More Precious than Gold

Find a group of middle aged women. It doesn’t matter where. They are easy to find – their kids are grown and flown. These women form tight bonds and gather in groups: happy hour, chick flicks, fire pits, beach condos, thrift stores, and book clubs. Any clique, anywhere. Find them and ask “Do you sleep?”

The answer is no. The answer is always no.

Hot flashes, monkey mind, snoring husbands, back aches, all wreak havoc. Every night. The deep and delicious velvet black rendezvous with the Morpheus, God of Dreams is a thing of the past. Instead, they twist, they turn, they watch the clock, they get up, and they lie back down in a synchronized dance that defies race, weight, socio-economic level.  Sharing the moniker “women of a certain age” they move in endless permutations from east to west coast – a plague of sparking gray cells and twisted sheets in the dead of the night.

I’m a member of that club and over the last few years, for various different reasons. The reason du jour is a chronic cough that has appeared to strut its stuff like a greaser with a cigarette pack under his white t-shirt when the lights go out. AT LAST my intrepid ENTs have focused on a solution – a new medication to throttle back my cough so I can sleep– that takes time to titrate up to the optimum dose. And last night, I found myself suddenly there. I took my pills as directed and waited the required hour and settled into the well worn bed and soft sheets in the spare room, where I have decamped until I conquer the cough. I got into bed, turned off the light, and….NO COUGH. I felt a comfortable drowsiness and immediately drifted off to dreamland, sighing in pleasure and contentment.

Thirty minutes later, I roused, thinking I’d heard something. I listened, heard silence, and slipped under again. Within five more minutes I heard my name over the baby monitor perched on a nearby bookshelf. I snapped to attention, like a well-sprung mousetrap, jerking upright in bed, heart beating, and adrenaline screaming “ALL SYSTEMS GO!” I sped downstairs to find my mom sitting on the edge of her bed, looking miserable.

Mary Frances is no gold brick. If she admits she is experiencing physical discomfort, then SHE REALLY IS. Born of a time when one didn’t complain of physical ailments, she tends to keep things to herself. She was experiencing shortness of breath, a tightness in her chest. I found her nitroglycerin and called 911. EMS was shortly dispatched and arrived in force – the red flashes of their vehicles bright against the ebony of the night. Five first responders crowded into mom’s small bedroom, reassuring her and assessing her. They knew their stuff, things were looking okay, but a ride to the Big House was in order. So they took Mom, in nightgown and bedroom shoes out onto the porch, where they carried her down our front steps sitting on her walker. (My heroes!)  They loaded her on a stretcher, lifted it into  into their rescue squad and disappeared into the night.

I gathered a bag of her  belongings and ran upstairs to dress and grab a few of my things. Sleep was a distant memory. It was 11:00 pm. (My pugs DID NOT EVEN WAKE UP. Five strangers came into my house and took my mother away, and they only rolled over at the small interruption to their sleep.)

Soon I was valeting the car, and entering the bright lights of the Emergency Department. And then Night Watch began. That, too, is a common experience. Test, and wait and draw blood and wait. Contact family and wait. Distract patient and wait. Mom was alert and compliant, though her age and fatigue could be seen in her pale face and puffy eyes. She received excellent care, her team moving in their own special dance from curtained nook to curtained nook. Mom was wheeled to Xray, wheeled to CT scan. Doctors and nurses, a ballet of movement and thought as her team investigated her complaint.

And dare I say Mom was …awake. Very awake. And as the hours passed and I felt fatigue set it, she resisted it, refused to have the lights dimmed or to lie down and rest. So we talked – I read all the Ogden Nash poems I could find on my phone. And we talked until we were too tired to talk, 3:00, 4:00, 5:00 am. Still she resisted sleep. More blood work, more waiting, more test results, more doctors…and still Mama sat upright. I pushed my hard wooden chair back against the wall, angled my head under the “sharps” box and rested, praying I wouldn’t fall asleep and fall out of my chair. My eyelids had weights pulling them down, my head tipped back in sleep and I jerked awake again and again.

After about 30 minutes of quiet time, there was talk of admittance, then talk of observation. Mom began to tell everyone in a half-joking, half-serious tone “I’m leaving.”  As final test results came back negative, and doctors and nurses from the day shift appeared, the plan to send her home with a cardiac follow-up soon crystalized.  We were relieved and appreciative. Her chest pain had disappeared hours ago, and other than an elevated BP, we were good to go. It was 10:30 am. We had arrived at midnight.

I got a third wind and was able to help Mom dress and get to the car. We were exhausted and grateful as we drove home. 

Back at the ranch, we had a small brunch and all I could think of was going to sleep. I had visions of Mom snoozing soundly and me tiptoeing up to my own bed. I was so sleepy, I was nodding off while I worked on the Jumble as Mom polished off a good meal. When the last crumb was consumed, I looked at her with great expectations and asked “Mom, let me help you get settled down for a nap.”

“A NAP?” she exclaimed. “I don’t need a NAP! I’m going to read!”

EPILOGUE:

Mom got comfortable with her book and I got her a cold drink. She settled in for a read. I snuck upstairs and sank into the bed. I fell immediately into a hard sleep. And then…. about 30 minutes later, the phone rang and when I answered, I heard my Mother-In-Law’s voice over the line: “Hi, Jackie, I just called to see how you are doing? Have you been able to sleep? ”

The Times, They are A'Changing.

Once upon a time my mom weighed 145 pounds. For decades she'd hop on the scale and the needle would find it's way to the magic number. Mom never stayed still, she was always doing: washing, walking, cleaning, gardening,cutting grass, cooking. When she sat down after handwashing the evening dishes, she well deserved it. When Dad commandeered the TV, she happily disappeared into a book. It didn't last long, because soon enough, she hopped up, turning on bedroom lights, turning down beds,  tucking me in, then taking the dog out for a last potty break,

That tucking me in lasted for decades. Whenever I visited home (without my husband) Mom would show up in the bedroom to say good night. We'd hash out the day, have a laugh, and she'd flick off the light switch as she exited the room (unless I disappeared into a book of my own.)

In my late 40s and 50s, after my dad was dead and buried, I came home more often, to check on Mama and to take her to "town" to buy groceries, go yardsaling, or have a bite of BBQ.  She was hale and hearty at first, continuing to walk her black pug to the end of the block.

By this time, when visitng, I slept in a king sized bed upstairs, much more roomy and private than the double in my childhood room downstairs. At first she crept upstairs to continue our ritual. But then one night, she didn't. Slowly, but surely the trips upstairs stopped all together and she lived her life downstairs.

Once she moved in with me, six years ago this April, she was proud of her ability to do as much as she could at 86. Short walks with a walker to our corner. Putting herself to bed on her own. And she upheld those routines as long as she could.

But now - the moment has come - I tuck her in. After dinner, I turn on her light, turn down her bed, lay out her nightgown, and open her hearing aid box so she can access it easily. She is still able to change into her nightgown, wash her face, clean her teeth, but then, she waits patiently for me. I pull back her cover, and she slowly and carefully positions her now-ample self on he bed and rests her head back on the  her pillows. And then, every night, gazing at me with her cloud of solid white hair, her apple-doll face covered in a myraid of age spots and regardless of the half circles of weariness that underscore her tired eyes, she looks up at me with a smile that could light up a village. I kiss her forehead, just as she once kissed mine and I tell her I love her. She tells me the same, as she did at 2, 20, and now at 58. She always ends the day with gratitude and offers her appreciation. Always ending with "Thank you, Shug."

No, Mama. Thank YOU, Shug.

Mom readingwhile a"great grand-cat" lounges nearby

Memorial Day Miracle

Those of you who know my family, or have seen my numerous posts on Memorial Day over the years know that my mom, Mary Frances Stephenson Draper, lost her only brother Captain Edward Vassar Stephenson, USMC, in Iwo Jima on March 4, 1945. Though my family and my sister’s family never knew Uncle Edward, we honor his memory and speak often of him with my mom. My sister named her oldest son Edward in his memory, who coincidently served in the USMC as well.

My uncle’s widow lost touch with my mom’s family after the war. Mom always felt that the connection must have been too painful for her to sustain. She had moved from her hometown of Madison, NC to Florida, remarried and had a daughter.

About five years ago, Mom and I happened to be talking about her and Mom remembered her last name as well as her daughter’s name. I did some google searching and we learned some sad truths through local newspaper reports. Edward’s widow had passed away, in a nursing home. Her daughter had been arrested for elder abuse as her mother had been living in a hoarding situation. It was reported that the daughter had cared for her mother many years and appeared to have been unable to sleep due to her mom’s dementia and was simply unable to cope, contributing to the hoarding and resulting in her mother’s removal from the home. It appeared that some years after, the daughter was back on her feet and working as a teacher and had won a teaching award.  We hoped that things had gotten better for her. Yesterday, the story took another unexpected turn.

My sister, who lives in my hometown, received a call from a stranger in Florida. He asked for “Elaine Draper” and identified himself by name and as a resident of Florida. It seems he had bought the contents of a storage unit and found Uncle Edward’s war medals and a letter from his commander written to his widow about Edward’s death! He said he felt in his heart he had to try to find Edward’s family and return these items! A google search led him to Seaboard and eventually to my sister! He plans on mailing the medals and letter this week!

We are so grateful for his diligence and his desire to return these precious treasures to our family. Elaine says he was astonished to hear that Edward’s sister was still living and even happier he had made the effort.

Today a quick search revealed that the daughter passed away in January, at age 64, in Florida. Despite what troubles her life must have held, she saved Edward’s medals and accompanying letter from what must have been an excess of belongings in her mother’s home. I think she would be happy to know they are making their way home.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Edward and thank you for your service. No greater love.

The Long Way Home

I’ve been driving the same 110 miles back and forth from the Triangle to Seaboard since I was a college sophomore in 1979. In the beginning I drove a tiny silver Chevrolet Monza, courtesy of my dad, later totaled by my then-teenaged nephew. Now I roll down 85 in a giant Ford Flex filled to the roof with Mom’s wheelchair and walker. The vehicles and passengers may change, but the drive stays comfortably the same.

So let’s do the math. That’s 35 years. Let’s say I made the drive 1.5 times a month for 12 months. So that’s 630 trips x 2 for the return trip x 100 miles per trip and that’s a whopping 126,000 miles. Or if you prefer – 2 hours a trip or 2520 hours in a car on the same road.

Some folks prefer to shoot down 95 – it’s a few more miles as the crow flies but faster, faster, faster. I don’t like all the jockeying for position and passing and rude north/south drivers tearing up that piece of asphalt. Instead, I stick to the drive that my Dad plotted out for me on a wrinkled NC map with a ruler way back in the day. My route takes me on 85 until Norlina where I hop on 158 paralleling the VA border until I take a quick hop onto 301 past Weldon to 186 in Garysburg which lands me smack dab in the one flashing light intersection of Seaboard.

It’s the long way home.

But I know every good bathroom stop. Every antique shop. Every Bojangles for sweet tea. I’ve watched buildings go up and houses fall down. I've seen crops planted, grow and be harvested: tobacco, cotton, corn, peanuts, soybeans.  I love the snow-like tufts of picked cotton that appear on the side of the road for miles around the Seaboard cotton gin. I've seen the rise and fall of a shabby juke joint named the Foxy Lady. I look for the Taylors’ sunflowers in Gumberry to stretch and reach for the sun in summer and wait for the Christmas lights in Littleton to go up one more time on the aging streetlights in winter. And I love it all.

There’s a stoplight I ran once near Weldon because I was crying with worry over my Dad’s health. I got pulled and the kind policemen took in the overwrought mom, two small boys, and a giant pink stuffed lion all buckled into a messy minivan and said only “Be more careful, you've got precious cargo in there.”

My Dad survived that crisis and when the years passed and he could no longer make the drive to visit me, I took to picking up my parents and bringing them to Durham myself. Every time we passed Lake Country Veterinary Hospital outside of Roanoke Rapids, my mom would say: “That’s where Elaine takes her dogs” forgetting that she had told us before, and before and before. So now as Mom and I cruise that same road it’s a game for us – who can see it first – who can utter that same phrase: “That’s where Elaine takes her dogs.”  Who can win.

And then there’s the athletic field halfway between Norlina and Macon where Mom and I pulled over around midnight on a Friday two years ago. Zack had been admitted into the UNC Hospital with a bruised spleen from a wretched case of mono. Mom and I had started the long drive home to be met only with a nightmare storm that pounded down so hard that we couldn't see the yellow line or even hear each other speak. We stopped and waited until the monsoon quieted and then pulled back onto the road that even in darkness was as familiar as the back of my hand.

Saturday Mom and I headed that road again on the way to a family Christmas party at Ralph’s BBQ in Weldon. The trip started out with snowflakes which changed to sleet and then rain. It was a gray, ugly day. And we looked anew at one of our landmarks: a brown aging double-wide trailer near Beef Tongue Road in Macon. The lot of this home was once filled with soaring pine trees, but then suddenly one trip they were gone, leaving a yard riddled with stumps. This worries my Mom and she usually comments on it saying “If I lived there, I would have to work on getting those stumps up. Just one at a time. I couldn't just leave them there.”

So we look, every trip, to see if there is any progress. And this trip? No progress at all. But something unexpected caught my eye. There was a fresh white strand of Christmas lights tacked to the roofline of that tattered doublewide. And they were twinkling to beat the band, a glowing reminder of the approach of Christmas, the majesty of the birth of the Messiah, hope for all, regardless of dwelling.

It gave me a warm feeling to see those lights. One I carried all the way to Seaboard and back again to Durham. And that, my friends, is why I’ll continue to take the long way home. 

Christmas Shopping with Ladies Who Lunch

Today was SALE day at the giant Belks out at the Streets of Southpoint, which is just a few miles from our house. Since our Bible study was cancelled, we decided to study the shopping opportunities nearby – especially with a 25% off of everything coupon – one day only – burning a hole in our respective pocketbooks.

So we went – we saw- we shopped – we spent. All while I pushed Mom around in her transport chair. Already the vibe at the mall was upbeat and bordering on pre-Christmas psychotic. Mary Frances is C-A-R-E-F-U-L with her budget and her gift choices. And her generally gracious demeanor, at times, flew right out the holiday-wreath-bedecked door.

Example 1:

Mom wanted some pjs for one of her best friends, Janie (DON’T TELL!!!) There was a display right where we came into Belks from the parking lot. They got a quick looking over but Mom wanted to see MORE. So I pushed her across the store to the Intimates Section. There we found many additional choices, but still not what Mom wanted. So we headed back across the store to the entry way where we looked again at the first display. She wouldn’t hear of anything but flannel. The only pair I could find in the right size was a turquoise leopard print. Mary Frances looked at me with the haughty air of a respectable Southern woman and declared “They are UGLY.”

So we traversed the store again –dodging shoppers, strollers, odd sized kiosks, to look again at the Intimates section. I could only find two other pair of flannel pjs in the right size – one in red plaid and one with Christmas Scotties. “These are right cute” she grumbled half-heartedly.

They I found a pair of pjs out of a soft, plush material – a pretty blue pair with snowflakes. I timidly handed them over – they definitely weren’t flannel. The Queen Mother brushed her hand across the nap, and declared them “Perfect.”

Thank God.  The wheels of the transport chair and my back cooled down while I paid.

Example 2:

Imagine, if you will, many other gift items purchased, involving much pushing of said transport chair. By lunch, my back was complaining loudly.

And while we shopped, I had a dream. I A lovely Ladie’s Luncheon at Nordstrom’s. With comfortable booths, subdued lighting, fresh salads, constantly refilled glasses of sweet iced tea. Ahhhhhhhhh….

So when we wrapped up about 12:30, I wheeled us to the door of the Café. We were in luck. Only one person in line. I grabbed a menu and starting reading.

Then Mom interjects: “We can’t eat here, it’s too dark.”

She is joking, but not joking.

I laugh and persist in my perusal of the menu. I see key words:

Feta?

But I know without asking, she doesn't like feta.

Shrimp?

Nor shrimp.

Avocado?

Nope.

Chipotle?

Never.

Ham.

Forget it!

And then I hear her say: “Can we just have a hamburger? How about a hamburger? “

So I face the sad truth. There is no hamburger, no anything that my mom will eat at Nordstrom’s Café.

“Okay”, I say, a bit on the irradiated side. “How about the food court?”

“Great!”she exclaims!

So, I take a deep breath and we head back across the mall to the food court. There are, technically, no hamburgers at the food court either. But back in the way back there is a Chick-fil-A. I approach the seating area, move a chair and push Mom’s transport chair up to a table nearby. And approach the line.

Except once I get there, I’m the only one in line. And a well-groomed, well-spoken, charming woman takes my order. She engages in small talk while I fumble for my debit card. And magically, by the time I’ve swiped it – the young worker in the back has our food ready to go. And then I get choice of a great varieties of salad dressing.

I carry our sack back to Mom’s table. Chicken nuggets for her, which she loves and gleefully counts out loud as she eats. I begrudgingly admit to myself that my Cobb Salad is, well, pretty darn good. By the time I’m finished I look over at Mary Frances. She’s made it to her chocolate chip cookie and there’s a look of bliss on her sweet, wrinkled face.

So maybe I didn’t get the kid glove service I’d dreamed of at Nordstrom’s, but my service was terrific, my salad was tasty, and Mom was beaming.

We were, after all, Ladies who Lunch.

Quoth the Raven

It is a sunny winter afternoon in Seaboard. Mom and I have just arrived from Durham. I have unpacked the car and I am settled in on the blue couch in the parlor talking to my sister on the phone. I hear a loud rustling in the background, but assume it is my mom in the den. We continue to talk. Mom continues to rustle.

Except.

When I get off the phone I walk into the den. Mom is sitting in a chair as still as a mouse reading a book.

“Mom, er, were you doing anything while I was on the phone?” I ask in a hopeful tone. My stomach has began to drop. I think I know the answer. It is a firm no.

Bird. In. The. Chimney

My heart is thumping. I not quite sure why I have the heebie jeebies about birds in the chimney, but I do. I once pulled a snake out of a birdhouse with my bare hands as if I were just taking mail out of a mailbox.  I have wrestled with biting dogs as if it were a walk around the AKC ring. But Birds In The Chimney are another matter.

Battlestations.

My aged mom thumps into position and balances on her cane at the door near the piano. I dash about, closing blinds to make the afternoon shadows even more shadowy. I move the flotsam and jetsam away from the front of the Buck Stove insert in the chimney and hand Mom her weapon. She grasps the broom like a gladiator.

I open the side door. I slide the latch near the piston to insure it stays open on its own, for it has a job to do. To coyly entice whatever winged dementor from hell is scrambling inside the chimney.

Next I tiptoe to the chimney. My heart is pounding though I have done this many times before. I  squat and unlatch the double doors, first the right and then the left. fully expecting to be bowled over by the desperate fluttering of a trapped bird.  The doors make a satisfying clink as they reveal the inky interior and, to my horror, the skeletal remains of a  once-trapped and now-desiccated  bird. My imagination runs wild as I picture it’s solitary death throes and my adrenal gland puts my heart on high alert.

And now to open the flue. It creaks eerily as I push it true. And, oh dear God!,  the skeletal remains of a second bird flutter to the ashes. I stumble backwards, regain my footing and unabashedly hide behind my my 88 year old mother.

Mom comments dryly “that one is not going to hurt you.”  

We pause a moment and listen. I hear nothing but the beating of my heart. We realize that this is going to be a bit of a waiting game. Mom settles down on the seat her walker still clutching the broom. I ease onto the couch and grab an afghan. (For what? to throw on the bird? To cover my head? In the dusky room I am sure my face is glowing red as I cram it back into the corner.)

Silence. Not even a rustle. Mom asks if I am SURE I heard a bird. Yes. Yes. Yes. There is a BIRD IN THE CHIMNEY. More silence.

The phone jars to life and I answer. My voice is cracking with excitement. It is my oldest nephew.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” I demand and launch into a description of our current situation.

He begins to laugh and tells me it will take him a while to get here, he’s in Richmond. Expletives begin to explode silently in my brain. “When you get here” I say “you are getting the dead ones out!” He finds this funny. I ask that he dial 911 if he arrives to find us incapacitated.

He rings off and we go back to our game. It requires nerves of steel. When we can bear it no longer, I creep back to the Buck Stove and jiggle the flue, backing quickly away.

This time SUCCESS. The blackbird bursts from the fireplace in a flutter of iridescent movement and straight and true takes flight towards the blue rectangle of the open door. The last we see of him is an inky silhouette as he moves up and out of our range of vision.

It is done. We exhale. I close the Buck Stove doors on the skeletons of the two that didn’t make it. They can wait in the dark for my nephew. I bring light back to the room, opening blinds and curtains and shutting the side door. The broom goes back to its resting place and Mom back to her perch on her favorite reading chair.

I sit on the couch in stunned and grateful silence, listening. I am quite happy to have helped this dark bird pry open the maw of death and fly away.  I hope my heart stays as brave and true as the one that got away.

Mary Frances Wears Pants

All my life, Mary Frances has been the perfect model of the perfect  Southern Woman. Or at least HER version of the perfect Southern Woman. ( If she had been my version of the perfect Southern Woman I would have learned how to make mint juleps. But that is a blog for another day.)

Mary Frances taught me that you must always wear an apron when cooking. Dresses should hit your knee and you must wear a slip underneath. Hair should be out of your face. She taught me to stand up straight, be respectful, do my part, care for those in need, and to love God, family, books, and country, not necessarily in that order. She also taught me that real Southern ladies don’t wear pants.

Mom and I in aprons, circa 1988

So to this day, Mary Frances eschews pants.

From as long as I can remember she had only one pair of side-zipped, denim pants. They were not JEANS mind you. They were fitted and tailored and tidy. When she absolutely could not avoid wearing pants she pulled these beauties out of the closet. So she wore them when our Girl Scout troop rode bikes to Ramsey’s Crossroad and when our family went tent camping on the Blue Ridge Parkway or if it snowed.  I’ve seen a photo of her wearing them at the beach. Though a bit proud of her ability to be sporty, she seemed genuinely embarrassed to be wearing them as if she were being caught in the act of doing something highly disreputable. Something like wearing eye shadow (Real Southern Woman find eye shadow vulgar.)

Mama wearing pants, but hidden behind the Impala. 

So when the temperature dipped in January on the same day as Mom’s scheduled permanent the morning went something like this.

ME: Mom, it’s 9 degrees outside. You will need to wear pants when we go to Earl’s. (YES, it is true that my beloved hair guy and my beloved husband share a name. Obviously the two most important men in my life.)

MF: I don’t need pants.

ME: Yes, you do.

MF: No I don’t.

ME: Yes. You. Do. Here is a pair of black sweat pants. You can wear them with a blouse or put them on under you skirt. But it is too cold to go without.

MF: (Pointing at her gossamer thin pantyhose) BUT I HAVE ON STOCKINGS!

ME: No, Mom. It is 9 degrees. What if we get in an accident? Then you will freeze solid in those stockings!

MF:  I am fine.

ME: (AFTER A DEEP BREATH.) OKAY. Here’s the deal. It is too cold to go outside without pants. You can either put on the pants or I am calling Earl and canceling the appointment.

MF: (genuinely horror-stricken) We CAN’T cancel my appointment!

ME: Yes. We can. And I need to know now so I can let Earl know as soon as possible!!

MF: (Thrusting out a hand, disgusted.) Give them here.  

MF: (Sweatpants are now caught on Mama’s shoes, which she did not take off.) I can’t get them on. I don’t have to wear them.

ME: THEY ARE CAUGHT ON YOUR SHOES!!!

Together we pull and tug and soon enough the sweatpants are on, under her skirt. As we head towards the door where more coats await Mary Frances again voices her displeasure:

MF: These pants are heavy. They make it hard to walk!

We march to the frigid car and drive to the salon. It is very quiet. The queen is displeased. Mama enters with a regal air but as if she has been abducted from her throne and made to wear burlap. I explain to Earl about the pants. Clearly they are beneath her. Earl gives me a sympathetic smile,  helps her into her chair, whisks a protective cape around her shoulders and proceeds to give her a humdinger of a perm. 

My "other Earl" and Mary Frances AND the pants.

Mary Frances, Mid-perm

At the end she has forgotten about the sweatpants and looks radiant with her new do.

Then she stands and realizes she is still wearing pants.  She wrinkles her nose as if she smells spoiled milk. And then fires one last volley.

MF: IF I FALL, IT IS BECAUSE OF THESE PANTS!!!