The Dawg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm proud of him.  

The Life Hack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where do I go from here?

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

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

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

Diminishing Expectations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I call it the law of diminishing expectations.  

It's sad and it breaks my fucking heart.

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

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

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

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

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