.  And, now . . . well, now, she can't answer me if I do ask her.

A Morning to Remember

I had a long week at work, which left Jude with extra duty caring for the boys.  She's covered up in her new job, as well, so yesterday morning, we agreed I would take the boys to see my mom and run some errands.  That way, she could go into work to try and catch up on a few things.

Almost as an afterthought, I told the boys to pick out a book each to read to my mom, or Meemaw, as they call her.  After careful consideration, Joe picked out "The Bear Snores On."  J.P. selected one of my favorites, "The Night Gardener" (after I vetoed a book in "The Fly Guy" series, much to his chagrin).

When we arrived, my mom was sitting at a table in the common room, near the television, with Carol.  She and Carol normally sit together and take their meals together.  They're compatible, or so it seems, both laughing a lot and, as I've been told by staff, both with good appetites.  I think they would have been friends in a different life.  In fact, I'm sure of it.

Tracy, Alice and I have taken a liking to Carol.  I've given her an issue or two of the New Yorker, because she seems to enjoy reading it, or actually, looking at it.  It make me a little bit sad because I never see anyone visiting her.  I don't know if she has any relatives in town.  Perhaps they come during the week when I'm usually at work.  I hope so.

When we arrived, Joe read his book first.  Carol, especially listened raptly.  She marveled at how well Joe could read.  She asked J.P. two or three times how old Joe was.  My mom held down the edges of the pages so Joe could focus on his reading.  It was special, a shared moment between my mom and her youngest grandson.

It kills me, sometimes, to think that Joe will never get to experience my mom in her prime.  She would have loved Joe's personality, his sense of humor and even his stubbornness.  They would have gotten along famously and I think she would've taken a special interest in him as her youngest grandchild.

My mom used to keep J.P. for us on occasion, when he was 3 or 4, which seems like it was a lifetime ago.  And, I guess it was.  It's hard to believe she used to drive him to the Brentwood library to check out books and for story time.  I can still see him in the playroom floor when I arrived to pick him up in the afternoons, surrounded by all of the toys of my youth.  Now, the playroom is partially empty and partially full of boxes.  The house is devoid of spirit and life, as no one has lived there in almost two years.

As J.P. read his book to my mom and Carol, my mom reached over and held Joe's hand.  He looked at her and smiled.  They continued to hold hands while J.P. read his book.  I snapped a quick photo to capture the moment.

After the boys finished reading, they took turns rolling a styrofoam cylinder of some sort back and forth across the table to Carol, my mom and each other.  Every time the cylinder rolled over to my mom, she pried it open and looked at in wonder.  I gently took it away from her, pushed the edges back together rolled it across the table to Joe.  They kept this up for a few minutes as I watched contentedly.

We left after a while and stopped by to visit a friend of mine's father who is at NHC Place to recuperate from complications he suffered after a knee replacement.

I wonder what my boys will remember about their Meemaw.  I wonder what they'll take away from these visits with her near the end of her life.  I hope these visits are positively impacting them in some way.

My sister, Tracy, sent me a text yesterday after I described our visit in a short text (and video) I sent to she and Alice.  Below is what she said -

So sweet . . . love it.  Through these visits, you're instilling even more compassion, patience, selflessness, and love in these boys than most kids their age.  What a blessing that will serve them well, later in life.  

I hope she's right.  There's just no way to know what is the right thing to do in a situation like this.  There's no blueprint, no handbook.  All I can do is the best that I can.