My Mother in Law has COPD

For the Love of a Child

My mother-in-law has COPD.  At first she didn’t understand what the doctors were telling her, as to what this condition actually means, maintaining but never getting better.  Her strength continues to diminish and her struggle for breath is ever increasing. She now understands that her condition can only worsen over time. All the stages of grief are present: terror, denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And as the disease progresses, these stages will be repeated over and over.

Smoking was her addiction.  For decades she tried valiantly to quit.  She did it all, medicines, patches, acupuncture, and hypnosis.  Her addiction was strongly entrenched and there was no way to change it. When she smoked, a large grey cloud would literally hang in the air above her.  But one day something happened.  She quit cold turkey and went through a year and a half of hell, and to his credit, her husband, poor man, went though the same year and a half of his own hell living with her while she beat her addiction.  

A love greater than she had ever experienced was her reason to quit.  Because of this love she was able to find the will and strength to put the cigarettes away and I believe she extended her life by many years because of it. Her only grandson, Beloved, asked grandma to quit. 

One day Beloved noticed that I would wash all his clothes after a weekend visit with grandma and grandpa whether they were clean or not.  I would complain about the smoke smell and how foul I found it to be and he picked up on it.  He asked why grandma couldn’t smoke at our house, so I told him the story about his premature birth and the heart monitor he wore for six months after coming home from the hospital.  As a new mother, the heart monitor freaked me out.  Whenever the alarm sounded, and it went off frequently, I would be gripped in fear. I didn't want anything to compromise Beloved’s health at that time, so I told grandma for the first time in her life, that she could not smoke in my house. When I witnessed that grey cloud over her head while she was holding my child, I knew it had to stop.

At first she didn’t believe me, and then was indignant, and then insulted.  I remained firm and soon she was ostracized to the porch whenever she wanted to light up. This story prompted him to ask questions and more questions and more questions.  Ay yes, four year olds and their undying quest for knowledge.  I answered his questions about smoking and the health risk his grandmother was taking.

Two months later, I was wrapping Christmas gifts when I noticed Beloved playing with the leftover scraps of wrapping paper.  He was amusing himself by rolling them between his hands making cylinders and rolling them on the floor. When I was done wrapping the last gift, he came to me with the colorful cylinders in his hands and asked me to wrap them up.  What are they? He answered that they were a present for grandma.  They were cigarettes and that these would be much better for her than what she was smoking now.  I was touched and did what he asked. At the same time, I knew I was setting grandma up.

Queen Maker said, “You aren’t really going to give them to her are you?  It’ll make her feel bad.” I told him it was Beloved’s present to her and maybe she should feel bad. Beloved thought this one up all on his own. Who am I to tell him he is wrong that he can’t give a present that he so lovingly fashioned especially for his grandmother.

This is a lesson that only a four-year-old can teach and she was about to learn it. Beloved took the wrapped cigarettes and put them in his “present” bag.  Beloved was proud when he presented grandma with his gift.  I mentioned that he had made the gift all by himself and brought them to me to wrap.  She made a big deal of it, confused as to what they actually were. He told her they were new cigarettes that she could smoke instead of the bad ones.  She was a little side swiped by the explanation. This small loving act from her four-year-old grandson spoke volumes to her.

Later I told Beloved that he was probably the only person in the world that could help grandma quit because she loved him so much. That if she couldn’t do it for him, she probably couldn’t ever do it.  It might work. That by telling her that he loved her and wanted her to be there for his graduation from college and at his wedding that she might find the strength enough to quit.

She told me years later, that the next time she lit up in front of him, he asked her specifically to stop smoking. He told her that he wanted her to be alive and well.  He asked her, don’t you want to see me graduate from college or when I get married or when I have my own boy? And from that day forward she stopped smoking.  She did put a pack of cigarettes in her desk drawer, but only as a safety net. Knowing they were there made her feel better, but she never had to take them out.  Years later when Beloved was seven years old, he saw them when she opened the drawer and instantly became angry with her. He asked her if it wasn’t about time to throw them out.  And she did.

She hasn’t smoked in 17 years, but the emphysema came anyways.  Now her body is denying her the freedom of movement she once enjoyed. But with the help of oxygen she is hanging on and working on maintaining quality of life. I am sure that Beloved’s intervention gave her many more years. A week ago, she witnessed his college graduation.  

Selfish Mom Needs

I wrote the following a year or so ago, when I felt a little low.  Tomorrow, I become Mom again. 

I miss something and I miss it a lot.  Ever since my Beloved left home for college, I miss being “Mom.” I didn’t realize it until a few months had passed.  Of course, in the beginning, Beloved called for us to bring him more stuff, more food, moral support.  But soon those calls for help slowed down and eventually came only once or twice a month.

I looked around and no one needed me. Beloved was my traveling companion just as I was his chauffeur. My driving companion was gone, the questions were gone, the conversations were gone and the asking was gone. By golly, even his laundry was gone. My activities were no longer dictated by his activities. My schedule no longer was impacted by whether or not he needed something that day. Our dinner plans became simplified, no longer needing to take into consideration his taste or quantity requirements. After 18 years, I no longer had to get up to make sure he had a warm breakfast before sending him off to school. 

A big part of me, the caring and nurturing aspects of my persona was no longer required, just wrapped up and put away until the call came again sometime in the future for “Mom.” I finally realized that the sense of loss that I was feeling was my need to hear it, the word  “Mom.”  That single word “Mom” was my conditioned response, my Pavlovian equivalent to “I need you.”

You just can’t turn that off can you? Queen Maker offered to make the supreme sacrifice and take all the caring and nurturing I can give him, but that usually leads to him making me feel like a Queen, if you know what I mean. So it isn’t really the same thing, is it? Don’t get me wrong; nothing is more delicious in this world that being Queen Maker’s wife, if the name bestowed upon him in not evident enough. But this is about being called “Mom” and I most definitely am not his mother.

I wasn’t done hearing the word “Mom.”  I literally looked around. Where are my other children, isn’t there a spare somewhere around here? Why didn’t I have another one lying around? I wasn’t finished. I need someone to call me Mom and I need to hear it EVERY DAY. Beloved is well on his way in becoming self-sufficient and self-reliant.  Although he knows we have his back, our relationship is becoming more like great friends, which is exactly how Queen Maker and I had planned it. Excellent, but this does nothing to satisfy my selfish mom needs.

I started to envy my three sisters.  They have more than one child and each one of them have a gift that I will never have, a daughter. Ah, those daughters.  The relationships I watched develop between mother and daughter are beautiful and the bonds between them are well crafted in our family.

Youngest Sister has two boys and the divine Ms. M. who is in her first year of college and away from home. It is obvious that they are each other’s BFF. She calls Mom at least two to three times a day sharing triumphs and despair.

Middle Sister has the fairy like and talented Ms. A. who is eleven years old. Her older brother is now in his first year of college at State. See, Middle Sister still has one lying around – and she’s a girl! Middle Sister is letting me share, bless her soul.

The Sister After Me has a more unique situation. Not only does she have a son who is 28, she has a 30-year-old daughter, gifted Ms. T, with a little girl and boys of her own making Sister After Me a grandmother at 37. She is twice blessed because she is also a new mom again in mid-life with the sweet Ms. E., now four years old.

Years and years of the beautiful call, “Hey, Mom!” ahead for these lucky women. I’ve heard that a daughter is a daughter forever. Sigh, but enough with the daughter envy.

I felt as though my identity had suddenly changed.  I wasn’t ready to be non-Mom. When Beloved was born, a new identity was bestowed upon me. I joined the Mom Club and suddenly felt legitimized as an Adult Woman entrusted with the care of a precious life. Then, if by chance your Beloved turns out to be a wonderful person, my status not only as Mom but also as Successful Parent increased significantly in the eyes of others.  Hey, we are really good at raising a child. Who knew? Everyone loved Beloved and I was proud to be his Mom. He increased my standing greatly.  My identity thus evolved to be, Beloved’s Mom.

But now, no one would realize that.  From now on when someone new comes into my life, Beloved is not there standing next to me. They will not understand who I really am because no one is calling me “Mom.” The labels I wore so proudly are no longer evident. The name “Mom” ringing out made me feel younger because all the Moms in the room would turn to the sound. Whether you were in your 20’s, 30’s, 40’s and 50’s. Yes, I too have a child in the room, and our membership in this club makes us all seem younger.

The next thought made me cringe.  If I was no longer to be known as Beloved’s Mom or just Mom, how would people perceive me? What was my next identity in life? I will soon turn fifty facing menopause and becoming an old lady.  No. No. NO. NO!   Quick someone let me borrow a kid. 

My own dear Mom always puts things in perspective.  “Honey, don’t worry, you still have a chance. Your aunt thought she was going through menopause and found out she was pregnant at the age of 50. Remember? Of course, she had to be hospitalized for exhaustion several times in the first three years, but you still can get pregnant. You’ll be 50 soon; there is still hope yet. You may still be blessed just like your aunt. That would be wonderful. Don’t look so horrified. It could still happen. It would be a good thing.”

Oh my god! What I am really asking for here? I was just feeling sorry for myself. I just wanted someone to call me Mom again.  Wait. I mean I just missed being called Mom, Wait. I don’t want another child NOW, not really. I’m going to be 50. I work with 4 and 5 year olds everyday at school. That should be good enough. Really I don’t know why I was complaining so much. Just because none of them can call me Mom… Wait, I don’t mean that. Knock on some wood. No that’s laminate, that doesn’t count. Find wood now! No, I’m not calling you Queen Maker.

Will my selfish rant be heard above and will someone smile and say, “Careful what you ask for sister.”

Oh, dear Saint Emily Litella*, hear my words,  “Never mind.” 

*the lovely Gilda Radner's character on SNL  

Calling for a Cat Chat

I really enjoy thinking random thoughts.  It's such a great distraction and can keep me busy all day long.  

Tony the Tiger should have a talk with that Chester the Cheetah.

I wonder if you find it disturbing that Chester is such a spiteful and revengeful instigator, that he understands how to manipulate those that are already as spiteful and vengeful as he.  He waits, sitting in outside cafes and at playgrounds, awaiting to play the little voice on the your shoulder, and he’s not sitting on the angel side of your conscience. He seems to influence those that already have the same mind set because the commercial makes sure to show you the full agreement in his accomplice’s eyes. 

But then he disappears and you realize that the person is as petty as you thought or maybe we should excuse their behavior because “Chester” was whispering in their ear. Besides the other person deserved it, right? They were annoying. Who really is the culprit here? I’m confused. Does Chester want me to like the product or not?  But again, it’s just a fantasy after all, just something we wished we could do, but never really would. Isn't it?

I don’t know why this commercial disturbs me. I am apparently not their target market. It might thrill the cockles of some pubescent teens, but the characters are all adults and so I must ask, what is the message? Maybe I don’t get it.   I just thought that if Tony the Tiger heard about these shenanigans, he certainly would want to have a big brotherly talk with Chester, big cat to big cat.  If not, I wish he’d punch him in the face

Sledding Anyone?

Mami and Papi sometimes had to leave the five of us alone. I was about nine years old at this time making the youngest about five. For a time my mother was in and out of the hospital and went in at least once a year, so there were many opportunities for us to be alone together in the house. They didn’t do it often, but every once in a while it became a necessity for our parents to leave us home alone while they went grocery shopping.  We didn’t own a car so they walked to the grocery store. In those days, you could buy a lot for twenty dollars, filling up four or five bags.  I’m not talking about those wimpy plastic bags you get now that have a maximum load capacity of one to three items.  I’m talking the huge brown paper bags filled to the top. It would take both of them to carry back the groceries.

These were the times when our games became really interesting. We had about an hour before they got back to the house.  We would always get into mischief jumping back and forth from the loveseat and the couch or raiding the fridge. We would post a sentry, usually my Little Sister or take turns running to the window to check every five minutes.  When the alarm was sounded, everything had to be put back in its place quickly.  Sometimes our sentry system wouldn’t work and the sound of Papi’s keys turning in the lock would be our only warning. That’s when we would grab anything or everything off the floor carrying it away (to return discretely later) and scatter. Most of the time we managed to make it right. Sometimes we wouldn’t and we’d get a “whooping.” Today they would be gone a little longer, having to walk a mile or so to the store, so we decided to go sledding.

Imagine your hair flying back as you slide down the slope.  Although the toboggan run was short, it was still exhilarating to swoosh down gaining speed. The bottom was a little tricky to maneuver, not a lot of room to stop. We had to avoid falling off or hitting anything hard because Papi would get really mad if we got hurt. Only one of us could fit on the sled at the time, except for Little Sister and Only Brother. They fit two on the sled by sitting very close.  The tricky part was balancing just right so our hands wouldn’t get pinched or smashed underneath our homemade sled. After awhile, we became so good at balancing that we didn’t use our hands at all. 

We climbed to the top of the platform; sat on our sled, our hands outstretched to touch either side of the wall until the sled was balanced. Taking a big breath, we leaned forward to drop off the platform pulling our hands in to make the run and hopefully not hit the doorway. Over and over we took turns the five of us, sometimes alone or two on the sled.

We would drag our makeshift wooden sled climbing to the platform on top of the stairs leading to our bedroom.  The stairs were exactly the right distance apart to accommodate the length and width of our sled so that we could slide down the stairs without stopping.  We were getting really good at this. Wow! If you lean a little to the left at the end of the run, you could adjust your trajectory to fly right into the bathroom and all the way to the toilet. Speed and distance were perfect because the sled stopped just before it could hit the porcelain.  It became a competition to see who could slide the farthest. Who needed snow? Not us. Our upstairs steps were angled perfectly. Our weird little sled glided smoothly over the edge of each step to the bottom and the momentum carried us a long way.

Mami and Papi came back from the store. We were having so much fun that our sentry became too distracted to keep a good watch. Hearing them at the door we scattered.  Mami walked into the hallway and asked aloud, “Why is this broken toilet seat in the hallway?”  

The Art of Work

My dad was a laborer.  He worked in a factory that made lard and other types of shortening.  He took the bus every morning at 4:30 and ride an hour to the factory located around the Detroit Eastern Market and would return home around 4:30pm. He worked hard and took pride in that fact.  He would tell us stories about how he made something run faster or smoother at the plant.  He could outwork, outthink any man there.  Whether it was boosting, fantasy or not, we were enthralled by his stories and his work ethic.  The man was no slacker, not when it came to his job.  If a job needed to be done, he didn’t wait for permission or instructions.  He just did it. Tired and exhausted from the day, he would fall asleep while reading the paper or the encyclopedia and then watch television before he went to bed.

Papi taught us what work really meant.  He had five children to feed and no car.  He got up every morning and went to work for 40 years for wages that barely covered the family expenses. Although I knew we drove him crazy, occasionally giving my mother the look that says, “This is your fault. Why did we have all these kids?” He still had the strength to keep going, to make a life for his wife and children, even if it meant he didn’t have one himself. He was our Boxer.*

One of the many things my dad told us and stuck with me my whole life was, “When the man pays you for forty hours, you give him his forty hours. No hiding, no whining.  You made a contract with him that says you will work forty hours and you were willing to take this amount to do it.  It was your choice.  So you give him his full forty. Make them a smart forty.”

So consequently every one of his kids developed a solid work ethic.  He taught us to be innovative at work; to raise work to an art form.  That’s how you get through the tedium of the job.  No matter how small the job, you could probably find a way to make it faster and smoother.  Look for ways to change the way things are done, because if you can make it better, you make it far easier for yourself in the long run. Look for ways to change the way you move, or think, or judge a particular task.  When you raise your job to an art form, you can take real pride in your work. You made a difference, maybe one that no one else will see or recognize, but a conscious difference within yourself. 

*from George Orwell's animal farm

Graduation Day

We almost didn’t do this.  Beloved at first agreed to do it, but as the date drew nearer it was apparent that he really didn’t want to go through with it. He moaned when he thought about it. It represented time lost, valuable time.  Time spent finishing an important twenty-page paper and saying good-bye to friends he may never see again. It represented another day without rest. Time better used spent sleeping, since he’s only been living on three to four hours a night studying for finals.

It represented ritual, which he’s not really into. It meant listening to boring speeches by people that didn’t interest him. His name would not be called. He wouldn’t even get his diploma.  He would be one of thousands of young graduates sitting together dress in their black caps and gowns. When the appropriate time came he would just stand and then sit down. To him it meant an ordeal. His arguments seem sound and I was ready to let him have his way - again. 

Thank goodness that Queen Maker had different ideas. "He's really exhausted and just can't deal with anything right now.  He'll be happy he went. This is an momentous occasion in his life and in our family's. This is no small fete. We need to celebrate it, even if it means going through the pomp and circumstance ritual."   

Today we attended our son’s graduation from the University of Michigan.  His aunts and uncles, his grandparents, and his parents sat in the stands loving every moment. The weather was perfect. The massive graduation was a spectacle. The grand scale of the event mirrored the enormity of this day and what it truly means to our family.

I was so glad we didn’t listen to his complaints. Later, Beloved said, “Yeah. I have to admit it. It was pretty cool. I’m glad I did it.”

Walking into the Stadium

Only a quarter of the way full.

The 2009 Graduating Class of University of Michigan.

Dancing Electric Men

With five children all one year apart, the noise level in my home was intense, especially in the winter time.  Mami already sick and tired of all the bickering and noise would send us upstairs to play in our room.  Upstairs was the bedroom that my sisters and I shared. We were always running up and down the stairs screaming, so Mami would yell for us to “Stop It!” and made us “stay put up there” for a while.

It was a beautiful sunny day and the light shown in our windows and streamed across the floor. Four weeks earlier, for my Christmas/ Birthday I had received a toy grand piano, that I loved. It was actually a step above a regular toy because it was a replica of the real thing and sounded beautiful. It was the first thing that was officially mine. My parents proclaimed that I did not have to share this particular gift with my four siblings. 

Like everything else we owned, it was broken just after a few days. Toys didn’t last long with five children all claiming possession or wanting a turn. Soon we would be fighting over the toy or it broke due to the stress of overuse. I was sure that my piano would last much longer, because it was mine, all mine.

But alas, life has a way of giving you the norm, and it was broken two days later. Not by us, but by outsiders, two obnoxious boys visiting the day after Christmas. Obnoxious Boy #1 pulled off a key and then another. Obnoxious Boy #2 yanked a string out from inside the piano. Although I was allowed to withhold my piano from my siblings, I was expected to share it with guests, no matter how obnoxious or destructive. I cried and cried. It was the first thing that I felt was truly mine and represented the concert pianist I might some day become, but my dreams and my piano were destroyed. I had it whole for only one day. What a cruel world.  And like a pack of dingoes smelling blood, the piano was brought down and picked apart by New Years Eve.

We were playing on the floor when Sister After Me and I found one of the piano’s metal bars that strike the piano strings. It still had a bit of piano wire attached to it.  After fiddling with it for a while, we used it to poke into the floor, between the floorboards, and then poke it into the knotholes of the pine boards along the wall. Running out of holes, we looked along the wall and found some intriguing new holes to poke, the electrical plug. And do you know what, an amazing thing happened.

Now, what I am about to share with you, you must keep to yourself. Be warned, it may result in a desire to find your own holes to thrust metallic objects into, but refrain. Remember how your mom would react if she saw you acting so foolishly. Mom would freak. This falls under the category of, “Please, do not attempt this on your own. It is very dangerous and can result in fire or death.  Please, leave it to the professionals,” or perhaps in our case to children under seven.

We discovered that if you poke piano wire into the electrical socket that dancing electric men would tumble out onto the floor.  Amazing, fantastic!  “They’re little flaming men, and they are dancing!” When it happened we looked at each other in awe and joy. 

We discovered a new world, a new race of people living within our walls. Excitedly we shoved the wire into the socket again and at least a dozen little glowing electric men, five pointed, a beautiful bright white much like the color of lightning, came tumbling out running after us across the floor.

The five-pointed star was made of a flickering head, two waving arms, and two waving legs and they were fast, dancing and chasing after us, sometimes rolling like tumble weeds.  It was the coolest sight ever.

Whoa, come back! Remember, you’re a responsible adult, possibly a parent and role model. Plus the guardian angel that used to work so hard following you around when you were a kid is probably napping or dead from boredom, because really, when was the last time you did anything so perilous?

Sister After Me and I took turns poking because we disliked the way our hands buzzed and went numb when the wire was shoved into the socket, so we started shoving it in quickly and letting go right away. We would scream in delight as we ran for the bed in the middle of the room and jumped on it before the little men could catch us, some of them dashing right under the bed.  Our game became a frenzy of laughing, screaming, running and jumping on the bed.  

Youngest Sister, who was three, was too small to climb up safely on her own, so we would grab her and pull her up onto the bed. Since she was the slowest, it would only be a matter of time before the electric dancing men would catch her. A delicious little thought we shared with her. But then she would cry if we let them “get her” and Mami would surely call up to see what was the matter.

Sometimes only a few men would come out and other times they would cascade out of the socket in huge numbers as though a platoon were sent out to defend their electrified world.  Over and over we ran for our lives as the little glowing men ran swiftly across the floor, and then dissipate.  The game was over when Mami called to come downstairs for dinner.

The next day we tried to coax the little dancing electric men out from the now slightly blackened wall socket, but they wouldn’t come out and play.  We were very disappointed that they had left.  Would we ever see them again?  But we soon forgot about them and went on to play something else. For some reason, that wall socket never worked again.