I guess the transition with my mom to the Courtyard had been going a little too smoothly because things took familiar turn yesterday.
I stopped by to see my mom yesterday afternoon, Good Friday. I brought her some ice cream from Jeni's. I was looking forward to a nice, peaceful visit before I got an afternoon run in. I guess I'd let my guard down a bit, forgetting momentarily that the monster that is Alzheimer's disease waits for moments like that to renew its vicious attack on its unwitting and victims and their families.
It's a longer walk from the parking lot to the Courtyard that it was to Aspen Arbor and when I arrived, I entered the code and walked back to her room. The door was partially closed, so I walked in and was greeted by a "full Monty" shot of my mom sitting on the toilet, something I've not seen before and really didn't want to see. A CNA (certified nursing assistant) was helping her but didn't appear to be doing too good of a job of it. I stepped out, ice cream melting in the styrofoam, to go bowl, and waited in the hall. I chatted with another CNA briefly, then she stepped into my mom's room to help with her.
After a few minutes, they walked out and my mom was seated in her room, in a new wheelchair supplied by NHC Place. It has a taller back on it, which is good for her back pain because it provides more support. It's much heavier and bulkier than her old one, though, which limits her mobility. She can't propel it herself like she could with the old one.
The toughest part was my mom was highly agitated when I sat down in her room to visit with her. She was breathing hard, which is what she does when she's upset. She didn't want any ice cream and I was unable to distract her enough to get her calmed down. She was talking about wanting to "go downstairs," which she hasn't done in a while. I think that's the last vestige of her time at Maristone, when she lived upstairs and had to go downstairs to eat her meals. I heard that a lot from her after we moved her into Aspen Arbor at NHC Place, but hadn't heard it much since she had settled in there.
I pushed her in her wheelchair around the hall and back to her room, but still, I couldn't get her settled down. In the end, I wheeled her back up front, with the other residents, and left her at a table with another lady, eating ice cream supplied by a CNA. Go figure.
I don't know. I guess I was hoping we'd get a respite from the Alzheimer's monster, at least for a few weeks. I should have known better.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
10
JP turned 10 yesterday.
10, so hard to believe. He was so young, so very recently.
Last night, at bedtime, I actually pulled up the blog on my cell phone and read him the censored version of the what I wrote 10 years ago, the day he was born. I left out some of the parts about Jude's surgery. When I finished, he said "that was really good, Daddy." I smiled.
After he went to bed, I made a late night trip to the grocery store. When I got home, Jude told me JP had come down a few minutes earlier. He couldn't sleep and was a bit out of sorts. Among other things, he was worried about what his life would be like in 20 years. He was worried that Jude and I would be older. Interestingly, he also was concerned that he wouldn't be able to remember what it was like to be 10 when he was 20 years older.
He was worried about what comes next. Well, I'm worried about that, too. When I went upstairs and checked on him, he already had fallen back asleep.
JP's always had an old soul, seemingly from the very beginning. In many early photos, the expression on his face belies his age. At times immediately after he was born, I noticed in photos that it almost looked JP knew something that I didn't. It wasn't a seriousness, not really. It was more of a contemplative or knowing look, something in his eyes.
I tend to lean toward the nostalgic, perhaps too much so. I kind of hope he doesn't inherit the part of his dad's makeup, to be frank. Sometimes it's hard to live in the moment and enjoy the now if you're so close to memories from the past.
Also, at 10, I don't want him worrying too much about the future. That's like staring at the sun, you know. It can drive you crazy and, for sure, make it almost impossible to enjoy the present if you're worrying about what's to come. That's not something I do and I hope he can avoid doing it, too.
10, so hard to believe. He was so young, so very recently.
Last night, at bedtime, I actually pulled up the blog on my cell phone and read him the censored version of the what I wrote 10 years ago, the day he was born. I left out some of the parts about Jude's surgery. When I finished, he said "that was really good, Daddy." I smiled.
After he went to bed, I made a late night trip to the grocery store. When I got home, Jude told me JP had come down a few minutes earlier. He couldn't sleep and was a bit out of sorts. Among other things, he was worried about what his life would be like in 20 years. He was worried that Jude and I would be older. Interestingly, he also was concerned that he wouldn't be able to remember what it was like to be 10 when he was 20 years older.
He was worried about what comes next. Well, I'm worried about that, too. When I went upstairs and checked on him, he already had fallen back asleep.
JP's always had an old soul, seemingly from the very beginning. In many early photos, the expression on his face belies his age. At times immediately after he was born, I noticed in photos that it almost looked JP knew something that I didn't. It wasn't a seriousness, not really. It was more of a contemplative or knowing look, something in his eyes.
I tend to lean toward the nostalgic, perhaps too much so. I kind of hope he doesn't inherit the part of his dad's makeup, to be frank. Sometimes it's hard to live in the moment and enjoy the now if you're so close to memories from the past.
Also, at 10, I don't want him worrying too much about the future. That's like staring at the sun, you know. It can drive you crazy and, for sure, make it almost impossible to enjoy the present if you're worrying about what's to come. That's not something I do and I hope he can avoid doing it, too.
----------------------------------------------------
I was 41 years old when JP was born. Now, I'm 51. So much has changed over the last decade of my life. Much of it expected, I guess, buy much of it unexpected.
It's crazy, but I remember wondering when he was 3 or so if JP would ever be a sports fan, like his old man. Somewhere along the line, around age 4, the switch flipped and JP became hooked on sports.
He's his daddy's son, for sure. Just like me, he loves the Dodgers and the Lakers and would watch sports on television all day long, if we would let him. I worry sometimes because so much of his life revolves around sports. Playing sports, watching sports or reading about sports. Certainly, it's a currency that he and I can trade in and a language that we speak to each other.
JP fights me on it, but I really, really want him to be open-minded and try different things in life. I feel remiss in that I haven't gotten him into some type of music lessons. What I want for him, later in life, is to have the creativity that I think is only developed though expanding his mind in creative endeavors.
JP's a rule follower. I worry, sometimes, that he's a bit risk averse, like Jude. I want him to have the courage to take chances, to not be afraid to fail. We talk about that sometimes and I point out that no one achieves true success, that they earned, without taking risks.
It's interesting because he's a paradox in some ways. JP's sensitive, especially when it comes to other's feelings. He's very empathetic toward others. At the same time, however, he's tough. For example, in baseball, I never hesitate to put him in difficult, pressure filled situations. He has enough confidence and is tough enough to not let failure get him too down. I've brought him in to pitch late in games - when a walk or two will result in a loss - partly because I know he is tough enough to handle failing. Many of his teammates aren't that tough, so I don't want them to be crushed by failure in a key spot.
JP seems to perform well, maybe better, under pressure. In baseball, I can think of three or four occasions - one last fall - when he rocketed a line drive late in a game with two outs, two strikes, all while staring down a pitcher who is bringing the heat. Last fall, he struck out a ringer for the Oak Hill team - a player that played with us many years ago - with the bases loaded. The kid, Drake, is probably a foot taller than JP, and he punched him out in a key spot and we held on for the win. Those moments make me proud, as a father, because I'm not sure they can be taught.
JP's really taken to reading, a lot. That, of course, makes Jude and me extremely happy. I'm a voracious reader so it pleases me to no end to see him curled up on the couch, on his own, reading. I want to steer him into a little more fiction reading, I think, because he tends to read biographies or, especially, books about sports figures.
Every parent-teacher conference we've had at USN, where JP goes to school, has been revelatory in the sense that it reminds us what a great young boy he is. His third grade teacher couldn't praise him enough, academically and socially, when we met with her a couple months ago. He's so smart, in school, and so considerate of others. He's inquisitive and wants to learn. He follows directions, listens and just loves school. I love that about him.
I don't talk about it enough, but JP is maybe the best big brother ever to Joe. He lets Joe tag along with him and his friends, whether it's playing sports or hosting a sleepover. He plays with Joe all the time. He doesn't hit him - not ever - even when Joe gets frustrated or angry and slugs him. His tolerance and love for Joe are unbounded.
The bottom line, of course, is that Jude and I are so lucky. God has blessed us with this gift of a son, our oldest son, JP. These are the salad days with him, no doubt.
Happy 10th birthday, JP. My son, my oldest son. You have enriched my life in ways I never thought possible before you were born. I can't remember life before you and I can't imagine life without you. I'm proud of the boy you are, at 10, and I'm proud of the man you will become, already.
JP fights me on it, but I really, really want him to be open-minded and try different things in life. I feel remiss in that I haven't gotten him into some type of music lessons. What I want for him, later in life, is to have the creativity that I think is only developed though expanding his mind in creative endeavors.
JP's a rule follower. I worry, sometimes, that he's a bit risk averse, like Jude. I want him to have the courage to take chances, to not be afraid to fail. We talk about that sometimes and I point out that no one achieves true success, that they earned, without taking risks.
It's interesting because he's a paradox in some ways. JP's sensitive, especially when it comes to other's feelings. He's very empathetic toward others. At the same time, however, he's tough. For example, in baseball, I never hesitate to put him in difficult, pressure filled situations. He has enough confidence and is tough enough to not let failure get him too down. I've brought him in to pitch late in games - when a walk or two will result in a loss - partly because I know he is tough enough to handle failing. Many of his teammates aren't that tough, so I don't want them to be crushed by failure in a key spot.
JP seems to perform well, maybe better, under pressure. In baseball, I can think of three or four occasions - one last fall - when he rocketed a line drive late in a game with two outs, two strikes, all while staring down a pitcher who is bringing the heat. Last fall, he struck out a ringer for the Oak Hill team - a player that played with us many years ago - with the bases loaded. The kid, Drake, is probably a foot taller than JP, and he punched him out in a key spot and we held on for the win. Those moments make me proud, as a father, because I'm not sure they can be taught.
JP's really taken to reading, a lot. That, of course, makes Jude and me extremely happy. I'm a voracious reader so it pleases me to no end to see him curled up on the couch, on his own, reading. I want to steer him into a little more fiction reading, I think, because he tends to read biographies or, especially, books about sports figures.
Every parent-teacher conference we've had at USN, where JP goes to school, has been revelatory in the sense that it reminds us what a great young boy he is. His third grade teacher couldn't praise him enough, academically and socially, when we met with her a couple months ago. He's so smart, in school, and so considerate of others. He's inquisitive and wants to learn. He follows directions, listens and just loves school. I love that about him.
I don't talk about it enough, but JP is maybe the best big brother ever to Joe. He lets Joe tag along with him and his friends, whether it's playing sports or hosting a sleepover. He plays with Joe all the time. He doesn't hit him - not ever - even when Joe gets frustrated or angry and slugs him. His tolerance and love for Joe are unbounded.
The bottom line, of course, is that Jude and I are so lucky. God has blessed us with this gift of a son, our oldest son, JP. These are the salad days with him, no doubt.
Happy 10th birthday, JP. My son, my oldest son. You have enriched my life in ways I never thought possible before you were born. I can't remember life before you and I can't imagine life without you. I'm proud of the boy you are, at 10, and I'm proud of the man you will become, already.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Settling In (Again)
A quick one over coffee 6:15 a.m. coffee at 8th & Roast before Jude, the boys and I catch a flight to Tampa this morning, then drive over to Sarasota to stay with my longtime friend, Mike Corley, and his wife, Stacy.
We got my mom moved yesterday at NHC Place, from Aspen Arbor to the Courtyard. Tracy and Alice did the heavy lifting, although I reviewed and signed the contract after seeing my mom briefly in the morning. Tracy handled the pre-admission paperwork, which was necessary because the Courtyard is, for all intents and purposes, a part of long-term care at NHC Place. As I've said previously, it's more hospital-like.
One of the benefits of the move is that my mom will have a hospital bed in her room. Whether she will sleep in it is another story. Hopefully, she will, and the pressure ulcer on her butt will start to heal with treatment because she won't be sitting so much.
Tracy stayed with her last night. At bedtime, she sent Alice and me a photo of my mom tucked into her bed. Comfortably? Maybe not, in her bed nonetheless. One day - or night - at a time, I guess.
The move went well and my mom seemed to adjust okay, at least so far. The staff at the Courtyard appear to be excellent. If that continues, it will be a big relief. One thing I've learned during this process is how much I rely on a staff member or two who really seems to care and take an interest in my mom. I think I latch on to one or two of those types of people to keep me in the loop and to make me feel a little better about her circumstances.
Tracy and Alice did a great job getting her room set up. They've been spot on with that since she moved into Maristone in November 2016, Aspen Arbor in October 2017 and, now, the Courtyard.
It's funny and a little sad, but I rarely have any telephone or in-person conversations with Tracy or Alice that don't involve my mom. Typically, it's who is stopping by to see he and when, how she was doing when one of saw her, what a nurse or caregiver told us, etc. I miss being able talk about other things with them.
Alzheimer's seems to bring us, as a family, closer together in some ways, but also drives us farther apart. We have so few normal moments we can enjoy together, where the specter of the disease is not hanging over our heads or on our minds.
That being said, we work together as a team. It's comforting for me to know I can count on Tracy and Alice. It just is.
Now, back to the house to finishing packing for sunny (hopefully) Florida. It's 35 degrees outside!
We got my mom moved yesterday at NHC Place, from Aspen Arbor to the Courtyard. Tracy and Alice did the heavy lifting, although I reviewed and signed the contract after seeing my mom briefly in the morning. Tracy handled the pre-admission paperwork, which was necessary because the Courtyard is, for all intents and purposes, a part of long-term care at NHC Place. As I've said previously, it's more hospital-like.
One of the benefits of the move is that my mom will have a hospital bed in her room. Whether she will sleep in it is another story. Hopefully, she will, and the pressure ulcer on her butt will start to heal with treatment because she won't be sitting so much.
Tracy stayed with her last night. At bedtime, she sent Alice and me a photo of my mom tucked into her bed. Comfortably? Maybe not, in her bed nonetheless. One day - or night - at a time, I guess.
The move went well and my mom seemed to adjust okay, at least so far. The staff at the Courtyard appear to be excellent. If that continues, it will be a big relief. One thing I've learned during this process is how much I rely on a staff member or two who really seems to care and take an interest in my mom. I think I latch on to one or two of those types of people to keep me in the loop and to make me feel a little better about her circumstances.
Tracy and Alice did a great job getting her room set up. They've been spot on with that since she moved into Maristone in November 2016, Aspen Arbor in October 2017 and, now, the Courtyard.
It's funny and a little sad, but I rarely have any telephone or in-person conversations with Tracy or Alice that don't involve my mom. Typically, it's who is stopping by to see he and when, how she was doing when one of saw her, what a nurse or caregiver told us, etc. I miss being able talk about other things with them.
Alzheimer's seems to bring us, as a family, closer together in some ways, but also drives us farther apart. We have so few normal moments we can enjoy together, where the specter of the disease is not hanging over our heads or on our minds.
That being said, we work together as a team. It's comforting for me to know I can count on Tracy and Alice. It just is.
Now, back to the house to finishing packing for sunny (hopefully) Florida. It's 35 degrees outside!
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Another Moving Day
I'm struggling to regain some semblance of equilibrium in my life as my mom continues her inexorable descent to the end of the line. My emotions are frayed and my mind is numb. As I told Jude over the weekend, I'm no angry anymore. I'm just deeply and irredeemably sad. Not some of the time, all of the time.
We're moving my mom to the Courtyard today, out of Aspen Arbor. It's just down the hall at NHC Place but it seems like it's a world away. The Courtyard is on the long-term care side of the building, so the setting is more "institutional." Aspen Arbor was much more homey and comfortable, for my mom and for us. The residents at the Courtyard are generally in worse shape than the residents at Aspen Arbor. Almost all of them are in wheelchairs and many don't speak much, if at all.
Among my many worries are concerns about whether a lack of interaction with other residents will accelerate my mom's mental decline. The problem is that they just can't care for her anymore at Aspen Arbor. She's wheelchair bound, incontinent and it takes more than one person to transfer her to the toilet. And she has the pressure ulcer, which can be treated daily at the Courtyard. Their is a nurse present all the time and more staff.
The move is the best thing for her, I know, but the transition is going to destroy her, I fear. And I leave for spring break in Sarasota, FL, tomorrow with Jude and the boys. Shit.
She is going to miss some of her friends at Aspen Arbor and I sure as hell am going to miss them, too. The staff has been kind to her and us. I always thought I would return to Maristone to visit, but I never have. I hope I return to Aspen Arbor, but I don't know if I will. Seeing her room, empty and devoid of her presence by the end of the day will probably knock me to my knees emotionally. Ah, man, this is so fucking hard.
I surreptitiously nailed the framed photograph of my mom to the wall outside her room in Aspen Arbor a few weeks ago, to help her remember which room was hers.
A last glimpse of my mom's room at Aspen Arbor. What you can't see is the bird feeder outside that Tracy hung next to the window. My loved to watch the birds flit up to it, peck at the safflower cylinder and fly off.
We're moving my mom to the Courtyard today, out of Aspen Arbor. It's just down the hall at NHC Place but it seems like it's a world away. The Courtyard is on the long-term care side of the building, so the setting is more "institutional." Aspen Arbor was much more homey and comfortable, for my mom and for us. The residents at the Courtyard are generally in worse shape than the residents at Aspen Arbor. Almost all of them are in wheelchairs and many don't speak much, if at all.
Among my many worries are concerns about whether a lack of interaction with other residents will accelerate my mom's mental decline. The problem is that they just can't care for her anymore at Aspen Arbor. She's wheelchair bound, incontinent and it takes more than one person to transfer her to the toilet. And she has the pressure ulcer, which can be treated daily at the Courtyard. Their is a nurse present all the time and more staff.
The move is the best thing for her, I know, but the transition is going to destroy her, I fear. And I leave for spring break in Sarasota, FL, tomorrow with Jude and the boys. Shit.
She is going to miss some of her friends at Aspen Arbor and I sure as hell am going to miss them, too. The staff has been kind to her and us. I always thought I would return to Maristone to visit, but I never have. I hope I return to Aspen Arbor, but I don't know if I will. Seeing her room, empty and devoid of her presence by the end of the day will probably knock me to my knees emotionally. Ah, man, this is so fucking hard.
I surreptitiously nailed the framed photograph of my mom to the wall outside her room in Aspen Arbor a few weeks ago, to help her remember which room was hers.
A last glimpse of my mom's room at Aspen Arbor. What you can't see is the bird feeder outside that Tracy hung next to the window. My loved to watch the birds flit up to it, peck at the safflower cylinder and fly off.
Dreams
The night before last, I had a spellbinding dream, one of those dreams that seems to last forever. Maybe is lasted five minutes, maybe it last a few hours. I don't know. I woke up once and as is the case with those type of dreams, I consciously and successfully fell back asleep so I could continue the dream.
In the dream, Tracy and I were driving with my mom, location and destination unknown to me. I was driving and we all were as we are now, my mom in her current state, although I think she could walk and her physical disability wasn't as pronounced as in real life. There was no wheelchair anywhere to be seen.
Here's the thing - we were lost. I recall trying to navigate using my cell phone as I drove, but I just couldn't get accurate directions to where we wanted to go. My mom was beside me in the car - it was a sedan - and Tracy was in the back seat, trying to help me navigate. None of us were particularly upset. We were just confused and, well, lost. I kept missing turns and it felt like, at times, that I was driving near downtown, on the interstate, in a strange city. I didn't know which interstate or bypass to take.
We stopped at a stranger's house and, somehow, she got in the front seat on the driver's side of the car, with my mom between us. As she tried to give us directions, my mom gently pawed at her hair, shoulder and chest. The woman was relatively tolerant but a little surprised, until I told her my mom had Alzheimer's. She nodded and looked knowingly and sympathetically at me.
At some point, perhaps after the rain woke me up briefly and I fell back into the dream, we were all riding a bicycle, still lost. I was steering and pedaling, Tracy was behind me giving me directions and my mom was on the back of the bicycle. I was terribly afraid she would fall off, but somehow she didn't.
I found myself pedaling the bike in the grass along side a road I knew I needed to be on, but I couldn't get to it. I was on the wrong side of a chain link fence that seemed to have no discernible end. I couldn't find a way to get us onto the road. I felt helpless.
In the last scene of the dream before I woke up, the three of us were sitting in a booth in a restaurant. My mom was beside me. She looked at me and said plaintively and a wistfully, "I want to go home."
She said it again. "I want to go home."
"I know you do, mom," I said. "I know you do."
I woke up as the dream ended. it was 3:00 a.m. I got out of bed and walked around our house in the silence and darkness, determined to remember as many details of the dream as I could.
What did it mean? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
I want my mom to go home, too.
Friday, March 16, 2018
Saying Goodbye to New Friends Who Became Old Friends
Yesterday, Tracy, Alice and I had a meeting at NHC Place to discuss transitioning my mom from Aspen Arbor to the Courtyard. This will be her third move in the past 16+ months, not ideal for someone with Alzheimer's, but unavoidable given her rapid decline physically.
Tracy and Alice also saw the room into which we're going to move mom. We agreed it needs some work to be ready for her, things like painting, switching out the dresser, repairing a closet door and resurfacing the floor. NHC Place was encouraging us to move her in immediately and wanted me to sign the contract, so she could immediately begin paying of the room. We felt rushed because we were being rushed.
After we left, the three of us spoke and agreed for me to send an e-mail with a list of the work we wanted to be done before we moved mom into the room. I sent the e-mail, then spent the morning on the telephone or e-mailing with NHC administrators in an effort to sort everything out. It was a bit of a delicate balance because I did not want mom to lose the private room. At the same time, the new room will be her home - maybe her last home - so it needs to be "move-in ready" and she doesn't need to be paying for it until it is.
Ultimately, I think we reached a resolution and the work we requested is going to be done, hopefully by Monday. One thing I have learned about assisted living facilities as we've been on this journey with mom is that the squeaky wheel gets oiled, and it gets oiled first. If you don't advocate, strongly, for your loved one - who likely doesn't have a voice - he or she will not get the best care available. Sometimes - hell, most times - you simply cannot take "no" for an answer.
I joked with Tracy and Alice in a text that it seems like, as a rule, I'm the War Department, Tracy is the State Department and Alice is the Department of the Interior. Or something like that.
Circling back to what's on my mind this afternoon, I asked about Mr. Tom when we visited the Courtyard to look at mom's new room. I wondered if he was there or, if not, if he had been moved upstairs to long-term care. I was told that he had died a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, after he left Aspen Arbor and moved briefly into the Courtyard, he continued to decline rapidly. He was moved upstairs and dies shortly thereafter.
A couple of weeks ago, I received an e-mail from Cynthia Beck, a friend we had made while mom was at Maristone. Her mother-in-law, Ms. Charlotte, moved into Maristone the same day mom did back in November 2017. That seems like a lifetime ago, for so many different reasons.
Ms. Charlotte was mom's breakfast/lunch/dinner table companion, which was helpful, because I quickly learned that no one should sit with the wrong group in the dining hall. It was like junior high school all over again and Ms. Charlotte was a great comfort to mom at time when she was unsure of herself as she tried to adjust to new surroundings for the first time in 46 years. The other ladies weren't too nice to mom, at least at first, and for a time, she was scared and anxious about eating meals in the dining hall. It was heartbreaking to see mom so timid and afraid. She and Ms. Charlotte immediately hit it off - both were from Jackson, Tennessee - and they share almost every meal together.
Cynthia and her family shared most of our concerns about the care at Maristone and we communicated regularly in an effort to improve things there, even after we moved mom to NHC Place. Charlotte's health took a turn not too long after mom left Maristone in October 2017 and she was hospitalized. She died, ironically enough, in NHC Place where she was rehabilitating, about two weeks ago.
I called Cynthia yesterday and told her how sorry I was and how much I had enjoyed getting to talk to and know, just a little bit, Ms. Charlotte. She was a sweet lady, in a wheel chair all of the time, which is exactly where mom is now. Too much irony in my life today.
It's strange, the way as family member of a loved one who is in an assisted living facility, you form bonds so quickly with other residents and their families. I think the intensity of the bond is due in part because we're all trying to navigate uncharted waters. Also, we're all dealing with this tangled mess of emotions as we face what is in all likelihood a completely hopeless situation. We're all angry, sad, confused, anxious, scared, nostalgic, depressed, worried, resigned and, at rare times, happy.
Then, suddenly, someone dies and their family disappears from your life forever. It's strange, for sure.
Ms. Charlotte and Mr. Tom were friends to my mom, separately, at times when she really needed a friend. I'll never forget that and I'll never forget them. God bless you both.
Tracy and Alice also saw the room into which we're going to move mom. We agreed it needs some work to be ready for her, things like painting, switching out the dresser, repairing a closet door and resurfacing the floor. NHC Place was encouraging us to move her in immediately and wanted me to sign the contract, so she could immediately begin paying of the room. We felt rushed because we were being rushed.
After we left, the three of us spoke and agreed for me to send an e-mail with a list of the work we wanted to be done before we moved mom into the room. I sent the e-mail, then spent the morning on the telephone or e-mailing with NHC administrators in an effort to sort everything out. It was a bit of a delicate balance because I did not want mom to lose the private room. At the same time, the new room will be her home - maybe her last home - so it needs to be "move-in ready" and she doesn't need to be paying for it until it is.
Ultimately, I think we reached a resolution and the work we requested is going to be done, hopefully by Monday. One thing I have learned about assisted living facilities as we've been on this journey with mom is that the squeaky wheel gets oiled, and it gets oiled first. If you don't advocate, strongly, for your loved one - who likely doesn't have a voice - he or she will not get the best care available. Sometimes - hell, most times - you simply cannot take "no" for an answer.
I joked with Tracy and Alice in a text that it seems like, as a rule, I'm the War Department, Tracy is the State Department and Alice is the Department of the Interior. Or something like that.
Circling back to what's on my mind this afternoon, I asked about Mr. Tom when we visited the Courtyard to look at mom's new room. I wondered if he was there or, if not, if he had been moved upstairs to long-term care. I was told that he had died a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, after he left Aspen Arbor and moved briefly into the Courtyard, he continued to decline rapidly. He was moved upstairs and dies shortly thereafter.
A couple of weeks ago, I received an e-mail from Cynthia Beck, a friend we had made while mom was at Maristone. Her mother-in-law, Ms. Charlotte, moved into Maristone the same day mom did back in November 2017. That seems like a lifetime ago, for so many different reasons.
Ms. Charlotte was mom's breakfast/lunch/dinner table companion, which was helpful, because I quickly learned that no one should sit with the wrong group in the dining hall. It was like junior high school all over again and Ms. Charlotte was a great comfort to mom at time when she was unsure of herself as she tried to adjust to new surroundings for the first time in 46 years. The other ladies weren't too nice to mom, at least at first, and for a time, she was scared and anxious about eating meals in the dining hall. It was heartbreaking to see mom so timid and afraid. She and Ms. Charlotte immediately hit it off - both were from Jackson, Tennessee - and they share almost every meal together.
Cynthia and her family shared most of our concerns about the care at Maristone and we communicated regularly in an effort to improve things there, even after we moved mom to NHC Place. Charlotte's health took a turn not too long after mom left Maristone in October 2017 and she was hospitalized. She died, ironically enough, in NHC Place where she was rehabilitating, about two weeks ago.
I called Cynthia yesterday and told her how sorry I was and how much I had enjoyed getting to talk to and know, just a little bit, Ms. Charlotte. She was a sweet lady, in a wheel chair all of the time, which is exactly where mom is now. Too much irony in my life today.
It's strange, the way as family member of a loved one who is in an assisted living facility, you form bonds so quickly with other residents and their families. I think the intensity of the bond is due in part because we're all trying to navigate uncharted waters. Also, we're all dealing with this tangled mess of emotions as we face what is in all likelihood a completely hopeless situation. We're all angry, sad, confused, anxious, scared, nostalgic, depressed, worried, resigned and, at rare times, happy.
Then, suddenly, someone dies and their family disappears from your life forever. It's strange, for sure.
Ms. Charlotte and Mr. Tom were friends to my mom, separately, at times when she really needed a friend. I'll never forget that and I'll never forget them. God bless you both.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Into the Depths
This one is hard to write.
Small consolation that I'm sitting in 8th & Roast, sipping a latte. By coincidence, or not a coincidence at all, I'm in the same seat or maybe a seat or two away from where I was when I originally posted about moving my mom to Maristone. Strange, for sure, but that's simply where things are right now.
I am supposed to be on a flight to Vegas right now, for my annual trip with my law partner, Mark and Chas, and assorted friends, to watch the first 2 rounds of the NCAA basketball tournament. We look forward to the trip all year as a reward, of sorts, for how hard we work - together - and as a bit of a celebration of what we have built - also together - over the last 20 years.
After speaking at length last night with my sister, Tracy, and one of my mom's best friends, Patti Sparks, I realized I could not, in good conscience, fly out of Nashville this morning for 4 days and nights of fun. It wouldn't be fair to Tracy and Alice and, in truth, it wouldn't be fair to my mom.
I was in the middle of mediating a case yesterday when Tracy texted me, apologized for the interruption, and asked me to call her. At a break, I did, and she told me that Hertha Hines (the Community Relations Director at NHC and our main point of contact there) has just told her that mom couldn't stay at Aspen Arbor any longer. To put it succinctly, Hertha said that her physical condition had declined to the point that the staff couldn't safely care for her. Hertha suggested moving mom to the Courtyard or upstairs to long-term care.
As I stood outside the back door of my office in Franklin, shivering in unseasonably cold March weather, I struggled to find my equilibrium and process what Tracy was telling me. Part of my mind was on the mediation inside my office, where the parties were waiting on me, and the rest of my mind, and all of my heart, were with my mom. I got off the telephone with Tracy, went back inside my office, put on a happy face (which I seem to do quite a bit lately) and helped the parties settle their case a few hours later.
After the mediation was over, I called Hertha Hines a couple of times, left messages, and rushed over to NHC to try and get there before she left. I wanted her to give me a tour of the units where she was recommending we move my mom and let me see a couple of rooms. At that point, I felt like I needed to see for myself where she likely would be moving before I could make participate meaningfully in making the best decision for her. All while trying to pack and head out of town this morning.
As I met with Hertha and got the tour I requested, my emotions were conflicted. Questions bounced haphazardly in my head.
Was a move being recommended for my mom so NHC could charge her more money per month? Both of the units there were recommending are almost twice as expensive as where she is now. In other words, was it a money grab?
Was a move being recommended for my mom because I had sent an e-mail to her - one that was not responded to - a week or so ago asking again when a new activities director was going to be hired for Aspen Arbor?
Was a move being recommended for my mom because Tracy had been working with Hertha Hines to get a hospital bed put in my mom's room to encourage her to lay down and allow the pressure ulcer to heal?
Did the staff at Aspen Arbor just not want to deal with my mom any longer? Were they being lazy?
I was (and am) a bit suspicious, skeptical and, sadly, a bit cynical. Part of that, I think, is a product of being a lawyer for 25 years.
I walked into Aspen Arbor to visit my mom and give her a chocolate chip cookie I picked up for her at Frothy Monkey that morning. She was sitting, in her wheelchair, interacting with 4 other ladies at a table who were finishing dinner. She looked up and smiled when she saw me, the reached out and stroked my goatee.
"You need to shave," she said. I laughed. A couple of the other ladies at the table that I know laughed too, and fussed over me and the fact that I was visiting my mom. I wheeled her into her room and we looked out her window - at a beautiful mid-March evening - and watched the birds flitting on and off the bird feeder Tracy set up a few weeks ago. It was a peaceful yet melancholy moment. I knew what was coming. My mom had no idea.
We said in silence for a moment or two, like a couple of old friends, content with each other's company. Just watching the birds.
My mom said, "I wonder how many birds there are out there?"
"Thousands," I replied.
"I bet you're right," she said.
Then, more silence. A good kind of silence.
I told her goodbye, kissed her on the top of her head, and walked out of her room for one of the last times before we move her.
On the way out, I stopped to talk to Amber, one of the caregivers I like and really appreciate. I wanted to talk with her and get an unvarnished opinion of what was best for my mom. I wanted that opinion from someone who is not part of the management team at NHC, someone with no - or at least not as much of - an agenda.
Strikingly, Amber seemed almost relieved when I asked her about my mom. There was a look in her eyes like she had been waiting for one of us to ask her what she thought. What I learned from her was not entirely unexpected but it was still very difficult to hear.
The staff can't at Aspen Arbor can't properly care for my mom anymore. It takes two, sometime three of them to transfer her to the bathroom. She's completely incontinent. She can't walk and her leg is so contracted she will never walk again. Wanda, my favorite caregiver at Aspen Arbor and a 17-year NHC employee, hurt her shoulder - not seriously - trying to transfer my mom to the bathroom over the weekend. Lastly, my mom is, by far, the least functional resident of Aspen Arbor, from a physical standpoint.
There it was, the straight dope. Fuck, it was hard to hear.
On the way home, I called my friend, Mike Matteson, whose stepmother has been a resident of the Courtyard for many years. He sent me a helpful text later. I talked to Jude when I got home. To close the circle, I went for a long walk after the boys were in bed. I called Patti Sparks and my sister, Tracy.
We're going to move her to the Courtyard. I have some reservations about it but it's the best things for her, overall, I think. And hope.
As I talked to Tracy last night, I realized I wouldn't feel right going to Vegas. There's too much going on here with my mom. Too much to do. I need to help prepare her for the move and get her new room ready for her. I need to be here when my mom melts down, in a state of confusion, as I knew she will when we move her. I can't leave that all on Tracy.
After I finished my call with Tracy and started to walk home, in the cold, I felt better. Less guilt and planning to occupy mind.
I wish there was something to occupy my broken heart.
Small consolation that I'm sitting in 8th & Roast, sipping a latte. By coincidence, or not a coincidence at all, I'm in the same seat or maybe a seat or two away from where I was when I originally posted about moving my mom to Maristone. Strange, for sure, but that's simply where things are right now.
I am supposed to be on a flight to Vegas right now, for my annual trip with my law partner, Mark and Chas, and assorted friends, to watch the first 2 rounds of the NCAA basketball tournament. We look forward to the trip all year as a reward, of sorts, for how hard we work - together - and as a bit of a celebration of what we have built - also together - over the last 20 years.
After speaking at length last night with my sister, Tracy, and one of my mom's best friends, Patti Sparks, I realized I could not, in good conscience, fly out of Nashville this morning for 4 days and nights of fun. It wouldn't be fair to Tracy and Alice and, in truth, it wouldn't be fair to my mom.
I was in the middle of mediating a case yesterday when Tracy texted me, apologized for the interruption, and asked me to call her. At a break, I did, and she told me that Hertha Hines (the Community Relations Director at NHC and our main point of contact there) has just told her that mom couldn't stay at Aspen Arbor any longer. To put it succinctly, Hertha said that her physical condition had declined to the point that the staff couldn't safely care for her. Hertha suggested moving mom to the Courtyard or upstairs to long-term care.
As I stood outside the back door of my office in Franklin, shivering in unseasonably cold March weather, I struggled to find my equilibrium and process what Tracy was telling me. Part of my mind was on the mediation inside my office, where the parties were waiting on me, and the rest of my mind, and all of my heart, were with my mom. I got off the telephone with Tracy, went back inside my office, put on a happy face (which I seem to do quite a bit lately) and helped the parties settle their case a few hours later.
After the mediation was over, I called Hertha Hines a couple of times, left messages, and rushed over to NHC to try and get there before she left. I wanted her to give me a tour of the units where she was recommending we move my mom and let me see a couple of rooms. At that point, I felt like I needed to see for myself where she likely would be moving before I could make participate meaningfully in making the best decision for her. All while trying to pack and head out of town this morning.
As I met with Hertha and got the tour I requested, my emotions were conflicted. Questions bounced haphazardly in my head.
Was a move being recommended for my mom so NHC could charge her more money per month? Both of the units there were recommending are almost twice as expensive as where she is now. In other words, was it a money grab?
Was a move being recommended for my mom because I had sent an e-mail to her - one that was not responded to - a week or so ago asking again when a new activities director was going to be hired for Aspen Arbor?
Was a move being recommended for my mom because Tracy had been working with Hertha Hines to get a hospital bed put in my mom's room to encourage her to lay down and allow the pressure ulcer to heal?
Did the staff at Aspen Arbor just not want to deal with my mom any longer? Were they being lazy?
I was (and am) a bit suspicious, skeptical and, sadly, a bit cynical. Part of that, I think, is a product of being a lawyer for 25 years.
I walked into Aspen Arbor to visit my mom and give her a chocolate chip cookie I picked up for her at Frothy Monkey that morning. She was sitting, in her wheelchair, interacting with 4 other ladies at a table who were finishing dinner. She looked up and smiled when she saw me, the reached out and stroked my goatee.
"You need to shave," she said. I laughed. A couple of the other ladies at the table that I know laughed too, and fussed over me and the fact that I was visiting my mom. I wheeled her into her room and we looked out her window - at a beautiful mid-March evening - and watched the birds flitting on and off the bird feeder Tracy set up a few weeks ago. It was a peaceful yet melancholy moment. I knew what was coming. My mom had no idea.
We said in silence for a moment or two, like a couple of old friends, content with each other's company. Just watching the birds.
My mom said, "I wonder how many birds there are out there?"
"Thousands," I replied.
"I bet you're right," she said.
Then, more silence. A good kind of silence.
I told her goodbye, kissed her on the top of her head, and walked out of her room for one of the last times before we move her.
On the way out, I stopped to talk to Amber, one of the caregivers I like and really appreciate. I wanted to talk with her and get an unvarnished opinion of what was best for my mom. I wanted that opinion from someone who is not part of the management team at NHC, someone with no - or at least not as much of - an agenda.
Strikingly, Amber seemed almost relieved when I asked her about my mom. There was a look in her eyes like she had been waiting for one of us to ask her what she thought. What I learned from her was not entirely unexpected but it was still very difficult to hear.
The staff can't at Aspen Arbor can't properly care for my mom anymore. It takes two, sometime three of them to transfer her to the bathroom. She's completely incontinent. She can't walk and her leg is so contracted she will never walk again. Wanda, my favorite caregiver at Aspen Arbor and a 17-year NHC employee, hurt her shoulder - not seriously - trying to transfer my mom to the bathroom over the weekend. Lastly, my mom is, by far, the least functional resident of Aspen Arbor, from a physical standpoint.
There it was, the straight dope. Fuck, it was hard to hear.
On the way home, I called my friend, Mike Matteson, whose stepmother has been a resident of the Courtyard for many years. He sent me a helpful text later. I talked to Jude when I got home. To close the circle, I went for a long walk after the boys were in bed. I called Patti Sparks and my sister, Tracy.
We're going to move her to the Courtyard. I have some reservations about it but it's the best things for her, overall, I think. And hope.
As I talked to Tracy last night, I realized I wouldn't feel right going to Vegas. There's too much going on here with my mom. Too much to do. I need to help prepare her for the move and get her new room ready for her. I need to be here when my mom melts down, in a state of confusion, as I knew she will when we move her. I can't leave that all on Tracy.
After I finished my call with Tracy and started to walk home, in the cold, I felt better. Less guilt and planning to occupy mind.
I wish there was something to occupy my broken heart.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
The Wrong End of the Quickening
It's a bit of a strange Sunday morning, as I sit alone in Honest Coffee Roasters at the Factory in Franklin. I'm customer no. 1, probably because daylight savings time started last night (spring forward . . . ) and people are stirring an hour late today. The Factory is quiet, which fits my mood. Quiet and contemplative.
I've been coming here a lot lately. The coffee is fantastic and the people are nice. It's hard to explain, but sometimes there is a vibe in a coffee house that makes me feel like I can stop in and stop time for a half hour or 45 minutes, sort of recharge my batteries and get myself centered to start or finish a long day. A part of me needs that right now and I can't get it at Bongo Java anymore, which is another story for another day.
The work space in the Factory is unique. Wide open, lots of tables with people collaborating on projects throughout the day. I guess this is the new economy in some sense, the new way business gets done.
Friday afternoon, I slipped away from work - prepping for a deposition on Monday - and took mom some ice cream from Jeni's. Ndali Estate Vanilla and Milkiest Chocolate. I was swamped, as usual, at work, but something told me I needed to see my mom, so I did. She loved the ice cream. I mean, really loved it. I think it was a rare treat for her and maybe, just maybe, it dislodged some lost memory or fired a sensory input that reminded her happier times. I'd like to think her mind flashed back, however briefly, to eating ice cream on hot summer days as a child or with us at Baskin Robbins when we were children.
It was a pleasant visit, just the two of us. As she ate her ice cream, I noticed she seemed to be a bit subdued. It's hard to explain but or to put my finger on, but somehow the light in her eyes was dimmer in a noticeable way. She seemed weary, I guess is how I would put it. It's so hard to see a woman who was so vibrant, with a larger than life personality - always laughing, joking and kidding - be reduced to this person she is now.
There are times when I still rail internally against the unfairness of it all, like the fact that so many women her age - so many of her peers and friends, in fact - are still active, involved and just living life. And because she lost the genetic lottery, one I may lose as well, she's reduced to living out her final days in a state of confusion and relative solitude as what is left of her memory leaks away every day.
I know - I really know - I can't go to that place in my mind because it's simply not productive or healthy to think and feel that way, not for more than a few moments. It's like staring at the sun as a child. You know you shouldn't do it, but it's hard not to just the same, at least for a second or two.
Tracy validated my fears when she sent a text last night to update us on her visit to see mom yesterday afternoon. A couple of the regular caregivers told Tracy that mom seemed tired and that she had not been motoring around in her wheelchair like she normally does. She's slipping away from us, I'm afraid, and it breaks my damn heart.
I would give everything I own to have one more conversation with her, like we did every day before the cruel thief that is Alzheimer's disease began to steal her away from us, piece by piece. Just one more time to call her, to hear her laugh at something funny I said. To take about the latest sports news or to share with her something JP or Joe had said or done.
Sometimes this is so hard.
I've been coming here a lot lately. The coffee is fantastic and the people are nice. It's hard to explain, but sometimes there is a vibe in a coffee house that makes me feel like I can stop in and stop time for a half hour or 45 minutes, sort of recharge my batteries and get myself centered to start or finish a long day. A part of me needs that right now and I can't get it at Bongo Java anymore, which is another story for another day.
The work space in the Factory is unique. Wide open, lots of tables with people collaborating on projects throughout the day. I guess this is the new economy in some sense, the new way business gets done.
Friday afternoon, I slipped away from work - prepping for a deposition on Monday - and took mom some ice cream from Jeni's. Ndali Estate Vanilla and Milkiest Chocolate. I was swamped, as usual, at work, but something told me I needed to see my mom, so I did. She loved the ice cream. I mean, really loved it. I think it was a rare treat for her and maybe, just maybe, it dislodged some lost memory or fired a sensory input that reminded her happier times. I'd like to think her mind flashed back, however briefly, to eating ice cream on hot summer days as a child or with us at Baskin Robbins when we were children.
It was a pleasant visit, just the two of us. As she ate her ice cream, I noticed she seemed to be a bit subdued. It's hard to explain but or to put my finger on, but somehow the light in her eyes was dimmer in a noticeable way. She seemed weary, I guess is how I would put it. It's so hard to see a woman who was so vibrant, with a larger than life personality - always laughing, joking and kidding - be reduced to this person she is now.
There are times when I still rail internally against the unfairness of it all, like the fact that so many women her age - so many of her peers and friends, in fact - are still active, involved and just living life. And because she lost the genetic lottery, one I may lose as well, she's reduced to living out her final days in a state of confusion and relative solitude as what is left of her memory leaks away every day.
I know - I really know - I can't go to that place in my mind because it's simply not productive or healthy to think and feel that way, not for more than a few moments. It's like staring at the sun as a child. You know you shouldn't do it, but it's hard not to just the same, at least for a second or two.
Tracy validated my fears when she sent a text last night to update us on her visit to see mom yesterday afternoon. A couple of the regular caregivers told Tracy that mom seemed tired and that she had not been motoring around in her wheelchair like she normally does. She's slipping away from us, I'm afraid, and it breaks my damn heart.
I would give everything I own to have one more conversation with her, like we did every day before the cruel thief that is Alzheimer's disease began to steal her away from us, piece by piece. Just one more time to call her, to hear her laugh at something funny I said. To take about the latest sports news or to share with her something JP or Joe had said or done.
Sometimes this is so hard.
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
Gravity Falls
I'm sitting in Muletown Coffee in Columbia for a quite minute or two before a mediation that I suspect will last all day. I love coming down here for work, especially on a day as beautiful as this one.
I had a long talk with my sister, Tracy, about my mom late last week. She's declining fairly rapidly. She has developed a pressure ulcer on her lower back or butt which, as I understand it, is caused by her being wheelchair bound. I'm sure her sleeping in a chair doesn't help. Medicare won't pay for physical therapy because her condition has plateaued. As a result, she rarely stands and is sitting all of the time. Thus, the pressure ulcer.
The bigger problem is that the pressure ulcer will rupture and become infected at some point. That likely will be a game changer and may result in my mom being transferred to a different part of the facility with even less freedom than she has now. Depressing in part because it's apparently inevitable.
NHC Place may have a hospital bed we could put in her room. We'd have to remove the daybed, of course. The hope would be that she would lay in the hospital bed for a little while each day to take the pressure off her butt. Sadly, I can't see her doing that because she doesn't like to lay down. As usual with Alzheimer's and the way the disease ravages the mind and body, there are questions but no answers.
Switching gears, JP and I had a nice visit with my mom on Sunday afternoon. When we arrived, she was watching television with Wanda, one of the caregivers. She was agitated, though, and remained the way as we rolled her, in her wheelchair, outside in the courtyard to give her some fresh air. I gave her a cookie I picked up that morning from 8th & Roast, a neighborhood coffee shop.
As she ate the cookie and stared at JP, my mom visibly perked up. Like the son peeking out from behind a cloud, she began smiling. I saw a little bit of her personality - what little there may be left - as she reached out to JP and held his hand, talking to him quietly. Ever the concerned grandparent, she repeatedly asked him if he was warm enough or if he wanted a bite of her cookie.
I'm not sure JP ever will realize how much it means to me for him to occasionally accompany me on these visits to see my mom. He'll be grateful, one day, that he spent a few minutes here or there with her in her last conscious day, I think. It's a comfort to me to have him there, especially because his presence seems to stir a part of my mom's soul and bring her personality back to life, albeit briefly.
Now, off to work. It's time to think about someone else's problems.
I had a long talk with my sister, Tracy, about my mom late last week. She's declining fairly rapidly. She has developed a pressure ulcer on her lower back or butt which, as I understand it, is caused by her being wheelchair bound. I'm sure her sleeping in a chair doesn't help. Medicare won't pay for physical therapy because her condition has plateaued. As a result, she rarely stands and is sitting all of the time. Thus, the pressure ulcer.
The bigger problem is that the pressure ulcer will rupture and become infected at some point. That likely will be a game changer and may result in my mom being transferred to a different part of the facility with even less freedom than she has now. Depressing in part because it's apparently inevitable.
NHC Place may have a hospital bed we could put in her room. We'd have to remove the daybed, of course. The hope would be that she would lay in the hospital bed for a little while each day to take the pressure off her butt. Sadly, I can't see her doing that because she doesn't like to lay down. As usual with Alzheimer's and the way the disease ravages the mind and body, there are questions but no answers.
Switching gears, JP and I had a nice visit with my mom on Sunday afternoon. When we arrived, she was watching television with Wanda, one of the caregivers. She was agitated, though, and remained the way as we rolled her, in her wheelchair, outside in the courtyard to give her some fresh air. I gave her a cookie I picked up that morning from 8th & Roast, a neighborhood coffee shop.
As she ate the cookie and stared at JP, my mom visibly perked up. Like the son peeking out from behind a cloud, she began smiling. I saw a little bit of her personality - what little there may be left - as she reached out to JP and held his hand, talking to him quietly. Ever the concerned grandparent, she repeatedly asked him if he was warm enough or if he wanted a bite of her cookie.
I'm not sure JP ever will realize how much it means to me for him to occasionally accompany me on these visits to see my mom. He'll be grateful, one day, that he spent a few minutes here or there with her in her last conscious day, I think. It's a comfort to me to have him there, especially because his presence seems to stir a part of my mom's soul and bring her personality back to life, albeit briefly.
Now, off to work. It's time to think about someone else's problems.
Saturday, March 3, 2018
The Buzzer Beater
Last night, JP's basketball team played their first game in the WNSL's end of season "March Madness" tournament. I'm fairly certain it was the most exciting basketball game I've ever watched JP play. That's how it felt, anyway, from my vantage point at the scorer's table at J.T. Moore MS.
The opposing team - the Warriors - seven deep, appeared to be older than us. They certainly were taller than all off our players, except for, maybe, Wes T. and Benton W. In fact, before the game, one of our mothers believed me when in response to to a question from her about how old the boys on the other team were, I said "seventh graders." Our boys are in fourth grade (JP is in third grade), but they've been playing up against fifth graders the last half of the WNSL winter basketball season.
The Warriors took control early, especially when they began to run a full court press. As was the case last Saturday, our guards panicked a bit and threw the ball away repeated on attempted half or full out baseball style passes. I've said for a couple of years that any player who attempt a baseball pass should be immediately benched, because not one of them is strong enough to execute one safely and correctly. It's a turnover, nine times out of ten. Last night was no different.
Fortunately, the Warriors had only one ball handler, maybe two, and they struggled mightily against our press, "full court diamond." JP, as always, was tough on defense. What he lacks in foot speed, he makes up for in effort. He had several steals, deflections or held balls and spent almost as much time on the floor as he did upright. That's JP.
For our boys, no one was hitting any shots in the first, except for Wes T., Chris's son. He kept us in the game, and at halftime, the boys were down 16 - 12.
In the second half, our boys turned up the defensive pressure a bit. JP threw in a 10-foot bank shot from the right side, unintentionally using the glass. He looked a little bit like Perry County's Mike Rhodes at Vanderbilt when I was a kid.
Wes continued to play like a horse, and the boys rode him hard. J.D., one of the brightest kids I know, fed Wes 3 or 4 times with perfect bounce passes in the paint. I was proud of Wes, because he was posted up and demanding the ball time and again, which runs counter to his easygoing personality. We've worked with Wes on posting up strong, turning into his man and taking the ball right up and into him, rather than falling away and throwing up a prayer as he often does. I've told Wes not to look to pass, but to look to score.
A little bit about Wes - I've coached him in baseball since he was 5, fall and spring. Great boy, good natured, easy going, almost always smiling. There's a little bit of Stevie Hamer in him at this point in that I'm not sure he enjoys being the tallest kid on the team and all that comes with it. His dad, Christ, is 6'5" or 6'6", tall and thin, so Wes is going to be tall, too. His personality is such that he normally doesn't have that unquenchable desire to dominate a basketball game. If he can consistently find that, he'll be a force.
He found it against the Warriors and he was a force. Their boys - several of whom were Wes's size - didn't know what to do with him. He pounded the boards relentlessly, often getting second and third shots. He played hard on defense, blocking shots and getting after loose balls. He was intense, which was beautiful to see. Simply put, he was unstoppable. Our boys knew it and the other team knew it. Amazing.
It was nip and tuck down the stretch and it looked like we would lose a close one. Wes committed an ill advised foul late in the game - his fifth - at mid-court when he reached across a ball handler's body to swipe at the ball. He raised his arms in astonishment when the referee blew the whistle. It was right in front of me and it was a good call. He had tears in his eyes as he walked dejectedly to the bench. Ballgame? Not that night.
Our boys tied the score with less than 20 seconds left, then committed a foul that sent one of the Warriors to the line with 8 seconds left in the game. Their player hit the first free throw, then missed the second one. Winn got the rebound and called timeout. The team waiting to play behind us on the bleachers must have known some of our boys because they were stomping on the bleachers and chanting "LET'S GO 'DORES!!" It was loud.
The referees should have given us the ball at mid-court after the timeout, but didn't, so our boys were forced to inbound it underneath the Warriors' basket. Winn took the inbounds pass with 8 seconds left and dribbled through a full court press as time wound down. Winn has, without question, has the most basketball sense of any player on the team. He dribbled up the left side of the court, then drove to the foul lane, where he was double teamed. He calmly spun, completely aware of how much time was left on the clock - about 2 seconds - and passed the ball to Cullen on the right baseline. Cullen caught the ball and, with no hesitation, put up an 8-footer as time expired.
Swish. I knew the ball was going in as soon as it left his hand and it did. 'Dores with by 1! The players on the bench mobbed the players on the floor and crowd, as they say, went wild. The referees walked off the court, shaking their heads in admiration, knowing they had been part of a special game. Chris raised his hands in jubilation, looked at me and smiled, then began congratulating the boys. It was a win for the ages and one I'll always remember.
The final line on Wes, according to my scorebook, was 16 points and 13 or 14 rebounds. A double-double, the first I can remember any of our players having. Just a tremendous, winning effort.
What a night.
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