So Long, Mr. Tom

Not too long ago but, in some ways, a lifetime ago, my mom became friends with Mr. Tom, another residence of Aspen Arbor at NHC Place.  For a time, my mom and Mr. Tom seemed to latch on to one another, like two new kids in school.  There's no way to know for sure, of course, but I think making friends with Mr. Tom settled my mom and perhaps eased her transition from Maristone to NHC Place.

For a time, whenever I stopped by my mom and Mr. Tom were almost always sitting at one of the dining room tables together, talking or just sitting quietly.  I think by giving her someone to feel she was taking care of, Mr. Tom helped my mom find her footing a little bit and rekindled a tiny part of her soul that makes her who she is - a caregiver to all.  Her children and grandchildren, first and foremost.  Her family.  Her friends.  And, her patients in her work as a nurse.  She always seemed to be looking out for him, trying to share her food with him, especially when I brought her cookies, donuts, etc.

There even were occasions when I stopped by to see her and because she was so engrossed in a conversation with Mr. Tom - not in the traditional sense - that I left without talking to her.  She seemed relatively happy and content talking or sitting with him and I didn't want to screw that up by interrupting the two of them.  It was a bit of a weird feeling.  I remember thinking that it felt a little bit like my mom didn't need us as much, since she had become friends with Mr. Tom.

They always ate together, sometimes the two of them and sometimes with one or two others at a table of four.  I often wondered who my mom really thought Mr. Tom was because she never said anything to me about it.  She might have thought he was her husband or maybe our longtime next door neighbor and one of her best friends, Mr. Gilley, with whom she spend many a morning or afternoon in the 80's and early 90's, drinking coffee at our kitchen table.

Last weekend, I noticed Mr. Tom seemed paler and weaker when I visited and sat down at a table with my mom and him.  He wasn't as communicative, which is saying something because he never said a lot other than to always warmly smile and return my greetings.  I wondered if he was sick.

Yesterday morning, when I visited my mom, Mr. Tom was nowhere to be seen.  I asked Alicia, the nurse, about him and she confirmed he had been transferred to a skilled care unit at NHC Place.  Mr. Tom fell earlier in the week and was briefly hospitalized.  When they brought him back, he wasn't eating or drinking much either.  Transferring him was a good move for him and his family, and I'm going to say a prayer for him tonight.

So long, Mr. Tom.  Thank you for being a friend to my mom when she needed one the most.

This journey into the world of Alzheimer's disease that we're on with my mom is such a strange one.  At time like this, when I'm not held hostage my emotions and what feels like the injustice of it all, the rational part of my mind is intellectually curious about how the puzzle of her life fits together.  Yes, the fact that it's a journey of no return for my mom is heart breaking.  Still and all, it is a journey we're all on together.  And what's the purpose of a journey if you don't take some time along the way to look at your surroundings and spend a little time in the towns you're passing through.

"It's not the destination, it's the journey."  Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Mom and Joe

I took this photo last Saturday, when Joe and I visited my mom.  It makes me smile and it breaks my heart.

Fear the Beard

In years past, I didn't shave from Thanksgiving to January 2nd.  Sometimes I grew a full beard and kept it until the New Year.  Other times, I shaved the beard and wore a goatee over the holidays.  On a rare occasions, I even had a mustache for a day or two.  Many of our family Christmas cards have a photo of me with some form of facial hair.  It didn't necessarily look good - in fact, it probably looked bad - but it growing a beard over the holidays was something I always did.  It was my thing.

Fast forward to the last 3 or 4 years.  Now, every wanna be hipster or millennial in Nashville has a beard.  There are long, long beards (I can't imaging having one of those).  There are all forms of styled beards and goatees.  There are guys who shave once a week, so they almost always have a face full of stubble.

The point is, as soon as it became cool to grow beards - all of the time - I went the other way, probably because I'm a contrarian by nature.  I stopped growing a beard after Thanksgiving every year and just shaved every day.  The clean shaven look.  That was what was in for me.  J.P. and Joe weren't happy, though, because they always like it when I grow a beard.  I'm not sure why, exactly, but they do.

When we were set to go to Santa Rosa Beach, Fl, for vacation in early August, I didn't shave the week before we left or the entire week we were at the beach.  When we got back, the boys begged me not to shave and to the let the beard go for a while.  I agreed, much to their delight and much to Jude's non-delight.  Jude hates it, and I mean really hates it, when I grow a beard.  Of course, that's secretly part of the fun of it for me.

At some point in the early fall, I went to The Moose - a male grooming lounge on Music Row - for a beard trimming.  It's a cool place, for sure, and I've been there on occasion in the past.  They have leather chairs in the waiting room and flat screen televisions showing sports or financial news.  Best of all, you can have a beer or a shot of bourbon while you wait.  Perfect.  I asked the stylist to shave the beard and leave me with a goatee.  He obliged and I was set.

Around Thanksgiving, Jude, the boys and I went to visit my mom at NHC Place.  When we walked into Aspen Arbor, we saw her and she immediately said, "there's my son."  It was pretty cool that she recognized me because so often since we moved her into assisted living in November 2016, she confused me with my father, Howard Newman.  I've written about this before, but I grew to dread the part of every visit where I had to tell her I wasn't her husband, but that I was her son.  Nearly every time, she would grow confused first, then sad and disappointed when I tried to explain to her that I was married to Jude and had two boys, J.P. and Joe.  It was disheartening for me and like the worst version of the movie, "Groundhog Day."

After the visit, Jude told me she thought my mom recognized me as her son because of the goatee.  My father never had a goatee or, at least, he sure as hell never had a goatee with as much gray in it as mine has, since he died at 30 years of age.  "Wow," I thought.  "Maybe Jude is right."  So I kept the goatee, and returned to The Moose every few weeks for a trim.

I'm not sure if its a coincidence or not but my mom hasn't confused me with my father in a very, very long time.  I don't think it's happened at all since she moved into NHC Place, from Maristone, in October 2017.  That's been a huge relief to me, just knowing that I don't have to break my mom's heart every time I see her by telling her I'm not her husband.

Some days - actually, a lot of days - I'm tired of the goatee and I want to shave it off.  I've never had a beard or goatee for this long.  Other days, it's kind of fun and I'm glad I have it.  Every time I threaten to shave it, the boys scream "NO!"  The other night, Joe told me that having a goatee made me look exactly the right age, 51.  He also said that if I shaved it, I would look too young, like 35.  I almost shaved it the next morning because I could sure as hell handle looking (and feeling) like I was 35 years old again.

For now, the goatee stays.  For how long, I have no idea.

The Heat Check and a Little Brother Who Thinks He's Steph Curry

Yesterday, in the second game of an early morning basketball doubleheader at JT Moore MS, J.P. took his first visit to "the zone," and he took me along with him as I watched from the scorers' table.

In a game the boys ended up losing, J.P.'s teammate, Braden, hit his team's first basket.  The next time down, J.P., playing wing, took a pass from Cooper, dribbled to his left, then shot a 10-footer.  In it went.  The very next time down the court, Cooper fed J.P., who was a little deeper on the left wing this time.  Without hesitation, J.P. let a 12-foot jumper fly.  Nothing but net!  I could hear Marv Albert in my head screaming "Yessssssssss!"

I turned to Jude and Joe, sitting to my right behind me, and yelled "heat check!"  Jude looked puzzled and only understood later, after I explained to her what a "heat check" was in basketball.  Joe got it, and later told Grandma and Grandpa about J.P.'s "heat check" game.

Our boys rebounded the ball and headed down court again, setting up the offense.  On a designed play, J.P. ran the baseline and set up on the left side.  Braden fed him the ball and I was almost on my feet - ignoring the fact that I really shouldn't cheer or coach from the scorer's table - as he let fly 15-footer.  The ball hit the rim, rattled and fell through the net.  His third basket in a row.  His teammates were standing on the sideline, screaming.  Our fans behind me were cheering.  I looked back at Jude and Joe and yelled, loudly this time, "HEAT CHECK!!!!"

J.P. ran back down the court to get in position to play defense, an impassive look on his face, complete devoid of emotion.  That's when I knew he was in "the zone," that place in sports, especially basketball, where time slows down or stands still, there is no sound, the basketball feels natural in your hands and the basketball goal looks as big as at the ocean.  You have no idea what the score is or how much time is left on the clock.  Every shot you take feels like it's going to go in and they all do.

I've been there, but as an average athlete, only a handful of times.  The most memorable was during an early morning basketball game at Cedar Springs Presbyterian Church in Knoxville during my third year of law school, 25 years ago.  Thankfully, my friend and fellow lawyer, Carl "P." Spining was there to witness it.  Every time we discuss it, he still shakes his head in disbelief at how hot I was that morning.  I never experience anything like that in basketball again.  For one morning in one game, anyway, I knew what it felt like to play the best basketball I was capable of, and I still remember the feeling.

That's were J.P. was yesterday morning, even though he might not realize it.  Cooper fed him again the next time his team had the ball and J.P. took his fourth consecutive shot, which rimmed out.  It's probably for the better, because my head would have exploded if he had hit four in a row.  Simply amazing.

Joe and I went to visit my mom after J.P.'s second basketball game.  We watched "Planes" with her for a little while, then drove back to the house so Joe could change clothes for his game.

Our close friends, Russ and Susannah Allen, brought J.P. and their son, Cooper, to Joe's game at Eakin ES.  Joe was very, very excited to have Russ there, who coaches J.P.'s team.  As I've said before, I think, Russ is Joe's unofficial godfather.  Joe idolizes him and Russ loves him like a second son.

Joe was a little down early and complained to me on the bench that no one was passing him the ball.  I pointed to the scoreboard and reminded him that basketball was a team game and that his team was leading 8-2.  It's hard to explain to a 5 year old that basketball at that age doesn't involve a lot of passing.  He rallied emotionally after a rough patch and was fine.

Early in the second half, Joe ended up with a loose ball and dribbled up the right side of the court.  Dribbling at that age, mind you, is a loose term, as almost all of the boys (especially and including Joe) dribble two or there times, grab the ball and take a couple of steps, then dribble again.  The referees are indulgent but great at stopping play and teaching the boys how to play properly.

Joe drove toward the basket, in a little traffic and pulled up from five or six feet away, and shot the ball toward the 8-foot basketball goal.  It went in, a "no doubter," and he celebrated as he ran back up court in imitable Joe fashion.  He looked up at the crowd, pointed at Russ who was sitting to he top row of the bleachers, and waves his fingers in what he believes is the "money sign."  Then, Joe looked over at me on the bench, held his hands above his head, brought them together, and pretended to "stir the pot and cook it up" - James Harden's signature celebratory move.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mH6h2TKDN6k

I couldn't stop laughing.  I looked like Russ was going to fall out of the bleachers.  Jude just shook her head, smiling.

A minute or two later, Joe stole the ball and drove up court again, this time all alone with defenders chasing him.  Rather than drive down the right side of the lane for an uncontested layup, he pulled up from 10 feet or so and shot a jumper on the run.  Just like Steph Curry.  It rimmed out, of course, and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

That's Joe in a nutshell.  Enthusiastic, self-confident, exuberant and completely with a lack of self-awareness when he's playing sports that will serve him well, I think.  Beautiful.

It's Sunday morning and I'm sitting in my usual spot at the Frothy Monkey.  I'll pack up my laptop now and head down to see my mom.  It's a beautiful, warm January day outside, with people already wearing shorts.  That's nice after the snow, ice and single digit temperatures from last week.

The Short Answer

With winter weather approaching - or at least what passes for it in Nashville - Independence HS moved their basketball games against Brentwood HS, my alma mater, from tonight (Friday) to last night (Thursday).  They also moved the games from Independence to Brentwood, which worked great for me because it meant I could swing my Brentwood HS on my way home and watch my niece and goddaughter, Kaitlyn, play basketball.

Kaitlyn has been a four year started at point guard, which is interesting, because neither Gary nor Tracy are particularly athletic.  Watching Kaitlyn play high school basketball has been a joy of mine, although I haven't gotten to see her play as much as I would have liked.  This year, her senior year, I've committed to seeing as many of her games as I possibly can.

Kaitlyn loves the game of basketball, although her love of the game has waned a bit over the last couple of years due for reasons I won't go into high now.  This is my view from afar and my view only, but Kaitlyn's love affair with basketball ended prematurely.

Several years ago, before she was in high school, I nicknamed Kaitlyn "the Short Answer," in a transparent attempt to convince her to shoot more.  If Allen Iverson was "the Answer," I wanted Kaitlyn to be "the Short Answer."  Although I still wish she would shoot a little more, she is the consummate point guard.  She has great court vision, is an exquisite passer and almost always makes the right play.  She's an excellent ball handler.  She plays hard on defense and is almost always in the right place at the right time.  What she may lack in quickness or athletic ability, she makes up for with a high basketball I.Q., near perfect positioning and a keen sense of anticipation.

In many ways, she's the basketball player I always wanted to be but never was when I played many, many years ago.

Kaitlyn probably could play basketball for a small college - at least I think so - but I think she's ready to be finished with basketball.  I think she wants to focus on her studies in college and, really, just being a college student.  There's nothing in the world wrong with doing that, particularly since playing basketball in college would take up an inordinate amount of time.  She's a brilliant student and is looking at academic scholarship money wherever she goes to college which, of course, is fantastic.  To say I'm proud of her would be an understatement.

Her Independence HS girls' team has struggled this season, as in the past three seasons.  They have a new coach.  Hopefully, they'll finish strong in district play and maybe win a couple of games.

Okay, back to the game against Brentwood HS.  It was her team's best game of the season at least among the games I've seen.  I was proud, really proud, of how hard Kaitlyn and her teammates played.  They were playing against a better team, for sure, that was better coached.  Still, they fought hard and actually had the ball down by four points at the end of the first half.  Rather than wait for the last shot of the half, however, one of her teammates drove the lane and missed a shot early in the shot clock.  A player from Brentwood HS rebounded the ball, drove up court and was fouled as she made a layup.  Just like that it was halftime and Independence was down by seven, when they could have cut the lead to two points with better clock management.

The second half was similarly well played.  Independence HS fell behind by double digits early, then Kaitlyn and the other guards began trapping Brentwood HS's ball handlers as soon as they crossed midcourt with the ball.  The result of their aggressive defense was several turnovers by Brentwood HS and the lead quickly evaporated with Independence HS cutting it to four, then two points.  Kaitlyn and her teammates could never get over the hump, though, and ran out of gas midway through the fourth quarter.  Kaitlyn fouled out and Brentwood HS pulled away, ultimately winning by 10 points or so.

The officiating was objectively horrendous.  Because the game had been moved to Thursday night, the regular TSSAA officials weren't available and there was one, maybe two, fill in referees.  We were sitting almost directly behind the Independence HS bench, along with several family members of Kaitlyn's teammates.  As the one referee - who clearly was a fill in - continued to make bad call after bad call against Independence HS, I got angrier and progressively louder in voicing my displeasure.  I wasn't the only one complaining about the officiating but, in truth, I may have been the loudest.

At one point, after a bad call, I yelled "When do the real referees get here!?!"  That drew laughs from the crowd and, it turns out, a few players, too.

After I got home after the game, my brother-in-law, Gary, called me.  He told me that in the locker room, after the game, some of Kaitlyn's teammates were asking whose father was the one in the suit yelling during the game.

"That's not someone's father," Kaitlyn said.  "That's my uncle."

"He was awesome," the girls replied.

And I've been chuckling about it ever since.  

Diminished

I'm sitting in the library at NHC Place after visiting with my mom for a little while.  I often stop by the library after I see her.  It's quiet - there's never anyone here - and it's a good place for me to collect my thoughts and get in a better frame of mind before I leave.

It's not a particularly large room, so it's cozy and most importantly, peaceful.  There are a pair of yellow, comfortable wing back chairs, with lamp in between, that I like to sit in and read.  There's a table in the middle of the room with four chairs, where I'm sitting right now.  There's also a couple of small desks with a computer on one of them.  Best of all, there are built in bookshelves filled with books for residents to read.  I think that's what I like best about the room.

I brought donuts today, as I often do on Sunday mornings when I visit.  I sat with my mom and 4 other ladies at a table and chatted.  They all ate donuts, which made me happy.  It was interesting to watch my mom and the lady sitting next to her - whom I don't know - interact and try to clean the donut glaze chips off each other after they were finished.  My mom, ever the nurse and caregiver, showed the lady how to put the brakes on her wheelchair so she could stand up and brush herself off.

My mom isn't strong enough to stand up on her own anymore, not by a long shot.  In fact, Alicia - the nurse in Aspen Arbor - offhandedly mentioned today that my mom had eaten breakfast a little late because it had taken two caregivers to rouse her and get her up this morning.

My mom seemed diminished today.  Smaller and thinner.  Weaker and more helpless.  She was in a good mood and seemed content, unlike yesterday.  That was nice, of course.  Still, I can't shake the feeling that time is running for her.  I don't t think she is going to be with us much longer.  I have a strong sense that God is not going to let her linger here, on earth, helpless and unable to recognize or communicate with anyone.  Maybe I'm wrong, but I think that's going to be his gift to her and to us.

It's hard to believe that almost exactly a year ago, she was able to attend a few of Kaitlyn's basketball games, walking with a cane, no less.  She was able to follow, generally, what was going on and to cheer when Kaitlyn's team played well.  Now, she can't get our of her wheelchair or go to the bathroom without assistance.  That's hard to fathom and hard to accept, for me, anyway.

Now, I'm going to drive to Nashville and go to church at St. Patrick.  I'm scheduled to do the second reading today.  I'll get through my reading and put on a false smile for my boys to disguise how sad I feel and how much I miss the mom I used to know before Alzheimer's stole her from me and my family.

2017 in Review

In 2017, I've written a lot about my mom's declining health, the toll Alzheimer's disease has taken on her and the impact of her ordeal on me and my family.  Yes, it's been a dark year for me at times but not all of the time.  For today, I thought I'd post only happy memories from 2017.

To steal a line from retired former Nashville Banner sportswriter Joe Biddle, below, in no particular order, are some "random ruminations while wondering whatever happened to John Jefferson . . . "  Okay, not really ruminations but happy memories for me.

• Thanks to the generosity of friends like the Allens, Sweeneys and Wrights, we discovered Seven Hills Pool and spent a few quiet, lovely late afternoons and evenings there as guests.  Seven Hills is a neighborhood swimming and tennis club that I fell in love with from the minute we walked in the doors this summer.  For me, it was like climbing into a time machine and setting the dials for the Brentwood Dolphin Club in 1978.  It felt like home.  On several occasions, we took the boys there and had dinner with our "baseball friends," watched the kids' swim together and jump off the diving board and had a beer or two.  

• Jude and I devoured the S-Town (Shit Town) podcast, by This American Life's Brian Reed.  I think my friend, Doug Brown, turned me on to it.  Soon, several of our "baseball friends" listen to it, as well.  Jude and I spent several nights discussing the protagonist, John B. McLemore.    

• Before we moved my mom from Maristone to NHC Place - which was at the best thing that happened to me all year long - I made a habit of stopping by my mom's place during the work day to see her.  Often times, I stretched out on the long couch in her apartment and napped for 20 or 30 minutes, a soap opera playing quietly on the television.  My visits with her were a temporary oasis in the midst of my hectic, stressful life.  I miss those naps on her couch.

• Our trip to Santa Rosa beach was a highlight of the year, as always.  The Allens were staying on 30A at the same time, so hanging out with them made it even better.  I'm a little sad we'll miss the beach the end of this summer, though, since we're headed to Utah to vacation with Jude's college friends.

• Baseball.  The Dodgers and Junior Dodgers.  In the spring, I coached 19 boys on two teams (4, 5 and 6 year olds with Joe) and, as 13 on the Dodgers (JP's 9-10 year olds).  In the fall, I coached two teams only with most of the same kids.  There were lots of baseball highlights for J.P. and Joe.  In our final game of the fall season, at a key moment, J.P. hit a line drive that almost broke the pitcher's arm.  It was scary, for a moment, but amazing when we realized that the pitcher was okay.

• I've always run, but I began to make running more of a priority in my life in 2017, particularly the last part of the year.  I'm hoping that continues into 2018.

• The Predators.  Damn, their run to the Stanley Cup Finals (vs. the Pittsburgh Penguins) may have been the sports highlight of my life.  I saw every home playoff game in person.  The entire state - hell, the entire region - adopted the team and reveled in their success.  It was amazing to be a part of it, for sure.  

• Lots and lots of reading.  Jacksonland by Steve Instep, The Force by Don Winslow, The Hidden Light of Northern Fires by Darren Wang, Flight of Passage by Rinker Buck, We Were Eight Years in Power:  An American Tragedy by Ta-Nehisi Coates and Bluebird, Bluebird were notable.  

• I've written at length about Tom Petty's death and how profoundly it affected me.  For one thing, I vowed never to miss another show I want to see.  The cool thing, though, is the way J.P. and Joe have become such big Petty fans in the aftermath of his death.  The last three months, it's almost all we listen to in my truck.

• Musically with the boys, it was a huge year for Kraftwerk.  For some reason, one morning at breakfast, I played a couple of songs from Computer World on Alexa and the boys were hooked.  We wore that album out for several months, especially as Joe and I drove him to school every day.  When Chris Reber and were listening to that album on the way to Franklin High School in 1982, riding in his VW Bug, I never though I'd be listening to to it 35 years later with my sons.  

• Bonnaroo, as always, was a good part of my year.  Doug Brown making a cameo appearance made it even better.  My friend, Paul Jennings, generously allowed us to stay in his cabin in Monteagle, which was perfect.

There's more.  There's always more, but those are a few of my fonder memories from 2017.