Sunday with Mom

Every Sunday I get in my zippy, little, red VW Golf and drive on NJ Route 7 from downtown Jersey City to Upper Montclair. This ride takes me through Jersey City’s Journal Square, the section I endearingly call Baliwood, on to the desolate marshland swamp stretch of Kearny.  This stretch is my favorite: an abandoned radio station’s lonely tower sits hopelessly waiting to beam again someday, a Wild West truck gas station is open for business, and business warehouses of what business I know not dot the road.  From here, it’s a hopscotch of various small towns quilted and strung along together: Belleville, Bloomfield, a bit of genteel Glen Ridge and finally, Montclair.

Montclair is a diverse town which houses a university, an art museum, many yoga and pilates studios and finally one of the oldest Whole Foods stores in New Jersey.

I make the 40 minute trek from Jersey City on Sundays to participate in a community hot yoga class.  I do this on Sundays because it’s now become a tradition: I forgo the eggs, bacon and bloody mary's brunch for a sweaty, stretchy, spiritual space. I really enjoy this time, but, ultimately this is not the real reason I come all this way so often. After class, I ride up the hill from Montclair to Upper Montclair to the Van Dyk Manor.

Van Dyk Manor is a lovely 3-story quasi antebellum, Greek Revival structure with an adjacent parking lot. It started out its life as a home for upper crust ladies recently widowed. Somewhere along the way,  Van Dyk became a nursing home and healthcare facility.  Approximately 4 years ago, my mother became a resident here.

I usually arrive between 3:30 and 4:00PM on Sundays. Although I’m never quite sure what to expect, I usually find my mother sitting by the nurses’ station right in front of the 2nd floor elevator. A big TV is usually blaring and  most of the 2nd floor residents can be found there sitting with their walkers or sitting in their wheel chairs.

Since this is the time of day, right before they get taken to the dining room for dinner, I can usually expect to find Rose, a red headed Irish lady, (are there any other kind?) lurking next to the elevator on her wheelchair chariot waiting to be the first in line to be taken for dinner. As soon as I step out Rose typically blurts out: “what time is it?” or “hi honey, how are you?” “your mother is a lovely lady”.

 

I thank Rose and then I spot my mom, not too much farther away, sitting in a chair with her walker nearby. Sometimes she has dozed off. Sometimes she is awake, but, I suspect she doesn’t see me because her eyesight is no longer so good. When she hears my voice, she discerns it’s me so she usually looks up and recognizes me.  Lately, she either doesn’t hear me or the voice recognition sensor is starting to fade.

This, concerns me. My mom at 82, looks amazing, She’s been through a quadruple bypass and broken both her wrists at 74 and her hip not too long after that. She has had her upper intestine nipped, is a diabetic, has high blood pressure, and suffers from Alzheimer’s . 

Today, she is awake and notices that I’m here when I step out of the elevator. She is in a feisty mood, makes edgy comments about the old residents (she doesn’t consider herself one of them) and wants to leave the nurses’ station to hang out with me in her bedroom.  She gets a little disoriented on the way back to her bedroom,  she is not fully sure of which bedroom she needs to go into, but, I gently goad her in the right direction. It’s a fine line, dealing with Alzheimer’s. Who knows what’s right or what’s wrong, all I know is that I want my mom to feel loved and not stupid.

We walk into her bedroom which she shares with Sofia, a nice but somewhat anti social Italian American lady, who is slowly warming up to me and my sister, but seems to be mainly  reporting and observing my mother’s activities. Today, as usual, Sofia is sitting in her side of the bedroom, watching TV and reading her Kindle. We exchange hellos as my mother shuffles on her walker past Sofia, the TV and the Kindle to her side of the room with the window, bathroom and silent TV.

As soon as my mom, reaches her side of the room, she tells me in Spanish how she thinks Sofia is not the friendliest of sorts. Then she goes on a tirade about Cuba, the black people in Cuba: how nice and smart they are or they were and how nice and smart they are now.  Time for Alzheimer’s patients seems to regress, but, more interesting, at least in my mother’s case, is a ceasing of time as we know it. Her time has no boundaries and she can skip her way from one decade of time or space to another.  There is a blurring that happens when she tells stories now which is quite liberating but shocking to me. Prior to this, my mother was a stickler for details, history and precision.

To get her off this tirade, I whip out a chocolate bar which I bought for her at Trader Joe’s on my way to see her.  My sister, who lives very close by and is a housewife, is my mom’s main caretaker.  She is taking some time off to spend in Florida in her new apartment with her family.  So this week, I’m all my mom’s got. My sister is in the habit of getting my mom chocolate bars, so I decide to keep it up.  My mom’s face lights up when I tell her I have a chocolate bar and wants to tear into it. I tell her she can have some after she comes up from dinner.

Just in time, the nurse on duty, a lovely young Filipino lady who always seems to be happy comes in to the room to check on my mother’s sugar. Today the sugar is high, so she administers both a long term insulin needle and a short term pencil dosage.  She kids with my mom who responds to her in Spanish,  (my mom does not know the difference between Spanish and English now) and the nurse just quietly laughs it off. I remind my mom that the nurse doesn’t speak Spanish.  My mom has a moment of recognition, but continues to speak in Spanish.

I decide this is a good time to bring her down to the dining room.  Some of the residents have already been taken down so I use the back elevator to get my mom to the first floor. Upon arrival at the dining room, the usual cast of characters are present. Rose, the peppy Irish lady whose lewd comments always break the ice; Julia, my mom’s previous roommate who is in a wheelchair and extremely demanding; Eleanor, still pretty sharp, pretty mobile and  with a good sense of humor; Mrs. Clemente who speaks some Spanish and once told me that she and my mom knew each other from high school; and of course, Sarah, who barely speaks but has no need to do so, as her son is there every Sunday doing the talking for her. Her son is a nutty-professor-type with falling pants barely hanging by suspenders, eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose, and barely missing getting his head bopped with the dining room’s chandeliers.  He generally goads Rose and their sparring tends to create a lively banter that entertains all the residents and the aides.

Dinner is uneventful, no one drops their food today, although Rose takes the napkins from the napkin holder rearranges them, hands some out and puts the rest back in the holder. While doing this, she looks up at me, tells me that I’m very pretty and that my mom is a lovely lady. Mrs. Clemente is unusually quiet…maybe her drug cocktail is too strong and her family has not noticed or complained yet. Eleanor tells a story about living in upstate NY ….My mom just politely stares and eats her food and talks to me in Spanish.

Once my mom is done eating, I take her upstairs myself. I don’t wait for the aides to do it.  Since my mom had her intestines nipped the digestion process has speeded up.  So, I prefer to skip the resident’s elevator rush hour to accommodate my mom’s needs.

Once safely upstairs and in the bathroom, my mom, is now reverting to childlike behavior. Sitting in the toilet with her pants and diaper down to her ankles, her rosy complexion and  rounded shape she resembles a child with slightly worn skin.

I wait for nature to take its course, put on rubber gloves and clean her up.

I am careful not to hurt her but also make sure she is not soiled and help her dress again.

When I started doing this, she would apologize that she should be the one doing the wiping. Now, she’s more accepting of it and doesn’t complain anymore, just quietly and happily accepts the help.

Initially, not having had children, I was repelled by this. Now, I am certain that this experience closes a life cycle and I’m grateful that I can give back just a little to the person who gave me everything. 

I change my mom into her pajamas, turn up the room’s heat and put Mom to bed.

Sofia’s TV is still on, but now Sofia has dozed off in her wheelchair.  I turn down the volume on Sofia’s TV and kiss my mother goodnight.  My mom seems happy and ready for sleep. I turn out her lamp and go down to my zippy, little, red VW Golf for my trek back home.

WHEN CLEANING IS NOT ENOUGH

It seems that in today’s fast-paced world, we must find time for work, play, family, friends, alone time and giving back.  This balancing act is tricky.  Routine sucks us in and as creatures of habit, we tend to favor some over others.  I dwell in the hygiene sector: both my apartment’s grooming  and personal hygiene help me achieve a zen-like wellbeing. I recognize this as a tad obsessive, but, I chalk it up to having grown up Cuban.  It is a well-known fact that extreme cleanliness is a trait that unites all Cubans : communists and non-communists.

In an attempt to round out and give back I decided to volunteer.  At first, I searched for local opportunities in Jersey City, the hipster haven where I reside.  Two interesting options turned up: the first involved teaching adults to read out of the main branch of the JC Public Library . The second involved helping out at the Historic Jersey City Harsimus Cemetery on Saturdays.  I called and/or emailed both.

The Jersey City Public Library may have good intentions, but, no follow through or lack of personnel as no one ever replied.

The Cemetery did follow up. A lovely lady expressed her excitement in an email and said to come down on any  Saturday I wanted.  The first Saturday I had available a monsoon rain washed away all my good intentions.

Then along came my longtime friend and colleague,  “Eva”. “Eva” helps everyone and everything and forgets to help herself along the way, but, that’s another story. 

“Eva” told me about Learning Ally.  Learning Ally was launched out of the New York Public Library’s basement back in the late 40’s and 50’s when GI’s were returning from WWII. Many of them, blinded from war injuries, could no longer read books, so an audiobook effort was started.  Learning Ally is staffed mainly by volunteers who read, direct, record, check the quality of the recordings and content for final submission to its headquarters in Princeton. Learning Ally is a national organization. The location we attended is centrally located on East 45th Street near Grand Central Station.

“Eva’s” interest in Learning Ally, aside from volunteering, stemmed from wanting to improve her diction.  I have a similar interest and so off we went for a learning tour.  On the tour, “Tom” showed us the studios, reception and lounge areas and explained how the volunteering was structured.  Active volunteers are required to volunteer 2 hours weekly. Prior to working on your own you train for a total of 6 sessions of 2 hours each.  The sessions are readily available during the week and on Saturdays.

 The Tuesday after the blizzard of 2015, suffering from extreme cabin fever,

I decided to hit the volunteering slopes, so I signed up for back to back sessions on a weekday: 3:30PM to 5:30PM and 5:30 to 7PM.

I arrived promptly @3:30 and “Tom”  led me to a booth to show me a short video on how their proprietary program for recording works.  Anyone with basic knowledge of a PC can use it.  Shortly after the video, “Tom”  had me “direct” one of the other volunteers who was reading a textbook on public speaking. So, while “Mike” waxed and waned about Socrates and other Greek orators etc., I did basic operations, such as record, mark the track for new pages and headings as well direct his reading. This was fun, so much so, that “Tom” came over and told me to keep it down.  Only the voice over booth is sound proof, so the director needs to be contained in his approach.  I guess I’m a method director or maybe just a loud Cuban. The 2 hours came and went super fast.

At 5:30PM there were no other volunteers, recording, so “Tom”  set me up doing quality control on already recorded material.  This is also elementary: you listen to a recording and make notes on where mistakes are made.  This part of the process was not as interesting, perhaps, it was the tone of the reader’s voice, which made the dense topic denser and harder to appreciate. I still persevered and combed through as much material as possible noting flubs, etc.

After giving back in such a fun way, I planned to go back last week, but bad weather and life’s obligations got in the way. 

Truancy aside, I liked volunteering.  It felt good “to do” without legal tender being exchanged. I just need to keep the proverbial momentum rolling…before…oh no…another load of laundry….

There Are No Twinkies On Grove

I have many friends from many walks of life.  I like that. 

Still, I don’t mind being alone, actually sometimes I embrace it. I could go for days without talking to folks and live happily in my own world. Perhaps, that’s why when some friends come to visit, it triggers spontaneous combustions in my head.

Take last Thursday.  A friend, let’s name him Bill, came to visit. He had been announcing the upcoming visitation for close to three weeks . He was concerned about my recovering leg and wanted to check in on me. 

On Tuesday, Bill texts me to ask whether Wednesday instead of Thursday works for the visit.

 I text him back and tell him it’s ok, but, to come after 1PM.

Bill texts back saying “it’s perfect, I can go to the gym and come to your house for lunch.” This is apparently code for “Make me lunch.”

 On Wednesday, I take care of my Physical Therapy leg needs and afterwards hobble out to pick up some food for Bill for the appointed visit time.  Disabled as I am, I take longer than expected, shopping and making black bean soup, so I text Bill and tell him not to show up until 1:30PM.

Bill  texts back  “can we make it for tomorrow, I got busy with a project and I’m meeting with some people now”

Really?! Am thinking this is not so cool, but, I text back “No worries. Happy you’re working. I won’t be around tomorrow until mid afternoon.”

Bill texts: “cool that can work”.

Thursday comes around.  I go to Physical Therapy, come home and then Bill arrives.

I serve him day-old-black-bean soup.  Bill seems to enjoy it, except he can't help making comments about how long it needs to be reheated in the microwave. He adds 3 more minutes to the 2 minutes I had already selected.  Afterwards he sits down to eat his  microwave-reheated-black-bean soup and we talk. 

We talk about a lot of different things, including the recovery of my leg, however, the emphasis is on Bill’s project.

Bill’s project is what keeps coming up during most of the visit. Bill is on his IPhone C and my MacBook Pro wheeling/dealing with clients and vendors for the event he’s planning.

What can I say? I’m happy Bill is working and doing something he seems to like. But on my time?!

After an hour of visiting and talking on the phone and using my laptop, Bill announces that he’s hungry and needs a snack.  Being the health nut that I am, I have no “snacks” on hand. So, I ask what he’s craving for and he says “Twinkies”.  Off we go onto Grove Street, in search of junk food.

There are no Twinkies on Grove.  We walk on either side of the street, into the Korean’s, the several Pakistani newssie/delis and… no Twinkies.  However, as we approach Columbus Avenue he sees the Dunkin Donuts…Dope!!!   This will satisfy the jones.  A gigantic bucket sized Iced tea and 2 donuts later we’re on our way home.

When we stop at a corner waiting for a light to change I press the button. Bill goes into a rant about how that’s totally uncool. “The light will change, you wait for it, don’t be pressing the button.”  I can’t decide if he’s right or just annoying.

We head back to my apartment,  to what seems like a long night ahead.  A Super-IceTea-Gulper and two donuts provide plenty of energy for Bill to continue on the computer, phone and now the TV.  We’re inching close to “Jeopardy” and he wants to watch.

I’m a Jeopardy neophyte but the first round of “Jeopardy” questions are about the Argentine pampas and I seem to know all the answers. Bill is shaken by my initial Jeopardy supremacy but  bounces back later on with the underdog contestant who finally gets a head start and unexpectedly wins.

I rarely watch TV anymore, especially a game show, so the novelty starts to fade when “Jeopardy” segues easily into “Wheel of Fortune” and a request for more food from Bill.

Sitting on my couch, Bill announces that he’s hungry and inquires if I have any menus laying around. I tell him no, I don’t have menus because I don’t order food in.  Undeterred, he gets on his IPhone and searches for local food.  He finds “More Café”. He orders spicy chicken wings, avocado roll and a spicy tuna roll for me. Expected delivery time: half an hour.

Now, we’re into a comedy, that is a comedy movie that is playing on my TV.  The TV that Bill points out is really the size of a computer screen and I should really own something larger. Then, he makes a comment about my walls being bare. 

The night continues. Sometime around 10:30PM or 11:00PM, I tell Bill that he really must leave, that I’m tired. Bill acknowledges, shrugs, says goodbye, and leaves.

Friday night around 7PM I receive a text from Bill.  He writes “I did better on Jeopardy tonight”. 

Sunday afternoon in Harlem

I don't get around much.

I force myself to navigate city sidewalks with the same old vigorous spring in my step. Endurance is an issue. So are steps.  Up works. Down is real work. A sense of dreadful paranoia has been quelled, but, resides somewhere in my conscious memory, especially where trains of the subterranean kind are involved.  

I have a destination in mind on Sunday afternoon. The MIST center in Harlem.  A Cuban documentary "Detras del Muro", reception and dance piece, "Retazos"  is being sponsored by the Copperbridge Foundation.  Haven't been to Harlem in like forever. Like most of us, I stick to my own neighborhood and don't venture out to do local tourism. However, my friend, Maria, invites me and says, "mi vida, you should come, you'll have a good time."  "Mi vida", loosely translates as "my life" and after listening to those words; I am irrevocably tied to a sense of being Cuban, I am compelled, I must attend, I must go.

Off I go on the PATH train from Jersey City to lower Manhattan.  I switch to a 3 train that runs local from the WTC to Times Square.  It's the milkman run, as they would say in Cuba. After that, it picks up speed, and away we go all the way to 116th Street.  I get offf, walk all the way down the platform and up the steps. It takes just a minute to figure out which way to walk. I find a beautiful black woman with a turban, high heels and dressed to the nines. I ask which way I should walk. She tells me to cross Lenox and walk just past the market. 

The market I come upon first is a fish market. I am so sorry I didn't take pictures.  There in full splendor were whole fish of all kinds resting in beautiful ice beds. Freshness reflected back from their eyes. A separate counter selling cooked fish and lobster made me very hungry. 

Next door from the fishmonger is another market: an outdoor African market. The common wares are cloth, masks, nick nacks. I don't take the time to inspect all. I suspect that there is much more than meets the eye.  I realize this is the case when I turn a corner and find about eight African vendors, kneeling and postured on cardboard, facing Mecca and praying. This is another priceless moment. A picture would have been great, but, the experience was much better.

Finally, there is the MIST center. It is impressive. A spacious lobby, bar and lounge area greet the visitor. Upon first impression, MIST feels serene, the fast pace of the city displaced by its walls.  Inside, my friend greets me and ushers me into the bar.  I order a glass of wine while I wait for the notoriously tardy Cubans to get their act together to begin the show.  A very nice barman overpours my glass. I sit and watch as folks start to stream in for the performance. My friend introduces a very nice couple.  Miriam, the woman, coincidentally had knee surgery and we share scars and trade accident stories.

As folks start to head towards the auditorium, I take my wine glass and slowly make my way to a seat, straying all the time from the herds of humanity.  Almost towards the beginning of the performance, an acquaintance, takes a seat right in the row behind me. This proves strategically beneficial when it comes time to go down the steps to the reception.

"Detras del Muro" proves to be an interesting piece about an artful event in the Havana Biennale. Next to the Havana Malecon, the notorious Muro in the title, anywhere between 10 to 15 works were displayed.  These pieces reflected the Cubans' obsession with their lives today and how the Malecon affected their daily lives. Unlike some very dramatic pieces coming out of Cuba these days, this documentary had at its core a sense of hope and lightness. A brief Q&A followed the documentary, since everyone was thirsty and hungry for wine, empanadas, tamales and mingling.

I didn't meet the stars of the documentary. Instead, I met up with old acquaintances and friends and heard some very funny and bawdy stories about Cuba.  Right around this time, I decided to slip out unnoticed.  I walked towards the train. As I was about to get on the train, I heard my name in Spanish out loud. There was no doubt, someone was calling my name. A coworker whom I had not seen in ages. Serendipitous. 

A beautiful night in Harlem.  My phone was out of batteries. I was ready to go home and sleep.

Dem bones

I can't believe it's been almost over a month since I last published!

I have no excuses since I know bloggers just blog. Haven't been traveling. Haven't been working. Have been disabled and recovering from getting hit by a car back in March. Thought it would have been all fixed by now, but, that's not the way it works with bones. It takes a while for them to get fixed and healed. Then it takes even longer to get them to work the way they used to work before.

This is all new to me. I used to be a snob. An ignorant snob, really. I had no idea of pain. I couldn't fathom, less comprehend what my life would be like after such trauma. I had fantasies (even if they were legally drug induced) that I would get up from my bed and walk and be back to my old active self.

I would like to think that I have learned compassion and if not that (I'm not Mother Theresa by any means) at least an understanding of the healing process.

Here I am:

I understand that a day with high humidity or falling barometric pressure will cause my left distal femur injury to throb.
I understand that the word patient is related to patience.
I understand that a doctor is someone who just prescribes.
I understand that you always should have a 2nd opinion.
I understand that I need to be in charge of my body. I'm the only one who feels my pain.
I know that a good physical therapist will keep you from having to go under the knife a 2nd time.

I know that I'm very fortunate:
My sister Lourdes and cousin Liz's feral support are awesome.
My friends: Marta, Pepper, Volney, Rosa, Yvette, Rebecca, Marga, Denise, Mercedes,  Jesus, Judy, Bea and Petra are there for me. * Even if all Petra wants to do is look @her reflection in my glass windows'.
(Petra is a dog and this was a new experience for her.)
My yoga friends: Melissa (her new hubby, Jorge) Julie and John are gently goading me towards healing.
I get to blog about this. My brain, bar some dead brain cells from too much anesthesia and painkillers, is still functioning at capacity.
I've also made some new friends whose importance in my life is still to be lastingly felt.

For now...I'm embracing a new aesthetic: it's called asymmetry. If my left leg doesn't quite match up to the same musculature of my right leg it's quite ok. All I want to do is breeze down the steps the way I used to. The way most people do, without thinking about it. I want it to not be important, the way it used to be.

Funny girls

My childhood friend, Sergio, is in town to babysit his mother Irma and his sister's mother-in-law Isabel while his sister takes a much needed vacation.

Irma is 86 and Isabel is also in her 80's, but, we don't get a confirmation from her, just a chuckle.

Irma + Isabel

Irma and Isabel both live with Sergio's sister Nieves, her husband Paco, and their son Frankie, in a comfortable home in New Jersey. Both Irma and Isabel suffer from senility. They're a hoot. Really.

Irma + Isabel

Irma and Isabel inhabit a sprawling, finished basement. Two shifts of caretakers attend to them until 5 or 6 when the family takes over the task of looking over these two funny girls. The funny girls have two yorkie sidekicks, Motica and Noey who bark because they're very small.

Motica

Noey

Both Irma and Isabel have a special predilection for cleaning up and putting things away in the most unlikely places. Here is where they differ: Irma LOVES mangoes. She will hide these from Isabel so only Irma can get at them when she remembers.  Isabel prefers to gather garbage in her drawers when she's cleaning.  She will only put the garbage back in the garbage when Paco, her son says it's ok to do so. They both love to make and drink Cuban coffee.  They watch Spanish TV, but, mainly just as background noise to their overactive imaginations.

Irma is quiet and subdued while Isabel is loud and assertive. Irma attends to every last button in her dress as well as Isabel's, whose skirt is a little askew.
Irma seems to vaguely remember me. Sergio is her prince, so if he says I'm his old friend, then she likes me too. Isabel asks if I'm married, I tell her I'm divorced, just to get her talking. That sets off a verbal explosion of sorts. During the time I go to the bathroom, Isabel tells Sergio that I'm not to be trusted. This may have something to do with me being a divorcee...maybe she's reacting to my limping? Oy vey.

The funny girls only speak Spanish. As Sergio and I comfortably switch off to English and to talk about our lives, they mainly speak amongst themselves. At times they seem to be watching us, although it's hard to say whether they're actually observing.  When they get bored, they get up and do some dusting or make Cuban coffee again. The funny girls interact in a funny way with each other. When Isabel is speaking about an old man who escaped from his house when she was a little girl in Cuba, Irma makes faces behind her back and signals that Isabel is looney. Isabel is oblivious to this and heartily enjoys recounting her Cuban past.

The funny girls have adapted to their living quarters and they don't like to venture beyond it.  They're also very funny and concerned about their bedtime. They would go to bed at 6PM, but, they're not allowed. They would get up at dawn and disrupt the household's sleeping patterns.

If the brain is a record player and life has a repetitive pattern to it, then my guess is that senility makes kind of its own sense. It's a different sense of reality. For us, so rooted in our reality, it's hard to discern where the funny girls'  cognitive functioning begins or ends. More importantly, I think is whether to engage in this alternate reality with the funny girls. Do you smoke the whole joint with them or do you do like our past president and not inhale? Like everything in life, it's a fine balance.