Bob King Diaries; 11.12.2o16.

Bob’s daughter went to the Farmers Market for fresh eggs for her family and for one of her sweethearts who is undergoing cancer treatment. She decided to pick up a market stand berry pie to take to Bob’s adult foster care home for everyone there to share.

And vanilla ice cream. She had the audacity to also purchase some ice cream for the pie.
It was not on sale. She paid full price.

She dropped the desserts off at the care home.
She stayed for a while and visited with her father, went for a walk with him in his beautiful new neighborhood.
Autumn leaves were everywhere: goldenrod, rust, honey, bronze, and amber shades of fall.

On her way home, her father called. He said he needed to tell her how much it upset him that she brought things he neither needed, nor wanted.

“The pie?” she asked.
“Yes. And the ice cream,” he replied.
“The ‘Largess’ does not sit well with me,” he admonished.
Noted, Bob. Noted.

A promise I made to myself this year was to write more often. 
I struggle with time management, and find myself yearning for time to write. In the same way I yearn for time to exercise, time to meditate, time to spend with my teenage son, my elderly father, perhaps even my husband of 18 years. (We rarely see one another: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder…)

My job takes up the biggest chunk of my time.
I work 40+ hours a week; I commute 4 to 5 days a week to a small community based hospital in the beautiful gateway area to Oregon’s majestic Mt. Hood.

In my “off” hours, I tend to the needs of my 82 year old father who has been experiencing a rapid decline in his health this year.
I have one offspring: an amazing 16 year old son who is already staring to tour college campuses. He will be spending 2 months of the upcoming summer volunteering in a Spanish language immersion program, Amigos International.
I would like to spend as much time with my boy as I can this year… before I know it, he will be spreading his wings. Far, far away from Portland.

So, lacking the time and mental wherewithal to actually collect my thoughts and write, I have started making lists. Lists, and snippets. Lists, and snippets, on scraps of paper, which are then crammed into old journals and notebooks.

Sometimes, I will wake up in the wee hours of the night, and scrawl out a list, or even just a few words that I hope will jog my memory when I find them again.
If I am lucky, I will remember to go hunting for things when I do find a few open moments. And sometimes as I search, I come across old drawings or letters that fit in nicely with the current theme.
(Today’s theme involves obstacles, writing techniques, and: birds.)

This is a drawing that I made in my early twenties…. long before I met my love and life partner, Mr. Blitch. This is hilarious if you have met Blitch, because he is a long, tall, drink of water. And only very slightly goofy. And, he loves birds.

Here is an example of some Blitch clay art:

And here is an example of a late night list…

Ohmygodivebeenawakesincethree. 
These are my thoughts: 
1) I didn’t clean the chicken coop this weekend 
2) I want to take tap dancing lessons 
3) I stink 
4) or maybe it’s the old Labrador lying next to me that stinks
5) my cat sometimes slobbers when she purrs
6) kitty spittle
7) I have a big long day ahead of me at work today
8) if I had just gotten up at 3, I could have finished the dishes from yesterday
9) I need to call my dad’s doctor and tell them that his BPs have been 200s over 90s sitting
And 100s over 60s standing
10) I forgot to buy cat food both times I went grocery shopping over the weekend
11) I need to try and get replacement birth control since I still can’t find the 2 month supply I misplaced
12) if I go back to sleep now, I can nap for 45 minutes before I have to actually get out of bed  

In an effort to formalize and revitalize my writing efforts, I went out and picked up a copy of one of my *favorite* books on writing, by one of my *favorite* writers, Anne Lamott.
She offers advice on overcoming one’s personal obstacles to writing, and describes the importance (and practicality) of Short Assignments and Shitty First Drafts. She writes deliciously and pointedly about the common roadblock to writing of Perfectionism: 
“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft.”

In addition to the random notes and lists I have started, I have also attempted to identify my obstacles. Which, unsurprisingly, has resulted in the creation of another list:

* Fear
* Fatigue
* Time
* Perfectionism
* Distractions

Often, when thoughts do come to mind, they come in a rush that feels completely opposite of the mindful reflection that I so deeply crave.
My personal “Bird by Bird” tends to look more like a scene from a Hitchcock film.

And in closing, lest I lose it in a pile of papers somewhere, the next list of writing topics:

* Unwanted Pies
* Hoarding
* Love Languages
* Lady Justice (‘Gone but not Forgotten’)
* Selling grapefruit
* Letting Go vs. Letting Be
 

 

 

It was a dark and stormy night…

She had finally arrived home, at the end of a long and spectacularly un-fun day. Oncology nursing, tumor board. Sad news about a dear young friend with advanced, drug-resitant Crohn’s disease. A lost battle with an insurance company. An extended wait for a return phone call from her father’s physician that never came. A screwed up medication refill that could easily have been handled by Nurse/Daughter, but cannot and will not be handled by the paid caregivers.

A desparate email from the father’s love of over a decade: she’s in England feeling cut off and left out. She wants to know why he can’t travel to Russia with her, where her friends “can heal him.”

He’s unshaven, he’s become confused about a minor medication change. Instead of taking the pills, or asking for clarification, he tucks them in his pocket, and decides to wait for his daughter to arrive.

On the way to the Foster Care Residence, his daughter asks if there is anything he wants… anything he needs.

“No,” he replies. At first.

But the pause is familiar to her, and telling.

“Are you sure, dad?”

“Well, a snack. You could bring me a snack. But only if it’s on sale.”

She ate dinner alone, while her husband took her son out bowling. Bowling is the most fun thing in their lives these days.

She ate in an odd little SE Portland French creperie, a few blocks away from the pharmacy. Phone in pocket, battery withering out, waiting for the truant physician phone call.

And then home, to find a gift that had arrived in the mail.

A most perfect gift, from a girlfriend she has been trading books with since the age of 13. From Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, and William Goldman’s The Temple of Gold, to this.

Thank you Annie. I love you.

 

 

 

I have thought long and hard about what I would, could, and should, say to the few people I know who are Trump supporters.
Yesterday, I spent my morning bowling with my son, and a dear family friend who’s mother is undergoing cancer treatment, and a young man with Down Syndrome.
The coach I met at the bowling alley, has volunteered his time as a community bowling coach for over 20 years.
He is certified to work with individuals with Down Syndrome, and has even served as a volunteer coach for blind bowlers (!)
I felt lifted up by this experience. And then later in the day, I read some news. And my spirits came plummeting down.

I am genuinely feeling fear about the upcoming election.
As a woman.
As a nurse.
As a person with a serious chronic illness.
As the parent of a son who could be called up to Draft, were there one in the future.
As the sister of a gay man.
As the caregiver of an 82 year old Veteran.
As a person who has had lovers of different ethnicities and races
As a Quaker.
As a person who has worked and volunteered on the inside of prison walls, Hospice Houses, the VA Medical Center.
As a person who lives with one kidney
As a person who works full time to provide medical benefits for a family of three.
As a person who has lost people I love to mental illness and suicide.
As a person who cares about climate change.
As a person of some Jewish heritage.
As a person who is a descendent of immigrants.

… I am asking you to tell me. Go ahead. Knowing me as you do, knowing these things about me, tell me how you can look into your own heart, and cast your vote for this man.
Tell me that you honestly believe he will *serve* this country.
That he cares about your rights.
That he cares about mine.

Tell me how you reconcile this. How you would feel if he learned about your daughter’s colostomy bag. How you would feel if he mocked your overweight wife. How would you feel if he looked at you, and saw your disability, the color of your skin, your struggles.

 

 

 

Third time was the charm.
It’s been a wee bit hot in Portland.
My dad passed out on three separate occasions over a period of six days.
Each time, he insisted that it was the heat. Or loss of equilibrium and inner ear pain from an ear lavage. Or, he admitted he had taken in about 24 oz of fluid (half of which was coffee), on an 88º day.
However, this is the version my father likes to tell strangers. And doctors. And paramedics.
He omits the small backstory about passing out cold in his condo in Marin County, California, three years ago. He “injured” (broke) his shoulder in that fall. Woke up alone in his home, and drove himself to urgent care.
It was several months later that I found out, when his Lady Love Nadia, called me from her home in England to rat him out: he was scheduled for surgery to repair the shoulder, but he was alone, and the surgeon was unwilling to do the procedure unless there was a friend or family member there to take him home and care for him.
(Me.)
(That was me: taking time off from a busy OHSU clinic, flying down, and staying with him and getting him set up to be alone without the ability to drive, and no local bus service.)

Back to present day events: 
Last week, my dad passed out 3 times. One of my chickens died, possibly from heat stoke. I had a nasty-puking-Migraine from (pick one) heat and/or stress.
On Sunday, I walked around the corner to check on Bob.
He answered the door, his eyes rolled back into his head, and I did the thing Physical Therapy folks call an “assisted fall” to prevent him from slamming his 6 foot self onto the wood floor.
And I called for help.

Bob explains dizzy spell~assisted fall to the doctor: 
“I do normally stand up slowly, but my daughter was at my front door. I had to let her in.”
(It’s all my fault!)

One can see in this photo that my dad’s heart rate, at that moment, was 50 (beats per minute). This was actually a high point: he had been hanging out between 44 and 48 BPM.
A “normal” adult resting heart rate ranges from 60 to 100. An adult athlete, may have a baseline slow & low: like my dad, hanging out in the 40s or 50s.
This actually fits with my dad: he was jogging until he was 79, no smoking history, rarely drinks.
Difference being: adult athletes manage to stay hydrated, and well nourished, and can stand up from a chair without passing out. It also turns out that there is some irregular rhythm to this slow heart rate, and his blood pressure drops significantly when he changes position, so they admitted him for cardiac monitoring.

Bob settles in to his first evening as an inpatient: 
Nurse: Mr. King, would you like some ice cream?
Bob: Yes, that sounds nice.
Nurse: We have chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and orange sherbet. Which flavor would you like?
Bob: Sherbet is not ice cream.

Bob’s first night alone in a hospital. (Ever).
08.14.2o16
I waited until the RN shift change, then got ready to head home. Told Bob I love him, that I knew he was in good hands, and that I was going to leave and let him be.
His reply? “Feel free.”
I’m pretty sure that was Bob-speak for “Don’t let the door hitch’ya where the Good Lord split’chya”

Why I’m still here.
Second night: o8.15.2016
All jokes aside, my dad is afraid, and I want him to know that he will be ok, and that he will be able to return to his “normal” life in the near future.
There’s a clean shirt ready for him.
I handed him his hospital issue toothbrush and toothpaste this morning, when I saw they had not been used last night.
I’ve been there: I’ve been that noc shift nurse that meant to encourage the bedtime care, but was simply too busy with sicker patients.
I’ve been that patient… Too scared or overwhelmed, too nervous to bother to ask for a warm washcloth to wash my face with.
I’ll leave again at shift change tonight, and I’ll be back at 6 or so in the morning, on my way across the hospital courtyard to my office.
I want my dad to know that even though he is frightened, and feels stripped of his choices, that his dignity and safety are still my highest priorities.
The clean shirt hangs there, he will see it as he drifts in and out of sleep tonight.
There will be bright lights, and bed alarms, and beeping IV pumps.
But at least he will know that he is loved, and I will be back for him tomorrow.

It’s no great revelation to say that for every confusing human behavior, every cognitive choice, whether it appear rational or irrational, for every action, there lies some reasoning that may not be easily understandable to others.

While I will never know the depths of poverty experienced by my father’s family in Nebraska, and then rural Oregon in the 1920s, and 1930s, I have been given enough clues to piece together at least some of the struggles my father (now age 82) has around money and food.

This February blog about my dad was in my draft box… Maybe because I’m still in the process of understanding my father, maybe because there just is not much humor to be found when I write about him lately.

This is what this week with my dad looked like:

Bob King Diaries; O8.o9.2o16
Or, “How to scare the wits out of your daughter.”
Routine visit to Bob‘s PCP, and scheduled ear lavage.
All goes well, at first, but then Bob passes out cold.
If daughter hadn’t been right there, he would have fallen off the exam table and cracked his head. 
…. Deep, deep, breaths.
Took the morning off to monitor, now heading back the “Real Nursing Job.” (The job with weekends off and benefits.)
Bob is fine… but perhaps questioning the wisdom of moving out of his independent apartment within the safe walls of Brookdale Assisted Living.

Loss, Sadness, Depression and Anhedonia.

It is also no great mystery that Bob’s losses over the last year or so have been simply, Too Much, Too Great. He’s lost his brother and his sister in law. He has ended his twelve year relationship with Nadia, his Russian love and travel companion.

And while he takes an anti-depressant medication, the sadness just appears to grow heavier with each passing day.

Anhedonia: plainly put, it is the loss of interest in enjoyable or rewarding activities that a person previously found pleasure in. In Bob’s case, food (and the very activity of eating) has been losing its allure for many years. And slowly, other activities have been joining the list. Watching movies. Arguing politics (yay!). Reading (Boo!). Walking. And bowling. Even bowling. 

Photo: Bob’s bowling trophies in the window of our California home. They were part of the huge sweep of previously cherished items that never made the move to Portland.

Funny side note, phone call from Bob about 3 years ago:
“I got rid of a bunch more stuff this week.”
“Oh, yeah, like what, Dad?”
“Well, that Gigantic Family Bible, for one thing.”
“What? You threw out Grandma and Grandpa King’s Bible?!”
“No, of course not. I recycled the paper in it.”

Bob King Diaries; 08.11.2o16
Apparently severely dehydrated.
Refused to go in for physical and neuro assessment. Flat out refused.
It turns out that on this hot day (“it was only 88º ~ it didn’t seem warm at all”), he drank one cup off coffee in the morning, and one cup of water in the evening. Sum total of today’s fluids.
“And it was terrible coffee, because I’m out of my Saccharine tabs.”
When asked initially after passing out what he had eaten for lunch, Bob could not remember. An hour later, after arguing and refusing to go to Urgent Care, suddenly he remembered:
“I had peanut butter and jelly for lunch. And I’m almost out of peanut butter!!”
So, Bob has now passed out twice this week. Both times, scaring the wee wits out of his daughter.
Both times, completely unaware of his change in LOC, and then unconcerned when informed of these changes afterwards.
He did agree to not go down the basement stairs in his home tonight or tomorrow.
He said he would keep a log of fluid intake.
He hugged his daughter, thanked her for her concern. Shut the turquoise front door, and that was that.

 

 

 

 

Once upon a long-long ago, before I became a nurse, I was a potter. Well, clay artist, due to the fact that my throwing skills were never much.
But anyway.
I graduated from the University of New Mexico with a BFA, ceramics emphasis. I also had a minor in European Art History, from Humboldt State.
I moved from Albuquerque to Portland to be an artist, and to be a part of the OPA (Oregon Potters Association). This was the early 90s, and the OPA was the biggest, most badass, organized group of clay artists in the US. I joined right up and got involved to the point of serving on the board for several years.
This was a huge group, with many active community members, and our board meetings were often very animated. One year, in the midst of a long discussion about how much of our budget to allocate towards a new computer for the use of our (justifiably busy) newsletter editor, I pissed somebody off and was called a Luddite.
At the time, I was in my mid-twenties, single, and still cared about what people thought of me. I was super embarrassed about being called out for my lack of appreciation of the inevitably looming need to keep up with the modern world.
Now, I cheerfully advertise my self as “The Luddite nurse with Slightly-Amish tendencies.”
It took me years to give up my flip-phone, and I refused to learn how to text until I became required to do so for a job.
Recently, I tried something fancy: I was midway through my 30 minute commute, and had a few ideas I wanted to jot down for my blog. I remembered that my son told me I could use my smart phone to record notes, or make a list.
I started by asking Siri to make a note for the title of this particular blog. What I got recorded instead of “Routines And Extremes,” was something like: “Routines and Extra Cheese for the Blog…”
Pretty close, actually. But still.
But I can’t tell you what other brilliant nuggets I may have hidden in my phone, because it just died today. I have a new one coming, but I also had some awesome new photos that I didn’t have a chance to back up on my desktop computer. I don’t know what all I’ll be able to retrieve when the new phone arrives.

So dammit, the whole original point of this particular blog is tied up in the dark whole of cyberspace.

Here are two photos that I do have, which I suppose in some way can serve to illustrate what I was going for….

Routines:
We’ve been doing a lot of bowling. It’s our new favorite family activity. We rarely have time when we are together, so sometimes it’s just the boys, sometimes it’s Harrison and a friend, sometimes I’m able to go as well.

Extremes:
Part of living with Crohn’s disease, for me, means taking a low-dose oral chemotherapy that messes with my immune system. I have to have labs drawn about every 3 months or so, and I am a notoriously difficult stick. This week, was an extreme example of a blood draw gone bad. But, I decided to have some fun with it.

When life gives you lots of pokes, #makeart

Then I thought maybe I could fancy myself up a little bit by making my hair match my bruise-art. (Purple is the new black: It’s very slimming.)

 

 

 

Bob King Diaries. O8.o3.2O16.

Bob has one grandchild.
They have much in common. Silence, blank stares, and aloofness, are just a few examples.

(*I wanted to check and make sure that the word ‘aloofness’ captured the thought I was grasping for. Here is one definition I found on the inter~webs, it think it is indeed the perfect word for Bob and Harrison:
Aloofness is a noun meaning a state of being distant, remote, or withdrawn. Someone showing aloofness might be shy, or just really doesn’t want to be around people. Aloofness is from the adjective aloof — originally a nautical term. )

Today, is Bob’s grandson’s 16th birthday.

Here is a photo to illustrate the joy that some people feel when celebrating the natal day of a friend or family member:

This is me and my dear friend, Tonya. Our sons have been friends since they started kindergarten together in 2005.
Mr. Blitch (aka: baby daddy), Tonya, and I joined together to surprise Harrison with an impromptu birthday bowling party 2 nights ago with a couple of Harrison’s friends.
It was: a fucking blast.
(We think the kids may have had fun as well, but we don’t really give a shit. Birthdays are really a celebration for mothers.)

Tonight, we will have a small family celebration with Bob when I get home from work.
I may be wrong, but I suspect the scene will look something like this:

Or, I don’t know… We may get a little touch of this:

Mr. Blitch and I are taking turns with our days off this week so that we each get some quality time with our son. Last weekend, Blitch worked, so I took Harrison on a mom~kiddo weekend. Contrary to the photographic evidence, we talked and laughed, and had a tremendously superb time together.

Harrison just wasn’t interested in letting me obtain pics.

This morning I’m heading off to work. Mr. Blitch has the day off to spend with our Little Baby H. They might go bowling again, maybe go for some archery. I’m guessing there will be some cards involved. Poker is a new thing with HH. I can still whoop his butt at Gin Rummy, but I need to sharpen my poker skills.

Bob is now living in an apartment right around the corner from our house. He will refuse to interact with either his son in law, or his only grandchild until I return home home this evening. That is, unfortunately, how Bob rolls.

I went into labor with HH on my due date. He and I are both pretty uptight, scheduled people. He was 9 and 1/2 lbs when he made his entrance at St. Charles hospital in Bend, Oregon.
I’m 5’2″ and have one kidney. But I carried that huge creature for the recommended time period, and then managed to get him out after about 22 hours of labor.

My obstetrician didn’t think HH was going to work his way out vaginally, and was about to start prepping my for a C-section. I’m not quite sure how I did it, but I got him out. Apparently he was a little blue at the time… but he seems fine now. He’s about 6′ tall. He thinks it’s funny to rest his chin on the top of my head. Me too. HI-larious.

Happy birthday sweetheart.

 

 

 

This will be a quickie.

I’ve got photos and jotted down rants and raves from my week as my volunteer camp nurse week for the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation’s Camp Oasis. But I literally can’t wade my way through Life fast enough at the moment to get to them.

A little history: Mr. Blitch and I moved to Bend, OR, early in our marriage. We were both potters/clay artists at that time, and both also held other jobs to feed and house ourselves. The job that took us from Portland to Bend was Blitch’s job with The Home Depot (Homey D’s, I like to call them). The first new friends we met in Central Oregon were via that job: the husband worked with my Mr. Blitch at the store, and his wife was a stay at home mom with 2 young sons.

I was invited to their home one day, and the gal was showing me around as she was gathering up kid stuff for a trip to the park. As we passed the spacious laundry room (which in and of itself was fancy and lovely), she joked about the pile of unfolded, clean laundry on the counter. She grabbed up some clean kid sized socks for her pack, and off we went.

In my Private~Voice~In~My~Head, I thought: wow, who the hell does a bunch of laundry and then doesn’t fold it and put it away? Luckily, I had basic manners and enough of an internal filter to keep this ridiculous thought to myself. 

At that time, I was a newly wed artist. I had friends from the clay art world who teased me for having the “cleanest clay studio in Portland.” I only allowed white clay bodies in my space, and I regularly vacuumed and mopped my studio floor.

My living space was also immaculate. Even my sock and underwear drawers contained  neatly folded, and (my husband insists, though I really can’t remember), color-coded items.

Fast forward 18 years. I’m a nurse. I have an 82 year old father and a teenage son playing significant parts in my daily life. I work an average of 40 to 45 hours per week, with 5 hours of commute time built into the work week.

And every, single, damn time I head down to my basement to search for a clean bath towel, or a shirt for work that isn’t stained and wrinkled… I curse myself for those long ago judgmental thoughts in that woman’s laundry room. 

Photo above is my bedroom. I’ve got clean clothes, dirty clothes, new clothes with tags still on that I shoved in those drawers and then forgot about. I’ve probably got a Christmas present or two shoved in there towards the bottom that I forgot to give someone. My daily goal on workdays is to make it to work on time: clean, appropriately dressed, and ready for whatever a day of Navigating cancer patients may bring.

And every weekend… Every. Single, Weekend… I vow that *this* will be the weekend I get it all sorted out.

Photo below is the back of my car…. most of the items are from my week at camp. Camp which ended on July 2nd. What’s today? Oh, July 27th? Whatever. I just dig in there when I need something. Like clean underwear. Because yes, I took about 20 pairs of clean underwear to camp. Why? Because I have lots of underwear. Because, often, I can’t find any, so I go buy more.

A girl with Crohn’s Disease cannot have too many pairs of underwear. 

The little table you see there? That is not from Camp. That’s a table I got at a yard sale for my dad.
Why? Because my father is The Opposite of a Hoarder. Is there a term for that? There must be.
When my dad moved from his home in California to his childhood home state of Oregon (so Shut The Fuck Up all you “California Go Home” posers), he got rid of nearly all his possessions.

Nearly. He did keep his Flowbee. But now he wants to get rid of that as well. He’s making me take it out of his nearly empty 2 bedroom apartment and bring it over to my house.

Another gem I did manage to dig out of the back of my car recently was one of my special camp shirts:

As you can see, it is wrinkled, and it needs laundering. Have no fear, it is now in the proper receptacle, to be re-discovered at a later date.

And with that, I say goodnight. I am going to crawl into my filthy bed, not giving two shits about the begrimed sheets covered in dog hair. And cat hair. And Lord knows what else.

I wish you all sweet dreams, and perfect Type 4 stools on the Bristol stool chart in the morning. And please #vote.

(Stool Chart photo cred: Cabot Health)