Inevitable

We all knew it was coming.  Every time we visited my aunt and uncle - she nearly immobile with arthritis, he virtually incompetent as a result of Alzheimer's Disease,  both muddling along in the home they built back in 1955 - we realized it was only a matter of time until something bad happened to one or the other of them. And this week it did.

Wednesday night I was out in my yard, happily pottering about in the flowers when the call came in.  My uncle had fallen in the living room, was in horrible pain, and couldn't get up.   The ambulance was on its way, but my aunt would need a ride to the hospital.

So off I went, and what started out as a pleasant summer evening turned into a long vigil in the hospital, while we waited for x-rays and orthopedic surgeons (surely this boy in front of me couldn't be a surgeon- he looked not more than 15!), and finally received confirmation of what we had feared all along -my uncle's right hip was fractured.

Yesterday after yet another interminable day the fracture was surgically repaired, but we now face the task of finding a rehab facility where he might stand a chance of getting back on his feet, and one that can provide continued care from now on for the rest of his life.   So today, less than a year after my mother in law's death, I found myself touring nursing homes and Alzheimer's Care facilities once again.   

I'm finding myself all too familiar with these places - the ubiqutous "activity rooms,"  the wheelchair seated residents, their gray heads slumped over onto food stained bibs, the ever present television or CD player.  Someone is invariably perserverating in a loud voice...the refrain today was "Where is my mother? Where is my mother? Where is my mother?"  The directors and aides are sweet  and well meaning when they talk about "socialization" and "structure in the day," and "doing things for the residents."

But ultimately, it's just ridiculously sad.

Recently HBO aired a documentary  entitled The Alzheimer's Project, a four part series which provided an in-depth look at individuals who have the disease, the effect on their families and caregivers, and finally, the latest research into future treatments.  After watching the final episode in which one bold scientist stated that within the next 10 years there will be real treatments for this disease, treatments which can entirely halt  its devastating progress, I felt a tiny glimmer of hope.   But it was hard to hold onto that hope today, hard to be optimistic when I think about my uncle, and know that he'll never return to the place he's called home for the past 54 years.

Last night I shuffled through some pictures I recently brought home from my aunt's house.  One of my cousins is doing a geneology project, and was searching for some family photos to complete her collection.  My aunt, never the least bit sentimental, urged me to take whatever I wanted.  "It'll save somebody throwing these old things out someday when I'm gone,"  she said dismissively.

So I brought home several pictures of she and my uncle back in the day - the two of them standing side by side in the driveway of their house, leaning against the side of their new 1959 Buick Electra...he pedaling a bike with her perched precariously on the handlebars, laughing.  Shuffling through these photos last night I couldn't stop the tears.   The loss in Alzheimer's is so great - for all these memories are gone for him, all the days and times of their lives together.   When I think of my life, of all the things I've done and have yet to do, the thought of losing every one of those memories is simply terrifying. 

When I was three years old, my uncle bought me a box of candy for Valentine's Day.  I can still see the heart shaped box, and the pieces of chocolate inside.  Every year after that, he brought me candy for Valentine's Day.  Without fail, I knew that box of candy would arrive on my doorstep, usually hand delivered, with a card he bought and signed himself.  Every single year from 1959  until 2005...that was the first year he forgot. 

And that was the year I knew for sure he was gone.

So looking for a place for him to spend his last days is not an easy task.  I thought I was going to be pragmatic about it - after all, I've been saying it needed to happen for months now.  But walking through those doors was pretty heart-wrenching, knowing I was about to start this final process in the " long goodbye."

My Uncle Tex was not a perfect man - he could be demanding and hard to get along with.  But he was a rock of strength for our family many times over the years, going way beyond the call of duty for an "uncle by marriage."    When my grandmother (his sister in law) was in a nursing home, he visited her every day for years, taking her dinner, encouraging her to eat,  making sure she was properly cared for.  He was always available for rides to school or the library, or for shopping trips to the mall.  He paid college tuition for more than one of his nieces and nephews.

 If he cared about you, there was no better, more loyal friend in the world.

And I will never forget it.

Value Added

I took a road trip today, a ride to the western side of the state - over to Kalamazoo, to be exact, or K-Zoo as the natives call it.  My friend P.'s granddaughter was performing in her last elementary school program...she'll be "graduating" and moving up to middle school next year.  And so P., excited and proud of this wildly intelligent little girl - a 10 year old who can deliver campaign speeches for Barack Obama and gay rights the way most 5th graders would recite the lyrics of Miley Cyrus or Jonas Brothers songs - was eager to show off her accomplishments.  Because it's a long drive for just one afternoon, P. asked me to ride along and keep her company.  One part of me balked a little - I always have a long "to do list" for my days off.   But I like Kalamazoo - it's a great town with some beautiful, old homes - and I also like P.'s granddaughter, so I decided to tag along despite the nagging voice in my head saying "you really shouldn't." 

The Woodward School for Science and Technological Research  is a magnet program which operates on a huge grant from the government.  It's housed in an historic, two story brick building, with large white pillars fronting the entrance.  The school grounds are surrounded by iron gates, and behind the large playscape is a beautiful kitchen garden the children planted, as part of their year long study of sustainable living.

But this is no effete educational program - this is very much a city public school, and the children come from every race, creed, and background imagainable.  Many of them are being raised by single parents, grandparents, or even older siblings.  Most of them come from families where college was only a distant dream.

But the auditorium was completely packed for this afternoon concert.  Somehow parents had made it a priority to get away from work and spend 30 minutes supporting their kids in this musical homage to "The Wide World."   It was literally standing room only as 100 kids, ranging in age from 8-12, took their various places on stage, on choral risers, behind xylophones, electric keyboards, guitars, and African drums.   There was drumming, and dancing, some rap and hip hop while the orchestra played "We Will Rock You."   Through it all, parents broke out in spontaneous cheers and applause when their kids took the stage or stepped forward for a solo.  There were tears aplenty at the amazing lyric vocals of young Prescott, and delighted smiles and laughter at Ahwatta, performing his original rap dressed quite nattily in blue suit, white shirt and tie.  Their teacher, a young woman who spent a year living in Guinea, had absorbed the spirit and rhythm of African music, which she has enthusiastically passed on to these young musicians.

Naturally I was struck by the differences between this program and the elementary school programs I've done in the past few weeks, programs with talented children and dedicated teachers, but programs which definitely lacked the spark of enthusiasm so evident today, the obvious joy and pride in performance which filled these children (and their families).

My suburban friends would likely find fault with teaching music this way.  They might say the children weren't learning enough about the fundamentals of music, or practicing good vocal tone or breathing.  They might criticize the keyboard players for playing by rote, or the string players for faulty intonation.

But who could argue with the natural, totally uncoerced smiles and sparkle on all of those faces?   Who can find fault with the pure, unadultered joy oozing from those little musicians and their audience?   Isn't that what music is really all about, especially when you're 8 years old?  Or 18? Or even 80?  

Today's concert reminded me that, as a musician, that's the feeling I should be striving to achieve every time I sit down to play.   I came home with a renewed spirit and sense of purpose about the power of music, making this road trip a very valuable one indeed.

Flux-uating

It's no secret that my state (Michigan) is in the doldrums, and yesterday's announcement from General Motors did nothing to help revive our spirits.  We  knew it was coming, for every newspaper and magazine in the land has been heralding the demise of this corporate behemoth.  Perhaps being forewarned was indeed being forearmed for the shock wasn't quite so - well, shocking.   But because I come from a long line of automotive workers...the livelihood of practically everyone in our family was (or is) involved in the automotive industry in some capacity... there is grief over this event, and confusion about what is to come, and fear about the future.  Atop this news we hear that a  giant airbus has fallen from the sky, simply disappeared into the waters below, and those of us who love to travel, and have travelers that we love, shudder with fear.

We are in a state of flux. 

But today, there were  new neighbors moving onto my street.  There have been four empty houses on our road, homes vacated due to the death of their elderly owners.  Most of them have been sitting empty for at least a year, one of them for more than two years.  But within the last six weeks, all four of them have sold.  There is bustling about  in long neglected yards, old rolls of carpet and ragged furniture appear at curbs to be hauled away, and the sounds of new dogs, barking with great excitement, resounds through the air on long summer evenings. 

And then there is word  that a former General Motors office building in Pontiac ("I sat through lots of meetings in there," Jim sighed) will be converted into seven brand new sound stages, the  home of Motown Movie Productions.  By the end of the year, there will be 3000 new jobs there with up to 10,000 more in the offing.  Rumor has it that Steven Spielberg has his eye on the studio for his next film.

Flux.

Once again, as it goes with life in general, so it goes with mine in particular.  I've been in the doldrums myself, suffering with a bad cold which played havoc with my time in Florida last week.  Today, it was chilly and dreary, nothing like the first of June should be.  My work has been less than satisfying, and this afternoon I nearly fell asleep at my desk from sheer and utter boredom. 

But after dinner the sun appeared, and I decided it was time to get some of  my new plants in the ground.  I'm in the midst of making a flower bed in my backyard,  a big English style mixture of everything from ferns and ivy to iris and lilies.  I've been moving the pots around for days, trying to get things "just so."  Finally, I realized that making a garden is a lot like writing a story,  learning a piece of music -or raising a child.   You finally have to set all the fear aside, say, "enough - I've done all I can do" and simply put it out there for the world to see.

So I did.  After a couple of hours of digging, and planting, I suddenly felt so much better, excited even, about my own personal state.

As I often do when I'm particularly pleased with myself, I sat at the piano and launched into Debussy's Arabesque, those triplets rippling perfectly from my fingers.  And though it doesn't matter  to anyone but me how well I play Debussy, playing it well gave me a tiny moment of pefect pleasure, a moment when I didn't feel the pangs of being 53 years old with weak eyes and a creaking back. 

Flux.

How about you? What's flux-uating in your world these days?

Style Conscious

The last few times I've been in Florida,  I've been trying to spruce up my tropical wardrobe.  People dress differently here in "paradise" than they do in Michigan, and the clothes I brought down here with me seven years ago are now in various stages of shabitude.   Even worse, most of them are simply too tight, and I've given up blaming it on shrinkage from the dryer - although I still think that's contributed to the problem - or trying to hold out until I lose these unwanted 15 pounds. How many of you have bought new clothes lately? And if you're under 35 or weigh less than 130 pounds, go read another blog because this will not apply to you in the slightest. (Just wait, my pretty, your day will come...cackle, cackle)  Everything I try on, even those items ostensibly in my new size, either refuses to pull over my thighs, button around my waist, or cover my meager cleavage.  What the heck is a mature woman, who wants to remain fashionable, supposed to do?

I can't remember having this much trouble with clothes since I was a pre-teen, and forced to shop in the "Chubbette" department at Sears.  Those shopping expeditions were ridiculously painful, because of course I wanted to wear the same little short skirts and tight bell bottoms that all my friends were wearing.  My mother set me straight every time, and though she tried to be kind about it, I was bright enough to realize that I resembled nothing more than a stuffed sausage.

Sadly, I'm beginning to feel distinctly porkish, and I really don't think it's entirely due to the few extra pounds that menopause has so kindly settled around the lower half of my body.    Even when I find clothing that actually fits they way I assume it's supposed to, it doesn't look right  - it makes me feel like one of those dreaded women who are trying to appear young and sexy when they're really old and frumpish.  It's "not appropriate" as today's moms would likely tell their young daughters who wanted to dress as Brittany Spears look-alikes.

As an adult, my clothing style has always favored classic over trendy, but it feels like the clothes which fall into that catgeory are verging awfully close to "old-lady" looks favored by women much older than myself.  As tempting as those Alfred Dunner elastic waist and over-blouse ensembles might be to my figure, my mental image is just not ready to go there.  Even Talbot's -my standby store for tasteful yet stylish apparel - has failed me this season.  Not one pair of slacks in that store formed themselves properly to my figure.

Maybe it's just a matter of attitude, and admittedly, mine hasn't been too forgiving of  late.  There's a line in one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems that says it best - "I am so far from the hope of myself..."

When I was 12, the hope of myself included a denim mini-skirt and white go-go boots.

Now, I'd settle for a nice pair of white linen slacks and a navy blue twin set.

How about you? Anything new in your closet these days?

Tightrope

Lately my life has been a delicate balancing act, a long series of check marks on the "to do" list, a supreme effort to meet the needs of family and friends while also fulfilling a myriad of responsibilities to work (in all its incarnations).   It's been a bit of a struggle, keeping all the appropriate balls in the air, and I finally understand why the jugglers are my favorite of all circus performers!  Today was a typical example - leaving the house at 6:30 am, and driving to Oak Harbor, Ohio (about 100 miles) to accompany my friend L.'s children's choir at their competition.   I was gone for about five hours, and played the piano for a total of eight minutes. 

Then our dinner was delayed while I waited for a call from my new friend, A., the director of the high school choir.  We had agreed to meet at my house to make a CD recording of accompaniments for one of the choirs who are doing a church program next week which I can't attend.  (We were supposed to do this yesterday, but someone at school had "borrowed" the CD recorder and hadn't returned it.)  Tonight,  A. was behind schedule, and didn't arrive here until 6:30.  So I spent two hours this evening recording.

I never thought I would be described as a workaholic, but I'm beginning to think this appellation fits.  The term is usually applied to doctors, lawyers, and business types, but seems to fit this creative person more than I care to admit.  Of course, I've been in this situation before  - musicianship tends to take over your life, sort of  like the trumpet vine growing on my backyard fence.  No matter how many times I try to chop it back, even cutting it right down to the roots, it sprouts up with a vengeance and spreads maniacally all over my yard.

Most of the time, playing music kind of gets me high.  It's my drug of choice, really, and even though I might be dragging my butt out the door to a performance, once I get there and start playing, it's like a shot of adrenaline.   Tonight's a prime example.  Three hours ago, I felt like roadkill.  But after spending the last two hours at the keyboard I'm completely rejuvenated.  I could go out dancing (if  I could dance, that is!)

But like any junkie, it's all too easy to let the drug rule your life, let it interfere with your family relationships and work responsibilities,  let it become the thing for which you'd sell your soul.   I have to be careful about that, because when that happens, when you start to lose your balance on that tightrope, it's easy enough to go into freefall and land in a heap.

I'm thankful to have this thing I love - this passion for music, and the ability to do something with it.  I've been thinking a lot lately about other ways I could use it - but I don't dare mention these to anyone in my family!  For the time being, though, I think I need to make a slight correction on my balancing act, realign my stance, and settle into a safer spot on the rope.

How about you?  What are you balancing on the tightrope of your life?