Documents Everyone should have

Learning the hard way what documents to have on hand can make a traumatic situation pure hell. Luckily, because my dad and I are co-facilitators for the Parkinson's Resources support group for the Lower Columbia Region we had begun to keep a journal of his medical history with pages and forms provided by the Parkinson's Center of Oregon through Parkinson's Resources.

These forms help keep medicines straight, journal incidents and events to discuss with the doctor. Adverse drug reactions or interactions as well as diet and exercise. Also, a durable Medical Power of Attorney and a legal document called Critical Information that should be notarized. It contains "critical information" concerning where your advanced directive is, if you have a medical power of attorney, who should be contacted in case your incapacitated (and who shouldn't be!), where to find legal documents, who your attorney is, if you have made funeral arrangements, etc...

All of this is kept in "The Notebook". Also in "The Notebook" is copies of my dad's dd214 (discharge papers, every once in awhile I have to reaffirm with the VA hospital that he really was in the Navy) as well as a copy of his social sercurity card, his driver's license, his VA card, his Medicare and his supplemental insurance as well as prescription cards. Copies, because hospitals just need copies of copies.

The medicine page is kept up to date and his most recent trip to the doctor's office is in there as well. I don't do very well keeping up on the incident journal (almost tripped today, having vivid dreams, etc...).

Its a real comfort when you head out the door with a sick one in tow to God only knows what to be able to grab up that Notebook and have everything there at your fingertips. When your feeling fine is the best time to get one started. Especially when deciding the hard stuff: Advanced directives; Medical Power of Attorney; Funeral Arrangements. For some forms to help keep a medical journal to help you survive the "event" visit the OHSU Parkinson's center and use their forms. Just remember to white out the word Parkinson's where ever you see it (unless, of course, you have Parkinson's).

On that same page is a link to Critical Information for Caring for the Parkinson's Patient . That form can be adapted to most diseases or chronic illnesses. Don't hesitate to use it, just remember to substitute the correct disease name in.

And, on a slightly cheerier note, you can now pick out your own casket at a low, low price from, yep, Costco! Ride through eternity with "Kirkland" embossed silkiness likeness nestled next to your cheek! Actually, they're not that bad looking and really save quite a bit of money. I am just wondering where to keep it until its needed!

Oh, stop looking so worried, Dad. I told you the tests came back and your fine, just fine. Now, which coffin did you say you liked?

Hospital Hell

The last few weeks have been hell.

My dad had a heart attack. He's 67 and has Parkinsons. With my husband, he forms my base. Two rocks that are hard, firm and something you can anchor yourself to when storms blow.

The whole time I was growing up he was never sick. One time the dock roof at City Transfer, back when Forrest Vaughn owned it, fell on his head. He got stitches and took one day off. His dad was a longshoreman. My dad and mom had four girls before little boy blue was born, on dad's birthday. We played flag football with the little squirt since we were old enough to form a "defensive squad". We played so hard it turned him into quite the tough football player. Small and not a great runner during practice but get his adrenalin going and not much could stop him. We often got his adrenalin going. Four older sisters making life hell. And a father who's only other outlet than family was coaching little league.

Mr. B is what Brian Tarabochia of Salmon for All tagged him with eons ago and Mr. B he has been for generations of kids. People I didn't even know would come up to me and tell me what a great coach he was. He loved teaching kids the dynamics of baseball. He loved basketball too, and often helped me with my basketball teams.

Sister Daintry was the best known athlete of the family. She was the last baby Dr. Fowler ever delivered so my mom let him name her. With that name it was decided no middle was needed. She has a PhD now and is in administration for the State of Hawaii working with the mentally challenged.

Of us kids, though, my sister Sarah was the "natural". If she wasn't so shy she could have gone to college on a sports scholarship. Absolutely anything she put (and still puts) her mind to do she accomplished with what seemed to be utter ease.

But, back to me. This is my blog not theirs (love you #3 & #4)! #1 and the one to stay home, man the home fires, and watch my father struggle as his body goes in different directions than his mind wants it to.

The day before his heart attack we were clearing shrubbery and finding that which was covered. A true nightmare of what can happen in the woods when sticker bushes find your discarded items that will "eventually" make it to the dump. He picked up TWO ceramic toilets, tanks intact, and put them on the wheel barrow. Shortly thereafter he said he wasn't feeling well. He had been having spells of tiredness for the past two months and when we told the parkinson's doctor at the VA hospital/clinic we were just told Dad had to either start exercising more or submit to the loss of muscle usage and give in to the tiredness.

He was on Metoprolol for an unspecified, unusual but untraceable EKG. When he was in Japan for my brother's wedding something happened which they thought could have been a heart attack however the EKG kept giving different readings and when they did an angiogram nothing unusual showed except that he had an unusually thick heart wall (what?).

The Parkinson's doctor did not question whether his unusual fatigue was due to his heart. He increased his Sinemet and Mirapex and said exercise more. We exercised him more. Walked more often and asked him to help more around the house getting it ready for sale.

He was life flighted to St. Vincents in Portland. Watching your father flown off in a helicopter to a hospital towards God knows what is really surreal. I couldn't believe it was happening. I was the one to drive him to the ER room at 4 am because of his arm going numb and chest feeling like an iron band was squeezing it. The VA hospital refused to take him if an ambulance brought him. I had been told that by a nurse before. If at all possible we needed to bring him in ourselves because they won't refuse you then but they ALWAYS refuse if another hospital calls.

Bart drove and I called everyone on my cell that I was supposed to. My mom and my son called their lists of people they were responsible for. In our family whoever you call first you are responsible to keep updated. I still owe phone calls. And I am so tired of the horror story that follows.

DO NOT EVER allow a loved one to go to the hospital alone. DO NOT EVER allow a loved one to go to the hospital alone. My father lost his dignity and his pride at St. Vincents by a sadistic nurse and one I should have known not to leave him alone with. 20-20 hindsight.

Another day, maybe? Am I really going to finish this here. This is long enough and I am sick at heart. I have spent the last few days filling out forms, writing letters, trying to get records transfered, checking on all of his meds, consulting with the pharmisist to see which ones conflict. Reading to see when to take which for the best effect. Parkinson's meds can't be taken with protein or they bind to the food and flush right out without taking effect in the body. His heart pills must be taken with food or they will make him nauseous.

When he left that ward he walked out. They didn't even offer him a wheel chair. The night before they had had security guards in his room because they thought they might have to take him to the psych ward because the nurse said he was having delusions! My father said he had peed on himself and the nurse refused to give him a clean gown. He peed on himself because the plastic urinal was full. The nurse was pissed that he couldn't hold it until he got to him and asked him if he liked laying in his own piss. My dad told me he wished my brother was there. He knows he would have punched him. I feel sorrow I didn't stay that night.

I was tired, so tired and went over to the guest house even though the nurse bugged me, sneered when my mother tried to joke with him and barely nodded when we left. The one saving grace was that I told him I was worried that my father's Parkinson's meds weren't being ministered on time and he seemed disorientated. If there were any problems, even if it was 2 am I was to be called, no restraints or other drastic measures were to be taken.

Did he treat my father like that because he could get away with saying he was delusional? I understand delusions in the hospital. I was there with both my grandparents through numerous operations and understand how narcotics can play havoc with the mind. In this CCU ward it is supposed to be one on one care. The nurse had three patients. When my father was wheeled out of surgery I was the one that held the compress on his groin where the angioplasty had been incerted for 45 minutes because the nurse had to prep another patient for a "very tough surgery" and she also had another patient to check on. She didn't want to use the belt because it is painful. She kept on gritting her teeth and barking at my father to "stop shaking your leg, your going to rip open your incision". And no matter how many times I told her he had Parkinsons AND restless leg she would just say, "he has to try harder"!!!

OH! I am so angry. His VA clinic GP NEVER, EVER returned any phone calls. Still hasn't. And dad is supposed to be going to see him sometime next week, according to hospital discharge papers, for a follow up. In another week he is supposed to go back to the heart surgeons. He said it will be a cold day in hell before he steps through the doors of St. Vincents again.

When I got called to his room at 2 am and got him calmed down I went out to talk to the nurse. I was calm, he was all sweetness and light. Didn't know what came over my father, he just went off! I said that he had mentioned that two of his meds were refused him. The nurse said, "Oh, it was just his Parkinson's meds and it was just his 10 oclock night time one and his midnight one". May I please have them, thanks. Going back to my father's room I felt so cold. If he was right about the meds, how much of the rest of the horror story was delusion and how much was real? How would we ever know? I know this man gave me the creeps when he came on and I told my mom, "I'm too tired to break in another nurse and this one looks like a real prick. Do you think dad will sleep through the night?" She said we can hope so and leave our names with the nurse. You aren't supposed to sleep in the room or be in the room after 9:30 PM each night but we stretched as long as we could to keep him from being agitated.

The tears are burning down my face now. I don't like hospitals. I know, I know. I know it all, the pluses the whys and the wherefores. My sister-in-laws are hospital administrators, nurses, and my daughter is studying to be a nurse. It probably just means I know that much more to keep me scared and sad. If he has another attack he says he won't go in. I don't know what I am going to do.

Two arteries to his heart were completely blocked. He had stints put in. One person coming through doing some sort of paperwork asked if we knew why they waited two days before doing surgery on my father. We said what? With this type of blockage, shortly after the sonogram shows the problem, apparently, they usually do the "procedure" (no longer known as surgery). Did we know why there was a two day delay. No, we just thought they were stabilizing him.

What was that about?

If you've stuck around this long, thank-you for "listening". Here's to a brighter tomorrow and a prayer that no more trips to a hospital will be needed. Ever.

You are always somebody's child

I have written about this before and will again and again. Living multi-generationally has its pluses and its, um, detractions. My twenty-five year old has been heard to wail, on more than one occassion, "I am an adult, I shouldn't have to report where I am going." To the people who are watching her child while she is out "going" wherever it is she is going to.

I do understand. I SOOOOO understand. She was hollering, blindly, over her shoulder at her brother and her grandmother, and probably a parting shot at me. When I leave I am talking to my husband, my son, my mother, my father and my grandson who is frantically pulling on shoes saying, "I come with you 'Bika?" I say, " I am heading to the store, anyone want anything?" and then one of them, inevetably says, "So and so just came from the store, why are you going now?" BECAUSE I WANT TO! My mind screams. My mouth mutters, "Because I forgot to mention the soap and toilet paper we were out of." To shut the men up I usually mention a feminine product. Immediately their eyes go out of focus and you can see hair grow inwards in their ears.

My mother is on loan to me from my sister as we prepare parts of the property for sale, mainly the house. She is an energy dynamo, who also has taken over duties with my father, her ex-husband, with whom I think there is still a good relationship. I say "think" because sometimes I wonder if they are going to kill one another. My mother has taken it upon herself to lay out all of his medication each night. She follows the list that we made. Together we made that list. All three of us. So, all three of us should be able to read it the same, correct? Oh, hell no! I write "one dose" meaning the dose it say on the bottle. She reads it as one tablet . Luckily this only happened one day so we were able to straighten it out pretty promptly. The child proof bottles supposedly aren't a problem since they use tools to pry them off. I guess the VA pharmacy doesn't give a choice on the type of bottle tops.

While they get the bottle tops off and discuss the correct dosages my mother throws out any meds she feels are outdated. The problem being NONE should be since my father is on all prescription meds and they come at the correct time through the mail so what the hell is she throwing away which pisses my father off. Plus, my mother is partially blind. But she's the one reading the meds to see which ones are outdated. One of these days I am going to walk over to my dad's house and find them both dead. Scenario: He killed her and then died from eating the wrong pills or they stabbed each other when trying to open the damn pill bottles with dull paring knives and box cutters. Lucky for me I haven't pissed anyone off in a high office or I might get myself framed for a murder!

The other day I tool ALL the pills away and bought seven pill dispenser, one for each day. I fill them once a week with the correct dosage and give my father his new, corrected list with a picture of the pill and correct dosage to be taking at each interval. Neither of my parents were impressed or happy about this change of events. I didn't discuss it with them, I just did it.

I mean, dammit, I am not a little kid anymore. I am not, I emmit, I emmit! And if I am going to be held responsible at some point by my own siblings for whether or not pills are being taken or our blind mother is wielding sharp objects to open things I have to put my foot down. Over and over and over again, if that's what it takes!

Enjoying the little neckers

For dinner tonight: Clams, olive loaf, corn on the cob, squash, black beans, and rice. I love razor clams. I hate digging clams. Hate it, hate it, hate it. I hate sand, actually. It hurts. It gets in all the cracks and crevices of your body and takes forever to wash out. It gets in your teeth and between your toes and everywhere in between! Crunch, crunch, crunch, sand in the teeth. Yuck!

When I had had enough of my first marriage and packed my children and my bags and left I went on food stamps. I was the first person in the history of my family to "go on" food stamps. Not a crowning moment. My grandfather decided to help me "go off" food stamps. "Honey, whenever we needed food we would go clam digging. Why don't you just go clam digging?" "The season's not open, " I would reply. "Honey, it will be okay, if someone stops you you just tell them your getting off the public dole, they'll understand." I didn't think they would so I wouldn't go when the season wasn't open. Then came the battle when the season was open!

"Honey, lets you and me go clam digging." "That's okay grandpa, we'll be okay." "You'll feel better about yourself if your not on the public dole, honey, lets get some clams." Why was I fighting him now? Because he didn't think going over the limit was that big of a deal when you had hungry mouths to feed. My aunt had four mouths to feed, I had two, my uncle had three and grandpa would reason that was four adults, including him, whose limit we could dig. The problem was they weren't with us. He would say, "Oh honey, the ranger's a reasonable man, he's only after the crook. If he stops us we just tell him what we're doing and he'll understand. He's looking for the poacher, not us. " Um, you want to get clams out of season and you want to get more clams than we are supposed to, um, we are the poachers. But no, no we weren't and nothing I could say would convince him otherwise. I rarely went clam digging with him, the pressure was too great and I knew the rest of the family would blame whoever was caught with him, although now that I am older I think I would have just handled it different. I would have just made sure I had the limit in my bag and let him put all the overlimit into his bag. Then, if we had been stopped I would let my grandfather talk to the man for about an hour as HIS punishment for having stopped us.

I swear, one time my grandfather went through a stop sign in front of a cop and when the cop saw who was driving he just nodded and waved. "That's too bad he didn't stop me for something," grandpa remarked, "I didn't get to finish telling him about how we used to have fill out reports when we brought abandoned boats in that had been stuck on the sand bars. Triplicates, and it was a royal pain in the you-know-what if you made a mistake because you can't scratch it out, it has to be a clean sheet of government issue paper, which if you wasted you had to fill out another form informing someone of why you were using so much paper ..."

One day my grandfather launched into, "Honey, you'll feel better if your not on the government dole," speech and I had had it. "Why don't you get off the dole if its so bad being on it?" I asked, hotly. "What are you talking about?" came the retort. "Your darling Limbaugh was saying how no one should be taking a hand out of Social Security. Why don't you "get off" that?" "I earned that!" he grouchily said. "Grandpa, you have been retired for 20 years. You are making more in retirement than you did when you were working! You are on government 'dole'!" At the time he was collecting two retirements plus social security. He was coast guard twenty years then he went to work for the school district as a custodian and worked another 20 years. He had health insurance from Tri-Med and VA, as well as Medicare. He literally was making almost three times what he had when he was working, even given cost of living increase. He muttered again, "I earned that!" I replied, "I don't deny that, but I've been working since I was fourteen and I've never been on unemployment insurance. After all of these years, I am looking at these food stamps as my "insurance," I earned them. Now, can we never talk about "dole" again?" "Sure thing, honey, or Rush Limbaugh either."

Pride and Joy

In the store the other day my grandson sings, "If your happy and you know it clap your hands," and follows with a clap, clap, clap. No one is in the aisle with me to enjoy my precocious two and a half year old. "He's so intelligent and adorable," I think. He's got his head bobbing and he's really enjoying whatever beat he has going on in his head.

We round the corner and go down the next aisle. This aisle is pretty full of people. My pride and joy is still bee-bopping away. He's singing something else now. What is it? I am bending down, getting something off of the bottom shelf so don't quite catch what it is he's singing in a very melodramatic, raspy voice. I hear an elderly voice ask him, "What's that your saying sweety?" I stand up just in time for him to shriek: "You can't kill the Metal, the metal won't die! Smack it to the ground!" The lady looks at me in indignation. I look back at her and shrug. I offer, "If your happy and you know it clap your hands?"

This day is done

Today was one of those days. I am excited about selling and moving back up to the upper property, developing our home there that has been put on hold for seven years. Seeing if we can get a neighborhood school developed, etc. Yet, today was one of those days. Those days when I see what I had once wanted to do here. This house which is not so special, except ....

It was the home of my grandparents. It was where each and every one of their grandchildren ran for comfort. It has meant safety to generations of people. It is where we hung our first deer, canned our first beans, strawberry's, made our first pickles. It is where we made our first popcornballs with grandma's recipe, baked our first crazy cakes, knitted our first afghans. It is where we buried our dogs, our cats, our turtles, our birds, our pigs, our goats, our chickens, ducks, hamsters, mice, trantulas, ant farms, doves, and pigeons and learned hard lessons about life and death. It is where we heard story after story after story after story of the Coast Guard, Eloquiam Valley, Hoquiam Creek, Aberdeen, prohibition, clam digging, and Coast Guard, Coast Guard, Coast Guard.

I am entrusting to the next owners the cherry blossoms that fall from the tree planted for our cousin Badi. The dogwood which harbors the ashes of our dear friend, Gary Barker, who died from AIDS thirteen years ago. The lilac from the grave of Grandpa Roy's father, honeysuckle from the cabin in Westport, wisteria from the house on S.E. 2nd.

I can take with us the memories, photos and clippings. Leave an essence of the joy, an echo of the laughter, a wisp of the tears, a drop of the anger, a dollop of the fears. A gallon of love and a bushel of spirit. When you sell your house to someone who is going to be your neighbor you give the house an extra touch of yourself, hoping that you find not only someone who will love it and care about it more than you did in your lackidasical it-will-always-be-there cavalier way, but also as an investment in a new friendship. Biting you lip when the cherry tree falls, and the dogwood dies and their dog digs yours up.

This is hard. But it is time to go. I want to be done, I want to be gone and started on a new chapter, in my own home, creating new memories for and with our grandchildren. We still will live on land that was ours, walking where my father's, father's, father's, father walked and as much as that comfort's the soles of my feet, and even causes my blood to throb, my soul's comfort still ache's for Haifa. God willing, that's where we will return. Until then, we will work hard to give what we can here and travel where we can when we can. That is so exciting to be able to say and do and something utterly impossible while living in the current house.

While I acknowledge one of those days, and let it run its course, I look forward to tomorrow and all of the days to come!

Are they fake or are they real?

Very busy week spent doing a dozen different unrelated things, in the end it looks like nothing got done. That is no way to proceed with everything that I have to get done! It seems like life is hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. I seem to be reflecting or anticipating. I need to live more in the moment. Its so hard trying to figure out what's most needed in reality, what needs my immediate time and attention, what will figure itself out and whats best left entirely alone. Prioritizing has always been a problem with me.

My hayfever is really out of control. I am either clawing my eyes out or have medicine head without a care in the world! The packing and finishing the trim on the house is going so slowly. I need to list a bunch of free stuff on freecycle but I just don't have time to sit and do it. I fidget too much in front of this screen, like there is something else I should be doing, much more important than writing. HA! Like there could be something more important?

I finished the novel by Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind and even though he has the whole trilogy written they are only releasing one book a year. SIGH! I would have waited. I hate reading a book that is part of a trilogy only to find out I have to wait years for the finish. Robert Jordan's Wheels of Time series should have prepared me, alas, it didn't. I read so much to prepare for Area Coordinators meetings and tutor trainings, secretary and Spiritual Assembly consultation matters, planning and development of teaching plans and programs and personal growth I really enjoy the fantasy novel genre of Tolkien, Jordan and now Rothfuss. I got into the Pern books for a while and then, suddenly, I can't remember why, they lost their "magic".

I am also reading Sherman Alexie's Flight! That man is brilliant. I have to watch Smoke Signals about once every other month, which is he wrote the screen play for and is directed (Chris Eyre, Klamah Falls) and produced by Oregon natives. It is a marvelous movie, excellently written and acted about Couer d'Alene Indians leaving the reservation for the first time in their lives for a cross country road trip. John Wayne's teeth ya ho, ya ho. John Wayne's teeth ya ho, ya ho. Are they fake or are they real Are they wooden or maybe steel?

Another trip

My car trip post reminded me of one of my dad's stories.

When he was about five years old my dad was in the back seat of his father's Ford. A friend was with them and my grandfather had his window down, making it rather hard for my father to hear the conversation taking place in the front seat. Not being satisfied left out of the conversation he decided he wanted to sit up front with the men but he wasn't allowed to climb over the seat.

He was very resourceful and decided that what he would do is open his door, walk along the running board and knock on the passenger window. His father's friend would open the door, certainly, for such a clever five year old and he could slide in up front, problem solved.

My father opened his door, eased out and the next thing he knew he woke up on his parent's couch with a doctor leaning over him! His father, his mother, his grandmother, everyone wanted to know why he had leapt from a moving car! A car moving rather fast! My grandfather hadn't even heard the door open and close it had happened so fast, he and his companion were talking so much and so loudly to make up for the wind rushing in (I think the window was broken) so it is unknown how long my father laid in the ditch but it could have been as long as 20 minutes before it was noticed that there was no talking coming from the backseat! Can you imagine the consternation as the two men tried to figure out what had happened to the little boy who had just been sitting there when they knew they had not made any stops? An alien abduction? That wasn't much of a theory yet back then!

It was weeks before my father remembered why he ended up outside of the vehicle! When I was little I wondered why he hadn't been anxious for his parents to understand his intention wasn't to jump out of the car but what his plan really had been. He wasn't concerned about that. Either his parent's knew him or they soon would, either way it was their loss or gain. And that, pretty much, has been the both of my parents. Neither one of them have ever and will never explain themselves to anyone.

One time we got an anonymous letter to our home signed by a "good christian" and addressed to my eight or nine year-old little brother, who has the same name as my father. The letter was extremely crude and whispered rather nasty gossip about family! When we asked if it was true, after my brother read it aloud to us girls and we brought it to our parents, we were told we shouldn't believe anything about someone else, especially what didn't directly affect us and that we didn't see with our own eyes. This letter was an example of both. Didn't affect us? Good grief, what more evidence did we need? Good christians were telling us, after all, and in very graphic language that, somehow, it did affect us!

About ten years later we found out our parents were divorced. Yes, found out. When we asked when the divorce had happened we, their children, were told it was none of our business. Laughter! Extremely private people, our parents. Owing no one an explanation of their lives. Aggravating! My children say, "your just like grandma," "your just like papa." I love it!

A car trip

Walter commented that he thought, by the title of my last post, I was going to describe a car trip. HAHA! I don't know why I picked that title. Thinking up titles for the posts can sometimes consume more time than writing it, other times it just comes to me. Like that one, and today's. So original, today's title.

A car trip with Carrie. Yesterday I had to take my mother, who is disabled because of losing almost all of her peripheral vision (I think that's laymanese, but not SSI correct) due to a tumor, to the train station in Kelso. It is cheaper because of gas prices for her to take the train to my sister's in Seattle than for me to drive her and she enjoys it. On this trip I am bringing my 2.5 year old grandson because his mom is at work and I am primary babysitter and with us is my father who has Parkinson's. Due to the fact that we are working frantically on this house and I have a torqued back that Builder's Supply's insurance has said they are going to fight me to pay for anything!

Now, this is a car trip. We have pills for Parkinsons, for hay fever,  and for general pain in the front seat! All four people whining about the stage of life they are in. In the back seat: oragel and Shrek on the portable DVD. After the fun of the train we headed to Home Depot to compare frigs. My father goes in one direction and my grandson goes in the other. My father is trucking fast because he's got his new pneumatic walker and my grandson is going fast because I forgot his harness, like I always do, and he's two and a half. Of course, I am the only one with a cell because my father always leaves his in the car.

I chase down my grandson and he lets out an earsplitting scream as I scoop him up and run down rows looking for my father. He had wanted this to be a "quick" trip because we are checking this price and then going to Lowells to which one is cheaper. Costco's and Freddy's have already been checked.

He isn't down any row! Yikes, where could he have gone, out to the car? If I go out I'm not going to come back in because the grandson's angry he had to interrupt his movie to come in here. Sigh. I don't remember there ever being just one baby and having to entertain with a movie, ever. There were always buckets of KIDS.

I have them announce over the intercom that my father's "party" will be waiting for him out in his vehicle. I have them pronounce the name twice, to make sure they have it correct. Then just as we are headed out the door I see him and we all go out together and load back into the vehicle. He has a price and we are off to Lowells. At Lowells the price is over $70 more so we head back to Home Depot. I had tried to do this by phone, before, but one time over the phone Home Depot even told them they didn't sell spa supplies when I have bought them at that store for four years! So, we go in person to all of the stores. Grandpa, I and grandson. And as hard as it is, and sometimes as aggravating as it is, on all of us I am sure, I am grateful for these moments and times. I know it is not often in this time, age and country where four generations attempt to live together, to bend our wills to one another's needs, to listen when we want to talk and be the ones to give when we want to take. It will be our turn soon enough, so now is a time to treasure.

Are we there yet?

"You have to read Smoking Gun so you know what to expect," I was recently emailed. "Have you heard what Michele Longo says about Marquis?" I am asked. "You know what Gerry Spence said, don't you?" "Wow, your getting slapped in the forums!" "You know who smacked you on NCO and now is after you anonymously at KAST, or Rust or was it CCM?!?"

Similar to when I found out that I had Hodgkins Disease I am reluctant to read too much. It seems to me that there is only a certain amount of things you can do when you find yourself caught up in a "situation". If you read too much you find yourself overwhelmed and too cautious to take any step. If you don't read or research anything you might try a procedure that has been proven ineffectual, expecting it to have miraculous results and dismayed to find out different.

I reluctantly read the way Marquis has treated those he feels has "stabbed him in back". Yikes! I thought backstabbing meant that the person was acting like a friend while doing some behind the scenes maneuvering. Apparently backstabbing means anyone who does anything without Marquis' permission or approval. 1) He only invited those who supported him to write in to the paper and 2) only invited those who supported him to the budget meeting. Yet, behind his back, I did both and I wasn't one of his supporters. Stab I did, I suppose?

It is funny how people think. I am truly baffled and irritated by how the Daily Astorian operates. It has a comment box at the bottom of each of their webpages. On May 22nd my cousin-in-law wrote a letter to the editor and I posted a reply in the comment section at the bottom of that page using my married name, which I sometimes write under but usually reserve for serious articles on NCO. I don't get the paper and can only read current info or selected pages w/o a subscription. The paper called to verify that I did post the comment and I said yes. The week before I had written a reply to the Daily Astorian's May 17th editorial, What's in the Water at the Courthouse? using my maiden name, the one I most often use when writing to the Daily Astorian or on this blog.

In a small area like ours neither your married nor maiden name hides you (especially when you marry someone you went through school with), but using one or the other recalls a link that is often helpful to the reader. It is laughable that I am being accused of hiding or of trying to "re-invent" myself. I like that one. Yes, if I were going to re-invent myself it would be into a family with, literally, 21 people of my peer group in which I could just blend in. One of the cousins in that group does have cancer, and I wish her all of the best.

It is this constant sense of being harassed that when some say, "whats to be afraid of, why not use your name?" that I think, those must deliberately choose to be ignorant of real life. They also ask, why didn't Scott Reuter's wife use her name when he wrote a letter of support for Josh? I think it is wisdom. If you don't NEED to express yourself that way, why do it? Why take that chance? Reuter's wife's priority is her clients, not Marquis, he is a big boy and I honestly mean that with total frankness. Scott was writing and there was no reason to add her voice to that letter and potentially cause damage or limit her ability to help someone or somewhere else, so why do it? And that is what many, many people think. They've elected a commissioner that they trusted to work for them. They are going to trust that commissioner to do a good job. Most people don't feel an urgency to write any more. They don't feel the need for their letters to be criticized, their motives analyzed, their characters idealized, their feelings minimalized.

So, they contact their commissioners by phone or email, or text message: shs fha oys thx (strip his stipend. fire his ass. on your side. thanks), take care of this, bring it home, put it to bed.

Fun Day at the circus

Today was a funnnnn day!

Had a bad night with a back ache. I have to get to the doctor but am too busy and never remember until two in the morning when I can't sleep because my back hurts too much but hate taking anything for it because of medicine head or oversleeping but then 4 am hits and I think what can one pill hurt? One midol, one tylenol pm, ahhhh and BOOM! Sleep through the alarm clock and its 9:15 AAAACK!

No time for any last minute look at the notes or anything! Jump into shower, clothes, car and make-up. And barely make it to the meeting at 10 am. Yes, 10 am. It is a looooong meeting and it is probably going to go all day. I stayed for the first budget items which included the DA's budget. I am just not going into what I said again here. See Dried Salmon or NCO or Daily Astorian's forums for my opinion. Needless to say, after the way I have personally seen how Mr. Marquis treats children and women my feeling is he only is in it for the media.

I appreciate that people see different sides of one another and I think that is great. Very few are pure evil or pure predators. I only knew the Domineys of the 20 something who spoke for the Commissioners to ignore their budget committee's recommendation. Only two others spoke in agreement with the budget committee's recommendation.

Bob Green and Joe Bakinen talked to me after the meeting. Bob told me some good stories. Very funny guy, he is!

I left my notes on what I wanted to say on the kitchen table but did have a notepad in the car so was able to grab it to jot down some figures that I remembered and points I wanted to make which got garbled with some rebuttals to what the 12 or so pros had said who went before me. It was lopsided and hard. I understand what that these meetings are long so have to be conducted when they are but so many people can't just come. Only one person mentioned how they took time out of their work day to be there. Everyone else that wasn't a volunteer mentioned they were a retired this or that. A couple of people, especially the Domineys, mentioned that they were grateful for the raging crime spree that Marquis has somehow managed to stem. !?!?! I have no idea what that even means. Where was I during the crime
spree?

You listen to Marquis and these people and you wonder how our county gets voted the in the top 10 to live in the United States by any standards if it all hinges on one elected official.
Sigh!

This tearing down process is draining. I much rather build a community than be a part of it disintegrating. It really made me sick to my stomach to watch Jeff Hazen's face change color as comments were made. Yes, he's an adult and of course he knew what he was in for. It still doesn't make it easy to watch. Ann Samuleson and Patricia Roberts were very delightful to watch in action. They really like people and take care to acknowledge each person's efforts. I was most surprised by Richard Lee. I really liked Margaret, and who doesn't like Sally, really? But Richard? Will, he is his own person, that is for sure. But he was a very good chairperson, very courteous. A nice group of people. I wish them well.

Another Day, another heart aches

The House of the Bab, Shiraz, Iran, before its destruction in 1979.

Reports are intensifying from Iran regarding the persecutions of Baha’is’. It is frightening to know that you are being persecuted solely for your religion, beliefs, race, creed, philosophies, gender, etc. when the person persecuting knows little about you as a human being but is using people as chess pieces, while trying to create a climate of fear based solely on their own vain imaginings.

Recent news tells us:

These acts appear to be provoked and often methodically planned by the Ministry of Information to create fear; to make the Baha’is physically vulnerable; and to instill in them social and occupational insecurity. The actions also appear intended to disengage them from their friends and fellow citizens; to generate suspicion and mistrust--even hatred--in the hearts of their fellow citizens against them and their religion; to impede critically the Baha’is’ social, economic, and cultural progress; to destabilize their community; and to block its growth.

Can this happen anywhere? One would hope that we are progressing forward and not backward in our freedom to share and express our thoughts, experiences and dreams for a brighter future. We pray that our friends, brothers and sisters, in Iran do not suffer in vain.

The future is not a sure thing no matter where we live. Our civil liberties, freedom, justice are all words with little meaning when they are not accompanied with actions. While we in the United States stand strong today we must continue to remember how and why we are strong. We must continue to fight for those voices that cannot be heard, that are being silenced, that have become weak through pain, suffering and fatigue.

Often an opportunity lost is never regained. Guard your moments well, live each to the fullest, live not only for yourself but for those whose opportunities have been stolen.

The House of the Bab in Shiraz, Iran, one of the holiest sites in the Baha'i world, being destroyed by revolutionary guardsmen in 1979. It was later razed by the Government.

Looking for a Barry Scheck

While some do think I have been lolligagging about with my new BFF, I have actually been getting myself, probably, knee deep into trouble.

See, this week I have been looking for a Barry Scheck lawyer. It has to do with a video tape. A video tape illegally confiscated during an illegal search and seizure during an illegal stop at an alleged fish and wildlife check point which was vacated because it wasn't posted properly and no other fishermen were stopped, and then it illegally turned up as discovery in an unrelated case one state away. One could call this video tape a smoking gun, at least that's what the deputy district attorney is calling it. I'm trying to figure out how she, a deputy district attorney for Josh Marquis in Clatsop County, legally obtained it from the Washington Fish and Wildlife agent in Wahkiakum County who stole it (and viewed it) out of a kid's backpack, which in no way could be construed as a fish holding tote.

But I can't see how she got it. Legally, that is. It looks like behind the door shenanigans, which appalled the Clatsop County District Attorney when he alleged it happened in the Astoria Municipal Court. It looks like fruit from a tainted search. And it does look like a smoking gun ... but for whom remains to be seen.

Friendship

It amazes me how kind people are. Really. Sure there are crappy people out there, disgusting people, aggravating people, and pukes but usually it seems I find those people when I am in a real mood myself. I don't know why I come upon the real good people but I do and for that I am grateful.

When one lives here "forever" one just gets into a mode with blinders not realizing how many more people there are than just the same old that were there from school days. Mind you, nothing wrong with that crowd in the least however we just don't seem to see them around anymore. It seems funny to fall in with people that we have just met as if we have known them forever.

I think that is what blogging does, though. You read someone for so long you feel like you know them. People are sharing their "journals" with one another, sometimes writing what they wouldn't dare even say outloud, and it is a form of trust and a baring of soul which sometimes takes quite a while to take place in the "real" world seems to go faster in the blogsphere. There is an intimacy here which lends itself to coziness.

Sometimes, it seems, it can also lend itself to craziness. On some of the forums and message boards behaviors that you would rarely see and never excuse occurs on a regular basis. Name calling and the blame game, back and forth, back and forth. Who's fault is it now, who's fault could it be, should it be? Arg! So on and so forth until you grow bored with th whole topic.

My new bff is a delightful blogger who's daughter promptly sobbed because she thought she was being replaced! When I was meeting my bgf with my bff (okay, I borrowed that one!) my own twenty-somethings kept circling the building to make sure we weren't having too much "fun"! Too funny.

Friends are those people in your life that you choose. They are people who help you scratch those itchy places. You scratch theirs, they scratch yours and you all scratch together! Although forwards are not my favorite brand of communication one that made the rounds a while back I did appreciate and it went something like: A good friend is there to bail you out of jail, a best friend is sitting there next to you. I think everyone needs both kinds. I hope I learn how to be a better friend. I hope I am the kind of friend that if I'm not close enough to be sitting there next to my friend in jail at least I am the kind of friend who can raise the bail!

Gesundheit!

Ahhhhh-ahhhh-ahhh-ahhhhhhhhh-ahchooo! And so it goes on. My eyes itch, the back of my tongue itches. I play the rotating pill game because my body becomes immune to whatever it is I am currently taking if I am on it too long, or some nonsense. I hate anti-histamines because they make me have medicine head. I loathe medicine head!

My grandma name is Babika. 'Nother story, 'nother day. My 28 month old grandson is learning manners and spends his afternoons saying, "Bless you, 'bika! Bless you, 'bika! You want me blow your nose, 'bika? You be all better soon, 'bika! Mama says you not rub your eyes, 'bika, I telling!" Ah, yes, a two year old tattling on me! The wonders of living in a multi-generational family.

Today, not many families live with one another unless in dire straights. And, although there are days I want to pull out hair (and most of it not mine) I am intrigued with this process and in love with my family, which is quite ironic. We have four generations under one roof right now. The other day my daughter said, in a bit of a pique, "I'm twenty-five, I don't think I'm obligated to report to you where I'm going or when I'll be back!" My reply, I am sure, was kind and filled with the sage wisdom of an elder.

I remember the last time I felt as if I was not answerable to anyone and I remember distinctly what I was doing. When I am only accountable to myself, I don't know that I like myself. When I don't think about the ripple effect, when I just scratch whatever itches whenever it itches wherever it itches without scratching for someone else, I just end up feeling disgust. You only go around once, I sincerely believe. You meet people and the moments that occur with them once. There might be 525600 minutes in each year but they are each, distinctly, different minutes. We shouldn't waste them.

While none of those moments are anything to sneeze at, I wouldn't trade a single one of them away and miss the chance on hearing a tiny, voice clearly sing out with love, "Bless you, 'Bika!"

Observance of Ascension of Baha’u’llah

Baha'u'llah's ministry came to an end in 1892. He left to humanity a priceless heritage of spiritual and social teachings which He claimed would lead humanity to true and abiding peace. He endured decades of suffering in order to accomplish this mission. In His own words, He stated His motive for doing so:

"The Ancient Beauty hath consented to be bound with chains that mankind may be released from its bondage, and hath accepted to be made a prisoner within this most mighty Stronghold that the whole world may attain unto true liberty. He hath drained to its dregs the cup of sorrow, that all the peoples of the earth may attain unto abiding joy, and be filled with gladness. This is of the mercy of your Lord, the Compassionate, the Most Merciful. We have accepted to be abased, O believers in the Unity of God, that ye may be exalted, and have suffered manifold afflictions, that ye might prosper and flourish.

He Who hath come to build anew the whole world, behold, how they that have joined partners with God have forced Him to dwell within the most desolate of cities!"

Upon entering His presence historian E.G. Browne writes of the experience: "The face of him on whom I gazed I can never forget, though I cannot describe it. Those piercing eyes seemed to read one's very soul; power and authority sat on that ample brow.... No need to ask in whose presence I stood, as I bowed myself before one who is the object of a devotion and love which kings might envy and emperors sigh for in vain!"

A day of reflection for Baha'is everywhere. I can not describe to you what fills my heart now, it is beyond my ability to put into words. Love for you my friends, love for family. Aching sadness for the divisions everywhere. And such a deep ache of longing for that place in the picture above where I go in my mind's eye every day in meditation.

Prayers for courage for all to persevere.

O SON OF SPIRIT!
The best beloved of all things in My sight is Justice; turn not away therefrom if thou desirest Me, and neglect it not that I may confide in thee. By its aid thou shalt see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others, and shalt know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbor. Ponder this in thy heart; how it behooveth thee to be. Verily justice is My gift to thee and the sign of My loving-kindness. Set it then before thine eyes.

(Baha'u'llah, The Arabic Hidden Words)

Teamwork?

One of the problems I have with sharing my own life in writing is that it involves the sharing of other lives, often without their permission. At what point do I "own" the right to do that? At what point is it gossip? These thoughts do bother me. I try to write vaguely about my family, unless of course they are deceased (lol) and are thinking only the best about me and my intentions, anyways (grin).

Recently, one of the most precious gems in my life told a story in which I am decidedly the villain. Twenty-something angst? Who knows, maybe I am a bit of a villain, which of us are pure? But for the first time in my life someone I deeply care about has a decidedly negative viewpoint of me and our relationship. It hurts for now though I know we will get past it.

So, how to tell one's stories? I am going to share something in which I will use first names. I do apologise ahead of time if I offend and people are welcome to start or add to their own blogs for their side of the story!

My teen job wasn't the typical one. No fast food restuarant, wait tables or maid work. My paper route and babysitting days were behind me (WOW, those stories maybe later). My first, take taxes out, job was as a "gym supervisor". I "watched" the gym in the evenings up at Astoria Junior High (now middle school) as adults cavorted through basketball for half of the year and volley ball the other half of the year with a three month break for softball, at which time I umpired the youth leagues.

It was here that I learned who was "running" my city and my county. They were really a hairy group of people, men and women alike! I saw the teams that "worked" versus the teams that didn't. The ones that had a great time just being together and the ones that were only together for the win. Yeah, they were the elite and nobody could touch them, but then again no one wanted to!

From watching these teams work with and against one another I went on to coach three sports for a combined total of 27 seasons. Some winning, some loosing. I spoke the hype. TEAMWORK! And it is about teamwork. Teaching people to recognize who the leader is, teaching the leader to work with their team, teaching the team to follow the leader and protect the leader. One of the reasons why certain people fight to keep sports in schools. I homeschooled. I do not coach any more. Only one of my children was ever involved in sports. Another time, another post.

At the gym I was fifteen years old and one of my "idols" was a young man recently out of university and paying off his student loans by taking on every refereeing job he could get. To his horror he ended up often refereeing with a rather swarthy man whose shirt was open down to his navel so he could display his chest that often had a small silver spoon entangled in the coarse hairs!

During time outs the young man would sit on the score table and talk with me as I ran the clock and score book, telling me about his goal to become the district attorney, to "clean up" the messes created by ... and a gesture at his refereeing partner . I would talk about my dreams and goals. He influenced my decision to take Latin in high school and as many other courses as Astoria had to prepare me for the future I thought I wanted. He was remarkable. It was 1977 and he was going places and I could always proudly say I knew him when. If I planned it right, just as I finished university I might have a place to work.

About a decade later the goals had dramatically changed for me. I had already had a divorce, two children and Hodgkin's Disease. The young man had indeed become the district attorney and my heart had been broken with many of the decisions he had made, jading me towards the legal profession. When I have had the time to reflect on it, I wonder if he even remembers that teenage girl who he helped plan high school courses with or if he cares how the decisions he made as a District Attorney influenced her life?

Then I think, how many lives around me have I influenced or affected? Do the decisions I make, however much I think are my own business, ripple out to many? Or, am I just a bit player in someone else's drama? Am I a leader or a follower? Don't the actions of the followers often outweigh those of the leaders? There's more of them.

There, I did it without a single name. I just bet no one could figure anyone out, either! (snicker)

Hard working mama!

All day today I have been writing tonight's post in my head and now that I am sitting here, nada! Where did the brilliant idea go, that beautiful turn of phrase, that perfect description that everyone is waiting breathlessly for me to reveal? Chasing it around, peeking in each corner of my mind and all I find are cobwebs and a few, ewwww, hairy spiders!

Tonight I am off to Shrek with daughter #3. We have just finished cleaning up the mess of painting half of the outside of the house, the paint sprayer taking the longest to clean and clean and clean. Thank-you, carmel, for the use of the sprayer! I am tired, in a good way. The house is now a sage color, emanating the wisdom of the people who reside inside. HAHAHA!

This afternoon I had coffee with two of my favorite bloggers. We have almost worked out details of the caper of the century, to reclaim the tape of my triple toe axle from the vaults of ABS, where it is being held so THEY can claim the $100,000 super prize for America's funniest home video. You do realize, of course, that my idea of doing a triple toe axle, while skating eloquently over shimmering paint, will most likely look like someone else flopping about unceremoniously, quite like a fish out of water!

Talking about that and painting this afternoon brought back the pain in my butt. Tonight's movie and later a soak in the spa will be nice. So, what was it that I was going to write about, anyways? Oh, I'll remember it later ... right in the middle of ... the MOVIE~!

Ahhhh ... So Nice!

This is my dream of a good place to soak in a hot tub

FINALLY! The NuWave heating element arrived for the spa. We have been without almost one month. I can't believe how long it has taken for us to track down the part, and this is even with me keeping everything together in one spot!

I took the owners manual apart and slipped each page into sheet protectors so we could read it by the spa if we needed to (like when we empty and refill it to clean it, etc...) and put it all in a binder. In the side pockets I keep the purchase order, the receipt and the warranty. See, I was being quite responsible!

And it still took two week to track down the element and another two weeks for the right one to come. Luckily for us we have a friend to advise us on how to install it. In turn we exchanged Kona coffee and computer advice with him! My sister, Daintry, lives in Hawaii and visits the NW often so we have a regular supply of Kona if we desire. A good exchange, its nice having neighbors with talents different than yours. It just seems that the more tools to exchange in the neighborhood make for a more diverse, colorful and interesting place to live. And, in most cases, helpful too!

The spa is not just a luxury or toy. Between the Parkinson's Disease that is Dad's bane to bear and the  natural aging process that is all of ours to bear the spa is almost a necessity and with the most recent acrobatic performance in Astoria Builders Supply it surely is one of the most needed tools in our household at this time!

We head for Portland today so Dad can see a Physical Therapist about his balance issues due to Parkinsons. He has taken some pretty serious tumbles lately because of leaning forward too far, a common occurance w/Parkinsons. This trip is going to be painful for the both of us. My back is still hurting and Dad's legs ache after just half an hour in the car.

Ahhhhh the spa tonight, under a clear sky! Sooooo nice of a thing to look forward to.

OUCH!

See yesterday's post if you need further clarification.