The Past is the Present

Chris Reber, a longtime friend of mine, reached out to me this week.  He and his family were coming into town from Fort Wayne, Indiana, to see his mother, Martha, and he wanted to visit my mom.  Of course, I said, and we agreed to meet at NHC Place to see her on Saturday morning.

By way of background, Chris and I have been friends since 7th grade or, for 40 years, if any of you are keeping score at home.  We've not been as consistently close as I have been with others, like Doug Brown and Mike Matteson, but our lives certainly have intersected over the years and, when that happens, we pick up like we never missed a beat.

His father, Dave, coached me in football and was someone I was very fond of.  Dave had a tough go of it in later years before he died, but he always seemed to pop up in my life in unexpected ways.  His stop-mother, Carol - she and Dave were married for a time in the 1980's and early 1990's - was and is a close friend of my mom's.

Chris was always very close to my mom.  In his inimitable way, Chris often stopped by our house during high school to see my mom - whether I was home or not - and to help himself to the snacks my mom kept in the pantry.  Zingers, Twinkies, Ho-Ho's, King Dons, etc.  If Hostess made it, it was in our pantry and fair game to forays by Chris (and other friends) when he stopped by our house.

Chris and I, and our families, have a shared history.  It's just that simple.  And he was always - always - one of my mom's favorites.  She adored Chris.

So, yesterday morning, Chris and Dean Moyer - another longtime friend of mine from our Northside Junior High School days - arrived at NHC Place at 8:45 a.m.  I met them, individually, up front, and walked them back to see my mom, who was still in bed eating breakfast.  Chris brought a box of Hostess Ding Dongs, apropos for sure.

My mom was in a good mood and her face lit up when she saw them.  I don't think she recognized them, but she knew that she knew them, if that makes sense.  More importantly, she knew that they loved her.  Chris and Dean lavished attention on her and she laughed as they joked with her and kidded her.  Chris and Dean are funny together, a way that only old friends can be.

It was a powerfully emotional morning for me and, after we said our goodbyes to my mom, I was a bit overwhelmed by, well, a lot of things.  I cried as I drove to J.P.'s baseball practice.  Tear of sadness  mixed with tears of appreciation and happiness, too.  I'm still trying to process my emotions today and understand why I was so profoundly affected by their gesture.  

What I can say this morning, though, as I finish my coffee at Portland Brew and get ready to head down to see my mom, is the fact that Chris and Dean would take the time to go see my mom meant everything to me.

Some Days are Diamonds

Thursday morning, I had a mediation that canceled, so I unexpectedly had a little extra time on my hands.

I stopped in to see my mom on my way into the office, a little after 9 a.m.  When I got to NHC Place, she wasn't in the main sitting room with most of the other residents.  I walked back to her room and she was still in bed, although the bed was raised up, and she had just finished breakfast.  She was disheveled but alert and it appeared she had eaten a full meal.

She wasn't as talkative as she normally is and I'm beginning to think that may be the new normal.  My mom has always been so verbal - a communicator - so it's going to be tough for me, I think, if that's changed.  I take after her in that way.  People always know what she thinks, about anything, and where they stand with her.  Right or wrong, that's me, too.

One of the CNA's I know was in the room, too, getting ready to get her out of bed and dressed.  I asked her if she could give us a few minutes to visit and she agreed.  Mom seemed a little uncomfortable and was fidgeting, so I lowered her bed and put a pillow behind her head.  She still wasn't talking much.

Because I couldn't help myself, I asked her, "Mom, do you know who I am?"

She stopped fidgeting, looked up at me and laughed.  "Of course I know who you are, you idget.  You're Phil Newman."

I smiled, through tears, stayed for a few minutes, then kissed my mom on the top of her head and left for work.

As Tom Petty wrote, "Some days are diamonds.  Some days are rocks."

Thursday morning was a diamond, for sure.

Leaving the Mountain

I'm having one last cup of coffee and breakfast at Stirling's Coffeehouse before I head back to real life.  

I'll be back, thought, the week of the 4th of July.  We've rented a cabin with the Allens and made arrangements from all of the boys (J.P., Joe and Cooper) to attend the St. Andrews Sewanee sports camp that week.  

Thankfully, my outlook improved Saturday afternoon and evening, in part due to an outstanding night at Bonnaroo.  

When I wandered into Bonnaroo Saturday afternoon my myself, I grabbed a beer and watched Larkin Poe, on the Who stage.  I walked over to see Midland (a country cover band) early, so I could get up front.  Once the band started playing, I felt a community of spirit with the people watching, even with the band.  Everyone was having a good time and it was a moment to enjoy, for sure.  It was a release for me, as I was reminded why I return to Bonnaroo each year.  To get away from my responsibilities, to listen to music, to be by myself but with others, too, and to unwind.

During the Midland show, Derek texted me and told me that our crew was behind me.  That was a nice coincidence or, maybe, providence.  It was good to see the guys again.  We walked over to see and L.A., all girls punk band, the Regrettes, at the Who stage.  I think my brief foray into a minor league mosh pit during the show helped improve my mood, too. 

Next, Steve and I walked over to see Old Crow Medicine Show, which was fantastic.  It was the musical highlight for me this year at Bonnaroo.  Evening falling, gorgeous weather and great music.

I drove over yesterday late afternoon and met up with Bonnaroo Bill, Derek and his wife, Shanna, who drove up for the afternoon.  We hung out for a little while, then I stood on the front row to watch part of the Grand Ole Opry's first ever live performance at Bonnaroo.  That was fun, too.  I shut it down about 9 p.m., took my last rickshaw ride back to my truck and drove to the cabin.  Unfortunately, I had to work for 2 + hours on a mediation statement that needed to be revised by this morning.  Back to the grind.

As an aside, this blog has evolved into a type of therapy for me, I think.  I don't know what depression is or what it feels like, but I suspect, at times, I may dip slip in and out of those waters as I contemplate my mom's fate and the seeming unfairness of it all.  It helps me to know that somewhere out there, at least a few people are reading what I write and, at the very least, thinking about my mom, my family and, I guess, me.  

So, if you're reading this, thank you.  It helps.  It really does.

Bonnaroo 2018

It's Bonnaroo weekend 2018 and I'm sitting at one of my favorite spots, Stirling's Coffee House on the campus at Sewanee.  I love it up here "on the mountain," as they say.  There's just something about this place that gets to me, in a good way.

My gang is out on Tim's Ford Lake on a pontoon boat that Derek rented.  Four of our group took a pontoon boat out yesterday morning.  It was fun but I'm not much of a lake guy so I decided to sit out this morning's trip.  I got a 3 mile run in on the bike trail into town and, for now, I'm planning on enjoying some down time before I head over to "the Farm" this afternoon.

My mood past couple of days has been gloomy, to say the least.  My visit with my mom Wednesday afternoon - when, for the first time, she didn't recognize me - really shook me to my very roots.  I can't shake the feeling that my my visit with her Wednesday marked the end of what little was left our relationship as mother and son.  That realization makes me as sad, I think, as I have ever been in my life.  I feel unmoored and drifting with no way to control the boat that is my life.

At times like this, I find it hard to maintain a sense of perspective.  Everything else seems to pale in comparison to what my mom is going through and to the loss of my relationship with her.  Bonnaroo, running, work, health, friends and family.  It's all so draining.  My energy level is low.  I prefer being alone without - what - the responsibility, I guess, of communicating with others and expending the energy necessary to interact within the typical social paradigm.  That's a dense way of saying I want to be myself.

Part to it, I guess, is the feeling that none of my friends or family (outside of Tracy and Alice, of course) understand what this feels like, to lose the ballast in my life and not to be able to do anything about it.  And I can't explain it to them.  The helplessness, the overwhelming feeling of sadness, the hopelessness.  And, yes, I realize my mom has it so much worse than me, but that realization on my part somehow makes my inability to help her all the more devastating.

There are moments when I can forget.  When I'm coaching baseball, when I'm in the middle of a run or when I'm mediating a case for others at work.  I can lose myself at those times and in those situations, albeit briefly, and think about something other than my mom's deteriorating emotional and physical condition.  But always, the respite is temporary and the sadness returns like a river inexorably overflowing its banks after days of steady rain.  Always.

       

The Man With No Name

Yesterday, for the first time, my mom didn't know who I am.  And is wrecked me.

I was headed out of town for my annual trip to Sewanee/Bonnaroo - a trip I've taken for six or seven consecutive years with the same group of friends - and I stopped by to see my mom on my way out of town.  It was mid to late afternoon, around 4:30 p.m., not a time I normally see her.  Usually, I'm there in the early morning or early afternoon.  

I thought she might be napping but, instead, she was in reclined in her chair when I walked into her room, eyes wide open, breathing heavily (which is what she does when she is anxious).  She also was absentmindedly and repeatedly scratching the arms of the chair with her fingernails (something else she does when she is anxious).

When she saw me, there was no smile, like there usually is.  She just stared up at me vacantly, breathing hard.  I smiled at her and tried to make a joke, but she just kept looking at me.  I sat down not bed beside her recliner and tried to hold her hand.  She quickly pulled it away from me.  

I'm not sure I've felt that helpless since the beginning of this ordeal.  My mom, in obvious distress, with me unable to do anything to reassure her or calm her down.

She had taken the telephone off the cradle and it was laying in her chair beside her, on top of the Predators' blanket I got for her a few weeks ago.  When I reached for the telephone to hang it up, she actually snarled at me, briefly, before letting me take the telephone.  The look on her face, albeit only for an instant, almost made me audibly gasp as my heart suddenly went ice cold.  It was clear that she was afraid of me, that she didn't know me and, in truth, that I didn't know her.  

It was like she was possessed.

I tried to talk quietly to her but she wouldn't - or couldn't - answer me.  Finally and with great trepidation, I asked her if she knew who I was.  She nodded her head slowly, then said, just as slowly, "Kaitlyn" (my niece).  

Well, fuck, I thought.  This is what rock bottom feels like.  

I stayed for a few more minutes, then asked Carolina - the nurse who was working and who is quite good to mom - to check her vitals and keep an eye on her.  Then, I left and rather than leave for Sewanee/Bonnaroo and the cabin where I had planned to spend a two quiet, solitary days before my friends arrived for the weekend, I drove to J.P.'s baseball practice at Warner Park.

For maybe the first time during my mom's long, hard ride to the end, I preferred the company of others to isolation.  I didn't want to be alone with my own thoughts because, well, they weren't very good or positive ones.  

Sometimes, this whole thing in overwhelming to me.