May 9, 2018
Last spring I decided I wanted a bird feeder in the backyard. I spent a happy hour with the knowledgeable and helpful staff of Wild Birds Unlimited, where the variety of feeders and food is almost… Unlimited.
Just as I finished my list, Joe happened to call. When he learned what it would cost, he balked, and said we should talk it over. I was quite downcast on the drive home, until I remembered that my 70th birthday was approaching in July. Joe agreed it would be a good birthday present, and told me to send him my list: auger pole, a curved double hanger, an antimicrobial tube feeder, a dinner bell, and a bag of seed. Now I had five months to look forward to feeding the birds. Anticipation of pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure.- David Hume
David Hume image:slate.com
I spent a lot of those five months in North Carolina, taking care of my sister Luli, who was dying. At the end she was in UNC hospice, a beautiful place in Pittsboro, with a bird feeder outside every guestroom. Though she was beyond comfort, the birds were a comfort to me. And when I was at home the birds and the bird feeder became an obsession.
Hospice called just before 7am on August 16. As soon as I saw the phone number I knew Luli was gone. Then came the dazed time. I weeded and pruned in the garden, sadly bedraggled after two months of spring drought and five months of neglect. I floated around in the pool, singing and crying. And I watched the birds. I sat on the deck with my binoculars, using the Cornell website for identification: tufted titmouse, cardinal, brown thrasher, Carolina wren, Carolina chickadee. 
images: titmouse wilddelight.com thrasher pinterest wren animalspot.net
I haunted the Wild Birds store, and bought meal worms, a squirrel baffle, a bird bath, and suet seed cakes. Spending was out of control, so I put myself on a weekly allowance for books, birds, clothes, plants, and all other gifts to myself. The allowance has reduced both my spending and my money-guilt, and it has expanded my bird feeding array – two poles now, two dinner bells and a tube feeder, a humming bird feeder, and a jury-rigged bird bath.
I am still trying to solve the problem of the bird bath. First I had a shallow plastic bowl resting in a ring on the pole. No birds came. A drip or spray will attract birds, but the whole array is far from running water and electricity. I found a floating plastic lily pad with a solar pump, but it quickly squirted all the water out of the bowl. I bought a deep metal dog dish, but birds don’t like deep water, so I bought rocks to put in the bottom and anchor the pump in the middle. When the sun is bright, the water shoots high, and I have to refill the bath every morning. And sometimes the pump comes loose and floats to the side, squirting all the water out in half an hour.
Cleaning the bath every week is an elaborate process. I keep it high to deter leaping cats, so I have to climb up on my kitchen stepladder to take it down. What with rocks and water, it is very heavy. The rocks go into a bucket with a dilute bleach solution, and then I rinse them over and over with the hose.
I keep coming up with new ideas. The birds have now discovered the water – maybe if I return to the simple plastic bird bath they will come even without the spray. I’m appalled by how much time I spend thinking about this.
Birds love worms. While meal worms are $12.95 for 500 at Wild Birds, you can buy 1000 for about the same price on the internet. I have a standing order for 1000 a month. I keep them in a container in the back of the refrigerator. Every morning I put a few into the dinner bells.
The worms gross out Joe and Amanda, a welcome bonus. For the worms’ weekly feeding (they get a piece of carrot and 8 hours at room temperature) Amanda insists I move them from the kitchen counter to a shelf in the atrium. I have chased her out of the kitchen with the worm-box.
Even in bulk the meal worms aren’t cheap, and the cost comes out of my allowance. I’ve just learned about earthworm farms, used to create rich compost. I’m trying to find out whether I can replace meal worms with earthworms for the bird feeders. It would be another gross project which I would enjoy discussing with Joe and Amanda.
The birds kept me company until November, when I suppose they all went to Miami and points south to escape our unusual cold.
image:123RF.com
This last strange, fierce winter not only drove away the birds, it froze almost everything to the ground. The garden beds were bleak and brown. I pruned all the deadwood, reducing the shrubs to small stumps.
I survived Thanksgiving without Luli, and Christmas without Luli. I didn’t struggle to write. I only wrote three blog posts, and never looked at my novel. I held on to the idea, like a life raft, that the first year of loss would be the hardest.
The birds returned in March, and I returned to the deck with my binoculars. I am delighted when a new type of bird visits the feeder, and am beginning to understand bird watchers in the wild, with their life lists.
I first saw doves pecking around the grass under the feeders. Then they discovered the worms in the dinner bell, hopped inside, and stayed until all they had gobbled them all up; the wrens and cardinals were out of luck.
Cardinals zip across the yard in pairs, and often the male feeds the female. They are nesting in the bamboo and in the scraggly woods. Yesterday a female fledging flew to the feeder and ate some worms, followed closely by an adult male who perched above her, watching. As they flew off an adult female joined them and the three entered the woods together.
fledgling cardinal image:terra4incognita.wordpress
Last week the first blue jay came, repeatedly. It flew in from the clump of wild growth, visited all three feeders and the birdbath, flew off to the bamboo. It returned to all the feeders and flew off to a tree across the yard. It came back once more, flew to the fence, and then went about its business.
Along with the birds, my garden has returned. The frozen bushes I had cut back began growing again. The beauty berry and princess plant covered themselves with leaves, and the lantana began to bloom. One of my favorites, whose name I have forgotten, blooms in summer with a small red flower. It stayed dead while everything else came to life, but the other day four leaves appeared at the bottom. In Luli's Garden, that I planted in September in her memory, the gingers poked out of the ground.
My writing roared back to life. In less than two months I’ve written 30 pages and plotted out many new scenes in the novel I thought I would never finish. I had to force myself to take a break from it to write this.
From this hard year of mourning I’m learning patience and faith. The birds, the flowers, the writing will come when they come. I can’t hurry them. And though a world without Luli sometimes feels unbearable, I know grief will subside in due time.
Luli's Garden
Dec 28, 2017
My sister Luli died in August and I’m beginning to come out of the fog. Someone told me that in Jewish tradition a mourner has no obligations for a whole year; friends and family simply take over and care for her. For about a month I stumbled around, losing things, forgetting, unable to process information. I couldn’t read. I certainly couldn’t write. In between bumbled tasks and necessary conversations I lay on the deck watching birds at my new feeder.
I spent hours cleaning up my garden, neglected during the months of Luli’s illness. I threw myself into brute labor, digging up a whole new bed, cutting back the bamboo. I planted a memorial garden, with Luli’s doorstep goddess gazing benignly from one end. Sweaty and filthy, I jumped into the pool and cried.
Though in most things I was inept, cooking became solace. My self- and Luli-absorption meant Joe and Amanda had to put up with a lot, but they were treated to new dishes, and many desserts.
All this activity couldn’t protect me from the sudden flashbacks to her terrible last five months. She was miserable: in pain, sometimes delusional, helpless, angry. I went up to North Carolina five times to take care of her. At the very end we had hospice, and they were wonderful, but even they couldn’t overcome the fact that dying is no fun at all.
The experience has led me to the book How We Die, with its reader-friendly account of how each organ system responds to senescence, leading to death. For some reason it was a great comfort to learn that a miserable death is common – we weren’t singled out for the horror.
Luli pops into my mind constantly. An article in the New Yorker on mythical beasts would have been just her cup of tea. Sexual harassment? We would have talked for hours. When Bill Clinton said, ‘I did not have sex with that woman,’ she sent me this postcard. I particularly like the nun on the left.
My first (and last) cruise to the Bahamas would have consumed at least three phone calls. The Taste of the Bahamas walking tour was worthy of at least an hour, with all the different dishes, and the guide who clogged interesting historical information with lectures about super foods and magic cures.
Luli fills my kitchen. She was a professional cook, and assisted Richard Sax on Classic Home Desserts. It’s crusted with flour, stained with butter, and crammed full of recipes she sent me by email or postcard. She was my private cooking coach, always available with advice by phone. When I stir a bit of butter into the pan drippings to make a satiny gravy, add a spoonful of the pasta water to the fresh tomato sauce, rub the roast all over with salt, I always think of Luli, who taught me these tricks.
I seem to be channeling her. When I’m not cooking I think about menus and imagine recipes. I have long friendly conversations with strangers. For a while every item of outlandish news produced an idea for a cartoon, but though I share her creative imagination, I entirely lack her graphic talent.
We buried Luli's ashes in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. It was a glorious October day, blue sky, and the trees in full color. Her little hole in the ground is under a huge English walnut tree. Nearby is a pond and a tall marble monument to Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of Christian Science. Down the way is Harriet Jacobs, the escaped slave who wrote Incidents in the Life of a Slave-Girl. So Luli is in good company – Eddy would deny she's dead, and Jacobs was ungovernable.
Nineteen of us – all family – stood in a circle around the hole, with the urn that Ben found at a garage sale looking like nothing so much as a giant nipple. (Michael had a terrible time with TSA bringing the sealed urn from Raleigh-Durham to Boston.)
We shared memories, and sang. When we finished singing, we each took a flower from the bucket of flowers Clairie had brought, laid them in a ring around the hole, and threw handfuls of dirt onto that ridiculous urn at the bottom. We went on to a sumptuous lunch at Casa Portugal – Luli would have loved it – and then back to Esther's for pastries, tea and coffee.
The gathering was comforting and moving. I'm so glad to have my family, and that Luli's ashes are in that beautiful place, with my brother Dickie’s nearby. What stays with me is that bright ring of flowers – daisies, roses, snapdragons, mums – on the ground around her little grave.
Clairie took charge of arranging Luli’s grave marker. We wanted one of her cartoons, but Mt Auburn said no human figures, without even seeing her naked, cavorting woman. We settled for one of her cats, and the following verse:
The worst thing about being in your coffin
Is that you’re unable to eat as often.
I knew Luli would have liked people to laugh as they passed her grave.
Now I have her picture on the cookbook shelf over the counter where I work, above the KitchenAid mixer I inherited. It’s not a surprise anymore each time I see it and remember she is dead and gone. I am purely and simply missing Luli.
Jan 4, 2017
2 New Year's gifts for my dear readers: a light hearted encomium to the sine qua non of home maintenance, and an easy recipe.
A couple of months ago Joe said, “I’d like a birthday party this year.” We only celebrate our birthdays in a big way every few years, so I told him if he’d give me the list I’d organize the whole thing. Then I forgot, and I think he did too, until eight days before the date. We went into high gear. He gave me the list, and some email addresses, and I sent forty invitations.
What about the menu? I suggested a big pot of chili, fried chicken from Publix, salad, and of course birthday cake. Over the years I have let go of the show-off cook, so I felt no need to prepare all the food for thirty or so people.Joe made it even easier. He wanted oysters, and he wanted to be in charge of them. He vetoed the chili, asked for deli sandwiches and fried chicken. And for everyone who asked “What can I bring?” the answer was salad.
After consulting with Luli, my sister and on-call food professional, I decided I could quadruple the Blitzen Kuchen recipe to make two sheet cakes without any unanticipated chemical reactions. (I did not consider the capacity of my stand mixer, and after beating the butter, sugar, and dozen eggs I had to transfer it to my largest bowl and mix in the flour by hand.)
The bowl was too small
The guests were all old (in both senses of the word) friends of one or both of us. There were clusters of guests – Joe’s poker buddies, his movie and football buddies, and the Muumuus – many with spouses. These were supplemented by a few outsiders who were welcomed by the different groups, including my middle-aged son – some of the people had known him as a toddler. And people saw old friends they had lost track of – there were warm reunions complete with pictures of grandchildren.
The weather obliged us. The sky was overcast and blustery, almost chilly, perfect for raw and grilled oysters out on the deck, with plenty of beer. As it got darker and colder, we moved inside to eat sandwiches and chicken by the fire, with Etta James on the stereo. Sitting on couches and folding chairs and coffee tables, people talked of books and movies and old affairs and (ugh) current affairs, which led Kristin to give us a song about Hitler’s (and Himmler’s and Goering’s and Goebbel’s) balls. She sings very well.
image:michael'stvtray.com
The party was well underway. Joe was basking in friendship – I’m not the only one who loves him. I was moving from place to place, checking on this and that, responding to the teenage girls’ boredom complaint with a look and then Netflix on my laptop, when Bruce said, “Liz, the front door won’t close.” “Whaaat?” (Translation: I don’t have enough to think about?)
It stood open about 18 inches, letting in the cold and letting out the cat. It wouldn’t go over the threshold. On our knees we discovered that the bottom of the door had come loose and slipped down. We agreed that this called for Larry, a retired cabinet maker with meticulous skills and a generous willingness to help. I went out on the deck and said, “Larry, please stop shucking oysters and come help with the door.” (We had bought a bushel and hired a shucker, but guys like to stand around shucking oysters and shooting shit.)
image:gypsygema.com
I went about my business while Larry and Bruce investigated, until Larry called for…duct tape. So much for the gifted cabinet maker. They jammed the bottom board up where it belonged and fastened it neatly. “To fix it you’ll need to take the door off the hinges. This is just a temporary fix,” Larry said. But I wasn’t so sure. Duct tape is a theme of our decor. The lovely silvery gray complements our lifestyle (I sneer at the brightly-patterned stuff they sell at Office Depot.)
Seven years ago Amanda was, to put it kindly, rambunctious. Sometimes it was a product of anger, but sometimes it was sheer exuberance. She was dancing in the shower one night when she slipped and grabbed onto the ceramic soap dish set into the tile. It broke off, leaving a gaping hole which exposed the pipes. (I still don’t understand how the weight of a slender seven-year-old could accomplish this, but that was her story.) Call the tile man? No. Get the duct tape. Joe, an ingenious – if not a handy – man, made a neat silver rectangle which has lasted to this day.
Three years ago Amanda had settled down and we had a slumber party for her 11th birthday. click This entailed moving all the living room furniture against the walls and laying down pads and mattresses. It was a lovely and boisterous affair, and after she had slept it off, Amanda was very cooperative in restoring the house to our standard of tidiness. Alas, in pushing the piano back into place she smashed the light switch plate and rheostat. Clearly a job for…Superduct!
This repair only lasted a week or two. I was uneasy about all the unprotected electrons shooting around behind their silver cover, and tired of not being able to turn on the lights, so I called a handyman.
image:warningacooleelectric.co.uk
I have written before about our low standards of tidiness and decor click. I love to visit my friends, their houses filled with beauty and the tranquility that comes from order, at least when they have visitors. Our disorder is a product of laziness, distractions, and perhaps most of all, the way messes become invisible as time passes – I no longer see the shoes in the middle of the living room, the pile of books waiting to be shelved.
Joe and I are fortunate to be well-matched – I can’t imagine a tidy person living with either one of us. It’s not that I’m proud to be a slob – sometimes I even think how nice it would be to be otherwise – but I’m no longer embarrassed. And in the way we all redefine our faults as virtues, I have created a new etymology for sLOVEnly.
BLITZKUCHEN
350 degrees (325 for pyrex) 8"pan, greased and floured 25-30 minutes
1 C white flour
1 t baking powder
pinch of salt
1 stick unsalted butter, softened
3/4 C sugar
3 eggs
zest and juice of half a lemon
1/2 t vanilla
Cream butter well, add sugar and lemon zest, beat well. Beat in eggs, lemon juice, vanilla. Stir together the flour, baking powder, salt, and beat in at low speed just till blended.
Frosting:
1 stick butter
1 C powdered sugar
2t vanilla
3oz unsweetened chocolate, melted (I do it in the microwave at 50% power)
Cream butter a LONG time, beat in sugar for a while, add vanilla and chocolate. If too soft to spread, refrigerate a while, if then too stiff, put in bowl of warm water and beat again.
Sep 19, 2016
For years I’ve had an idea running unnoticed behind my thoughts, the way programs run in the background on a computer: this is the way my life is supposed to be.
image:slideplayer.com
It’s an idea that can lead to resentment, but recently I’ve had a revelation. There’s no supposed to be; there’s just what is. Maybe this new (to me) version of truth will help me with my quest for acceptance, as in, “Accept the things you cannot change.”
It’s not that I’ve ever thought life was supposed to be all gardens and beaches. Accidents and illness, struggle and heartbreak – I’ve long known they were part of the mix. Since I was quite young, I’ve had a vision of how life works. You go along happily for a few years, encountering joys and troubles along the way but staying fairly upright, when suddenly life comes along with a catastrophe and pulls the rug out from under you.
image:missionblueprintonline
Still, I had a sense that there was some natural progression from infancy to old age, stages of life that would come in a certain order. This was one of a number of unexamined assumptions produced by a safe and secure childhood. As a child I lived in a luxurious cocoon. I was the youngest of four children, the baby of the family. My family was intact, my father made a very good living, my mother made a comfortable home life, my brothers adored me.
a luxurious cocoon image:busyknitter.com
Some of these unexamined assumptions are useful: I can do it; I am loved. Some are just silly. I was born when my parents were in their forties; we lived in big houses. My grown brothers lived in tiny apartments. I concluded that when you’re young you’re poor and when you’re old you’re rich. This idea miraculously survived years of working in poverty law. I was probably forty when I realized there wasn’t a natural progression from one state to the other.
images:thetinylife.com, wikipedia.org
When I was little I assumed my future was college, husband, housewife, motherhood. (You can tell from this when and into what class I was born.) This assumption exploded with the second wave of feminism, with reading the Second Sex at fourteen and The Feminine Mystique at fifteen. When the dust had settled, a new assumption took its place. I was in charge of my life, I could choose my path.
I’ve always known life isn’t fair. When I was raising two kids they’d say, as siblings do, “It’s not fair.” And I’d annoy them with a little ditty, “You always, you never, IT’S NOT FAIR,” and tell them no, life isn’t fair, that’s just the way life is. Every year I’d spend a semester and three credit hours trying to teach my law students that life’s not fair. They had not entirely earned their good fortune, nor did poor people deserve their misfortunes; a good deal of everybody’s situation was due to luck, good or bad. click
Life is what happens when you’re making other plans. I’ve known this for years; I’ve said this for years. Yet there in the background, belying this knowledge, was the belief that my life would proceed in ordered stages.
image:thepragmaticcostumer.wordpress
The gods have laughed at me over and over, yet I have to learn the lesson again and again. I had to learn it once more when my son came home to recover from a serious illness. Now the four of us – hard-working husband, retired wife, teenaged granddaughter, and middle-aged son – are bumping along together as well as we can. It’s not what I expected when I retired. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be.
All my life I have struggled to accept what comes my way. I should have been an alcoholic; then I could have gone to meetings and heard the Serenity Prayer. Maybe it would have sunk in. But I can’t go much beyond one drink without getting drunk, and I hate being drunk. I prefer musical inspiration anyway; I want to learn to take One Day at A Time. click
Writing has always brought me clarity. But I’m still confused, still trying to understand. There’s no supposed to be. There’s just what is.
N.B. This post is full of God and Jesus. I haven’t become a believer. Growing up in a sanctimonious culture, I’m saturated with pious aphorisms. And just about my favorite music is gospel, full of trouble, promise, and joy.
Jun 28, 2016
Most of my old friends near and far are grandparents now. They share their grandchildren’s pictures on Facebook, and though I usually ‘hide’ cat and dog videos, I love looking at babies and toddlers, especially when my friends are in the picture, beaming happiness.
My grandparent status is different, though hardly unusual, because I’m raising mine, and she’s a teenager. She lived with us for a couple of extended periods before coming for good when she was eight. We’ve had the usual travails of child-rearing, and then some. But I’ve had a grandmother’s full share of adorable and adoring. And I want to share those stories, because mine was once just as cute as yours, and because I like to remember those days.
Just as cute as yours
I love to sing, and in those days Amanda loved to hear it. I wrote a song for her before she was born ‘Ukelele, huckleberry, Amyanda Rose, she’s the sweetest baby, everybody knows, Orange blossom honey from her head down to her toes…’ To sustain us both through hours of walking (me) and screaming (her), I had Elisa’s song from my childhood ‘Aa naa naa mi nena de mi corazon..’ click. I wrote a toilet training song: ‘I went peepee in the potty… I’m such a great big girl.’ To my amazement she sang it to me just the other day.
And then there was the huge repertoire of songs to get her to sleep at night. She had me trained to stay with her until she slept. I particularly remember holding my breath and inching my body off the bed after twenty renditions of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, only to hear “Grandma,” as I reached the door. We had On Top of Old Smoky, You Are My Sunshine, Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night, Down in the Valley, Go Tell Aunt Dora, and many, many more. I look back and wonder, what was I thinking? I’m a great believer in bedtimes, and bedtime routines, but somehow our routine had become sing until you drop. I think I was a pushover because I worried about what was going on at home.
Like Grandma, like Grandbaby: until she matured into self-consciousness, Amanda would frequently break into song. At three we took her to Jacksonville Beach. Joe went in to ride the waves, Amanda and I sat in the sand at the edge of the water, making drip castles. Every time the water ran up under our bottoms the castles washed away. Every time, she laughed. And suddenly she began singing, ‘Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham.’ click
First trip to Jax beach – in winter
We took her camping at Cumberland Island when she was seven. It’s a special place, only accessible by ferry, a national seashore in southern Georgia with long empty beaches, wild horses, and billions of birds. Though it was supposed to be a tenth anniversary celebration, suddenly we had Amanda. So we borrowed a bigger tent and went on our first real family trip.
some of the billions:oystercatchers image:Jacksonville.com
Everything was new to Amanda. It was her first boat ride – she and Joe stood in the bow to catch the wind in their faces. We disembarked and got a cart to haul our gear over the long trek to the camp site. We slept cozy in the tent, the October weather mild and the mosquitoes gone, and through the night heard the wild horses galloping down the trail.
image:ajc.com
We rose early, and Amanda and I took flashlights to walk the long path to the bathrooms, and then through the woods to the beach. Through the moss-draped oaks the sunrise filled the whole sky with rose and gold. And Amanda began singing, ‘Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me.’ click
image: m.flikie.com
Cumberland Island is magical in so many ways. We watched the waves and birds and sunrise, and then returned to the camp where Joe was making breakfast. When breakfast was cleared away, the three of us set off to explore the island, walking carefully down the trail to avoid the piles of horse shit. “Grandma, the doodoo is moving!” We squatted down, and sure enough, iridescent dung beetles were patiently rolling balls of horseshit along to wherever they thought it should go.
image:toptenz.net
Children like shit. Whenever Amanda was staying with us, we would go for a walk in the evening, Joe holding Trisket’s leash, Amanda on her tricycle. I was in charge of picking up the poop, until the day when Amanda said, “I want to carry the doodoo.” Proudly she led the parade, with the plastic bag of shit dangling from her handlebars.
Maryanne and I have been friends since 1980; like me, she acquired a child late in life. When they were little the girls loved to play together, and Joe and I spent a lot of time with Maryanne and Larry. We were so at home at their house that I could honestly say ‘Being with you is almost as good as being alone’(and they didn’t take offense).
On a chilly night Larry made a fire in the living room and the girls roasted marshmallows. Soon they were covered in melted marshmallow, particularly fetching on Amanda’s dark skin. They were purely happy; so was I. Sharing this unexpected road with Maryanne has doubled the pleasure and cushioned the bumps.
When Amanda was in kindergarten I picked her up every morning to take her to school. One day she found a soup pot and wooden spoon in the back of the car (no, I don’t remember why), and she decided to make breakfast. From then on, I chose my daily breakfast from the menu she recited. I could have bacon and eggs, pancakes, spaghetti and meatballs, black beans and rice, or chicken soup. It was all delicious, especially satisfying on winter mornings as we drove through darkness with dawn just breaking. I asked her once what was in the soup. “Chicken…and soup,” she told me scornfully – any fool would know that.
All you need is chicken…and soup. Images:recipesfab.com, allrecipes.com
Amanda was briefly a Brownie, and in fourth grade Joe took her to the Father-Daughter Dance. We went all out for this, knowing it would likely be the last time she would happily go dancing with Grandpa.
Brownies selling cookies
She needed a special dress. Until now, fearing squabbles and tantrums, I had always bought her clothes, returning whatever she didn’t like. This was our first shopping trip together, and it was a revelation. She was quick and decisive, and we found a dress in twenty minutes. And what a dress: very grown-up-looking and entirely modest – we both loved it. We had time and energy for shoes – jeweled silver sandals with a slightly elevated heel. And later I went to Beauty Max (the place for costume jewelry) for diamond earrings and a hairclip.
The afternoon of the dance, I painted her nails and fixed her hair in a bun, and we came out to present her to Joe in her full glory. “Wait,” he said. “There’s one more thing.” And he went to the refrigerator and brought out a rose corsage.
She won a prize for her dancing
Since I saw her born, I’ve known I was lucky to have my grandbaby living nearby. People often say the joy of grandchildren is you get to have them for a while and then you get to send them home. We don’t have that with Amanda, instead we have the complex joys of raising her. A recent article in the paper told me that people who take care of their grandchildren have a reduced risk of Alzheimer’s. I was delighted, until I kept reading and learned that those who are full-time parents to their grandchildren have an increased risk. Oh well.
Now we have a brand-new grandbaby, who will be the borrow and return type. Joe’s daughter Leah gave birth to a HUGE baby, Ula Mae, on June 1. All is well there – the love was immediate and overwhelming, and mother and baby are champion nursers. James is doing everything fatherly possible given that he lacks functional nipples. The little issue of sleepless parents will resolve itself after a while. They don’t live quite close enough, but New Orleans is only an eight-hour drive, and I’ve learned from my friends that Facetime does wonders. It’s my turn again to be fatuous and adoring, and I can’t wait.
Apr 9, 2016
It was Sunday, 8am. The car was loaded – CD’s, snacks, maps, and my own big-font back-road directions. I was headed to Lake Dreher in South Carolina to camp a night with my high school friend Emily, and then to Chapel Hill for four nights with Luli. Freedom! Giggles! Long intimate talks! What could be better? I had just buckled my seat belt when my cellphone rang.
A campsite at Lake Dreher
It was Luli, but not lively Luli. It was her dead voice. She was speaking from the abyss. “Lizzy, don’t come. I can’t have houseguests. I can’t see anyone.” I had never heard it so bad, though I’m careful not to miss our daily phone call when she’s depressed. Of course, when she’s at the bottom, she doesn’t answer the phone.
I called Luli’s psychiatrist, who told me to come right away. I called Margaret, Luli's good friend and neighbor, who promised to keep an eye on her. I called Emily and told her my sister was sick and I was going straight to Chapel Hill. Ten hours later I was driving in the dark, lost as usual in the surreal meanderings of 15-501. I called the motel Joe had booked for me. It was only two blocks away, and in a few minutes I had collapsed on the bed. Luli refused to see me, but agreed I could call her in the morning.
image: aaroads.com
In the morning, she said Margaret and I could come over after breakfast, and the first thing she said when we arrived was, “My sense of humor is returning.” Luli’s depressions can go on for more than a year; this had been only twenty-four hours. She wasn’t all the way out of the pit; she lacked energy and had that frailty of someone who has just emerged from a nightmare. Still, Luli was back. Despite a sharp pain in her gut, which she attributed to a new iron prescription, she was ready to visit. We settled her on the couch with a heating pad.
By mid-afternoon she told me to cancel the hotel and stay with her. Nausea had joined the pain, but she remained pretty cheerful. I ate a delicious supper of salad and Luli’s frozen clam chowder. She ate a few bites of yoghurt and threw up. She persisted in blaming it on the iron pills.
images:chowhound.com, foodnetwork.com
It was 2:30 in the morning when she woke me up and said we had to go to the emergency room. I found the directions on Mapquest; at that hour there was no traffic, and it was a straight shot and short drive. Or it would have been had I turned left intstead of right on Columbia – I blame Mapquest but it certainly could have been me. When I knew I was lost I pulled over, turned on my flashers, and called 911.
image: driversed.com
As I had hoped, a police car pulled up. Officer McDonald said we could wait for the ambulance or he could lead us to the ER, a mile away. I chose that. Luli was in no condition to choose anything – she was doubled over in pain, which now stretched from her belly to her breast.
The parking lot was full. Officer McDonald, his name now inscribed in the Book of Good Deeds, told us to inform the receptionist we’d left our car in the driveway. The waiting room was even fuller than the parking lot. I muttered to Luli, “Tell them you have chest pain.” In classic Eder-family fashion she began by minimizing it, so I interrupted and said, “She has chest pain and vomiting.” We were in triage in less than a minute, with a kind, plump doctor who sent us back immediately to the “cardiac room” a big room with one bed, one plastic chair, and many monitors and machines, right across from the nurse’s station.
image: southcountyhealth.org
Mary Scott, a lovely 14-year old nurse, spoke soothingly as she took Luli’s vital signs, set up monitors, started the IV and – Hallelujah – began the morphine. I sat on the chair, covered with coats and purses, and watched Luli’s lips slowly curve upwards.
The Land of Morphine image:neurorexia.com
Luli is not a whole lot sillier on morphine than she is in real life. She was back, and she proceeded to charm everyone who came in the room, flirting and joking and making it clear that there was a real person underneath all the tubes and monitors. While she enchanted the staff, I wrote down everyone’s name and what they told us.
At 7 o'clock the shifts changed, and brought a new nurse, Peter. Like Luli, he was a New Yorker, and they talked about neighborhoods and theater and everything New York while he learned all about her condition and did a thousand medical things. If he hadn’t been living with his fiancé, I think he would have asked Luli ro marry him. I asked him if we could turn off the lights so we could get some sleep. He had only been at UNC a few weeks, and though he looked all over the room he couldn’t find the switch. He went out in the hall, crossed his fingers, and flipped a switch. “I hope this doesn’t turn off anything important.” The lights went out, an aide found a recliner for me, and we slept a bit.
Nurses work REALLY hard. image:mlive.com
I was too tired to be tired; Luli was drugged. Coffee for me, X ray, CAT scan, blood tests for her. A resident came in with the results – there’s a hernia and an intestinal blockage, we’re going to consult the cardiac team (Luli has a bad heart valve) – and he was gone. Luli was still on morphine, she didn’t care. But I knew “intestinal blockage” was serious. And I didn’t know what they were going to do about it, or when, or ANYTHING.
I went looking for Peter, who was watching two monitors, writing in a patient chart, and eating a bagel. He didn’t know who the doctor was, and I couldn’t remember his name. But shortly afterwards a tall blonde woman came in followed by two young women and a man. They were the surgical team, led by Dr Dreisen. She introduced herself to both of us and carefully explained what they were going to do, down to the different types of mesh they would use depending on what they found inside Luli. If the piece of intestine trapped in the hernia were healthy, things would be pretty simple; if it were infected or dead, they would do a bowel resection.
image: drugs.com
Luli was still stoned, and still charming, but she was calm and lucid. She asked about the possibility of a colostomy. She told about the nightmare of her week-long UNC hospital stay seventeen years ago after a pulmonary embolism, when ineptitude, neglect and cruelty reigned. Dr. Dreisen apologized for what used to be, and assured her they would take good care of her this time. As soon as they had consulted with cardiology they would get her into surgery.
In less than an hour I was following Luli’s gurney all over the hospital and in to a pre-op cubicle in the surgery suite. Another team of three came in, led by the anesthesiologist who specialized in cardiac cases. She was as clear, thorough, and kind as Dr. Dreisen, and even taller. She questioned Luli at length, and responded to each answer with “Awesome.” She explained that they were going to lower a camera down Luli’s esophagus so they could keep an eye on her heart during the surgery. After the long interview, which included medical and personal details, and Luli’s somewhat strained wit, she concluded that we were both awesome. My concern at having a twenty-year-old responsible for my only sister’s heart was allayed by her awesome knowledge of all things cardiological and anesthesiologocial, and the clarity of her explanations.
I sat in the surgery waiting room with all the other people whose loved ones were being cut open. I was exhausted. I was scared. I had a raging case of cystitis and was desperate for pyridium, the pain-killer. I asked the very kind volunteer where the nearest pharmacy was, and she told me there was one in the cancer hospital. I walked and walked to the far end of the complex, to discover that this was the pharmacy where outpatients got their prescriptions. I walked back to the other end, and almost cried when the volunteer in the little sundries shop said yes they had pyridium. I swallowed two on the spot.
It's really four hospitals, and VERY large
I returned to the waiting room, and then Luli’s friend Kathy showed up to keep me company. We talked about everything. Though she was dealing with her father’s severe medical emergencies, her mother’s distress, and the imminent death of an old friend, she was going to spend the night with Luli in the ICU.
At about five Dr Dreisen came out, gleeful. All had gone well, they’d shoved the healthy intestine back where it belonged, and patched up the hernia. From that moment, things just got better and better. Luli is a 71-year-old woman who works out vigorously five days a week. They kept her in the ICU because of her heart valve, but she recovered ridiculously fast. We had gone to the ER at three in the morning Tuesday, and left the hospital at noon on Friday. I stayed with her till Monday. Four weeks later Dr. Dreisen told her she could return to the gym and resume her regular workout, with the exception of the rower and Pilates.
image:crossfitsweatshop.com
Hospital World makes the outside world disappear. There’s nothing but long corridors and elevators, bustling people in scrubs and white coats. I must have encountered two hundred people at that hospital: desk clerks, doctors, orderlies, nurses, cafeteria workers, aides, housekeepers, medical students. I met them at length as they cared for Luli, or briefly as they served me a meal. In elevators they greeted me with “How are you doing?” At the information desk they helped me find Margaret – I was waiting for her in the Corner Café; she was waiting for me at Starbucks. Fourteen hours after we’d arrived at the ER, when Luli was out of surgery and settled into the ICU, I went down to see about my illegally parked car. The parking lot attendant: “We were trying to find you, we didn’t want to have it towed, we paged you, aren’t you Gonzalez?” And there was my car where I had left it.
The parking attendant was one of 100's of kind people. image:hospitalparkinguwo.ca
Clearly management has set the tone for this hospital. I suspect the head honcho is a nurse, because the focus is on the patient, and families are welcome, even in the ICU, where the patients are in private rooms instead of multiple beds around the nursing station. The predominant note is kindness – I think they pump it through the ductwork – followed immediately by knowledge, technical skill, and clear communication. We only encountered a couple of staff who need some coaching: the resident who delivered bad news with no explanation and then disappeared, and a housekeeper and transport orderly who talked non-stop, wearing us both out.
I have read that hospitals are making themselves over, with fine cuisine and chic decor. I don’t care about that. What matters is people who remain humane as they deal with crisis and killing workloads, who know that what is routine and ordinary to them is unique and frightening to patients and families.
I don't want lobster (Lenox Hill Hospital image:NYPost.com)
Even with the best of staff, no one should be alone in the hospital. And no one should be alone waiting to hear the news after surgery. Kathy distracted me in the waiting room with videos of her grandbaby; Margaret organized Luli’s friends and shared night duty with me and Kathy, while other friends spelled me during the day. Staff were impressed by the support, and the anesthesiologist said, “I don’t think my sister would do that for me.” In our case it’s payback. Years ago I arrived at Luli’s house with the flu. She spent a week taking care of me with garlic soup and single malt. After each of my knee replacements she came to Gainesville for a week. She cooked delicious dinners every night, and left us with a freezer full of stews, soups, and chicken pot pie.
image:todaysparents.com
It was an unusual vacation, not at all what I had hoped for. But this dramatic and terrifying emergency, which in the end was merely a hernia repair, brought several unexpected benefits. My sister and I are closer – I wouldn't have thought that possible. I got to know Margaret, who is my kind of people. And Luli, whose brief depression had been brought on by the prospect of cardiac surgery at the place that had ill-treated her so long ago, saw that UNC Memorial had been transformed. She met and admired the cardiac team, and learned all about the proposed valve replacement. I can't say she's excited about the prospect – she'd probably prefer a week in Paris - but she's not dreading it anymore. She'll probably get it done sometime this summer. And I bet that by Labor Day she'll be back at the gym.
