A Grateful Heart

"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever." Psalm 107:1

Thanksgiving is over but the feast lingers on! How grateful we are for our family, friends, church, and home, and the freedom to gather together in celebration and fun.  Our dinner included all the classics, as seen on my plate above and a full spread of desserts that included carrot cake, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie, and a pumpkin cheese cake with gingersnap pecan crust topped with a caramel drizzle.  Can you say, "sugar?"

Our daughter, her husband, granddaughter Greta, two friends, my sister and her daughter all gathered with my husband and me to give thanks. We had such a good time laughing and loving, catching up on each other's lives and playing Thanksgiving games that included tickling every one's memories for the most obscure facts about Thanksgiving and turkeys.  The winners got to wear the much coveted, festive feathered hats for the remainder of the evening. Here are are the band of winners:

It has been a difficult year for many who gathered around our table, but we embrace the time to remember the many blessings that overflow along the way. Yeah God!

The Dusseldorf Orphanage

An elderly woman with short-cropped white hair and sunglasses sits at a table in the dining hall of the nursing home where my dad lives. She is hunched over a cup of coffee blowing bubbles into it with a straw. The brown bubbles are spilling over the cup and soaking into the pile of towels the cup is resting on. “Pearl” is perseverating over her coffee again; a thrice-daily event that never fails to put a smile on my face. As soon as I push my dad’s chair into the large room I hear her familiar words delivered in the same loud spirited cadence, “Root-toot-toot, how do you do, la-de-dah, (tongue roll), four!” “This is such good coffee.” “Mmmm-mm!” “De-licious!” “Thank you Ma’am”. “Nothing like a good cup of coffee first thing in the morning, is there?” “Ah, come on you guys, is there?” “Yer darn right it is!” “This is the best cup of coffee in the whole universe!” “This is the best cup of coffee in the world!” “This is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had!” “This is the best cup of coffee I’ve had all day, in fact it’s the only cup of coffee I’ve had all day.” “Thank-you daaaaaahling!” “Who made it?” “There is love in this cup and I found it!” “Who made it, cause it’s a hum-dinger?” “It’s making me burp though, one after another.” “Here comes another one right now.” “Can’t help it, root-toot-toot, how do you do, la-de-dah, four!” “I have to blow on it because there are bugs on the top.” “Look at them scatter when I blow!” “I’m going to take another drink.” “I took one.” “I finished this coffee in two and a half slurps and a few burps”. “I could use some more coffee”. “Who made this coffee?” “It is de-licious!” “Thank you darling!” “Root-toot-toot, how do you do, la-de-dah (tongue roll), four!”

My dad looks at me with weariness and says, “I hate this Dusseldorf Orphanage”. This is my dad’s nonsensical name for the nursing home where he lives. A name he coined by the emotions of abandonment he feels about living in a place where there are so many residents whose minds are tucked away in dreamlike places and whose bodies limit them from walking away to their own homes. My dad is very frail due to the effects of severe osteoporosis, and his mind is full of clouds that drift between periods of clarity and confusion, a combined result of dementia and pain controlling medications. His ability to swallow is worsening and he is fed pureed foods so he won’t choke. Dad is lifted with utmost care from his bed with the help of a machine called a Hoyer. It is named after the person who invented it as a means of preserving the backs of medical personnel who have to lift those who can’t help lift their own weight, and preserve the fragile bones that are so easily broken in patients like my dad.

Last year my dad’s appendix ruptured and because he has a pain pump inside of him that emits medication to dull the pain of his crumbling bones, it wasn’t discovered for three days. He went into respiratory arrest in surgery, was brought back to life by the help of a respirator, then preceded to battle bouts of pneumonia and colon infections. His decline has been long, painful, and heart breaking. I live in Washington and my trips to Oregon over this last year have been frequent and often times long. My husband’s own health has at times been an issue, and as I have stayed with my husband as he recovers from one of his own surgeries, I’ve been on the phone facilitating the care given to my father at critical times of his decline.

Sleep is an issue for me, as I seem to process everything when I lie down. Many times, I will wake up from a deep sleep in a full panic attack with heart racing and my mind filled with thoughts of my husband or my ailing father. Such is the life of a caretaker.

I am my father’s medical power of attorney. The decisions of how his care is facilitated rest on my shoulders. The ache I feel for Dad residing in his “Dusseldorf Orphanage” is constant. The residents’ minds and emotions there seem to be best described with adjectives more often used for the weather: “cloudy,“stormy,” ”blustery,” “dreary,” occasionally “sunny,” and most often, “overcast.”

Sometimes my dad is focused and his cognitive abilities so sharp that he can remember the name of a country band named the Poodle Creek Pickers that his cousin Joe plays in out in Crow. Other times, he forgets who I am and introduces me as his sister, or calls me the name of one of my own sisters. When I left him a couple of days ago, I stroked his forehead as he began his morning nap. I tenderly kissed his forehead and said, “Dad, I have to leave back to Washington now.” He said, “Good night Lisa I’ll miss you.” I told him, “Now don’t give the nurses any trouble today.” He replied, “It’s night time and I’ll be sleeping.” I reminded him that he had just had his breakfast and he said, “I did?” Then remembering, he said proudly, “Oh, I ate all my mush!” His eyes focused on me and filled with tears, “Lisa, I’m screwed up.” My hands cupped his face and I assured him that he was on so much pain medication that it made it hard for him to think sometimes, that without it he would be able to think just fine.” My dad whimpered and started to fall asleep as I stroked his head. I left with tears on my cheeks. How I miss my dad. How I wish for release from his “Dusseldorf Orphanage.”

Picture above is when Dad was in the hospital for his first bout with Pneumonia

Picture below is when he bravely gave up cigarettes and tried Tootsie Pops, he wasn't impressed.



Dad with one of his girlfriends last year.



We celebrate his 79'th birthday.



Better Times

I Love you Dad

Musings of an Oregon Girl

I was born in Eugene, Oregon and raised most of my childhood in the country town of Crow, Oregon. But, between the ages of five and ten years of age, I lived in a cozy housing tract in Springfield, just outside of Eugene. There, I learned the important milestones in life, like how to ride a bike, blow bubbles with juicy fruit gum, climb trees and play endless games of “Kick the Can”, and “Red-Rover.” Interestingly, it is in this very neighborhood that I find myself once more being tethered.

Last fall, my already frail father suffered and survived a burst appendix. We didn’t think he was going to make it and in fact, he was on hospice for six months until he was unceremoniously dropped from it because he just kept on keeping on. Although my dad is frailer than he was a year ago, his strong logger’s heart has served him well and his wit is a life force of its own.

The nursing home where he now resides is just a couple of miles away from our old neighborhood, and even more special, when I visit my dad I stay nearby at the home of my high school English teacher who, along with his wife, have been my friends for…well, let’s just say, “What are a few decades between friends?” In fact, my friends actually live next to the elementary school where I learned letters formed words, and words helped you learn about the adventures of Dick, Jane, and Sally.

In short, my life is coming full circle. But within that circle are concentric rings that bump into each other, providing me with memories spanning from childhood, my high school years with my teacher, and as dad and I wave from the sidewalk of his nursing home to the crowds of Oregon Duck fans going to the next game, some of my college years.

Recently I walked to my childhood home from my friends’ house and stood in front of it, remembering. I remember sitting on the planter near the front door and laboring with my signature fevered tenacity how to tie my shoes. I remember how a large tree, which used to stand in the front yard, was pushed over by the relentless dark angry winds of the Columbus Day storm. In addition, how I thought “Columbus Day” was what everyone named that storm, and didn’t really quite get it that there was this guy named Christopher who actually took credit for discovering America, or something, on that day.

It is in the back yard of this home where I saw my first bearded iris and fell in love with its sweet delicately curled purple petals and pollen-filled fur trim. We had a huge fragrant lilac that my five siblings and I would pick bouquets of for our mom each May Day. We would jam their top-heavy blooms into our flimsy paper cones, knock on the door, and run away as she tried to find us to give us kisses.

We lived across from a filbert orchard and in early fall we would line filberts across the road and hide in the trees and holler and whoop as cars would drive over them, hoping fiendishly that the drivers would worry they had just driven over young fragile children’s’ bones.

I remember one neighbor had a paper birch tree with its white peeling bark and strikingly contrasted toothed green leaves. I found it so fascinating I was often reprimanded for taking “samples” of its bark for my nature collection. Our own back yard had two very large black walnut trees that in the fall would rain down awful green and black slimy round pods onto the soggy leaf covered back yard. These pods held walnuts in them that my grandmother would drive from her home in the country to help us pick-up. My parents would bring them to a place to have them cleaned and dried and when they came back, they were a handsome honey brown with hard deeply grooved shells. My mom and grandmother baked all year with the meats from those walnuts and I was incredulous that something that started out so ugly could end up tasting so good.

I’m thankful for the richness of memories. Sometimes they are just a vignette, sometimes an emotion, and sometimes if handled carefully they are a story, strung together with images, voices, and lessons learned. They are the “who we are” through the “who we were” parts of us. I am an Oregon girl. Go Ducks!