Adventure 454: The Story of George. 31

February 23, 2018

Real time found George looking sharp, feeling fine, and marked absent during pill taking class. He went from taking both A.M. and P.M. yesterday to none taken last night and this morning. Here's the kicker. "Did you take your pills, George," we ask. "Yes, I did." he replies.  The pill box tells another story. So, we've decided that we need to be regular with our checking time: 7:30 A.M./4:30 P.M. George reminds me of teaching seventh graders. Seventh graders, who sometimes do moronic things like ask to visit a teacher for help during home room, but fail to show up (The moron part being trying to play this trick). I'd say, "Yes." However, in short order, I'd email the teacher to see if the kid arrived. It's not that I didn't trust the kid; rather, it's just that I liked to check and verify. This is where we are with George. It's not that he can't be trusted, nor is he really a moron. He wants to do the right thing, but he's a little like a politician in that respect. He's forgotten what the right thing is. So do the moron check.

Speaking of morons. I must rant for a minute. I can't think of anything more moronic that arming teachers in the classroom. If the logic is that arming teachers would act as a deterrent, it would make just as much sense to arm everyone. Arm the teachers, the administrators, the custodians, the cooks, the kids, the parents, the pedestrians walking by, those in cars driving by. And why stop at high school? Arm the kindergartners, too! Absurd. But what can we expect when our American value system is so entrenched in a military paradigm. Take, for example, America's budget. When Mr. Trump came into office, military spending amounted to 54% of the discretionary spending, or roughly 650 Billion dollars. Mr. Trump's new budget proposes to increase that amount to 61%, or roughly 750 Billion dollars. Most of us operate on some kind of budget. That budget reflects the various things we value. Our values are measured in direct proportion to what we decide to spend our money on. If we accept that premise, then America values war and war mongering at a significant rate. This begs the question: Does our national security truly require this expenditure? It's no wonder that we Americans, bathed as we are in the second amendment, comforted by our role as righteous nation builders, and motivated it seems, by unfathomable greed, continue to kick the can into newly opened graves. Absurd.

Caveat: Judy in no way has colluded with this opinion.

 Sure,

 I took 

 my pills.

Adventure 453: The Story of George, 30

February 21, 2018

Real time this morning found George as bubbly as a city park fountain. He was effusive in his response to Joel, asking him questions about this muscle and that ache. He rated his improvement at twenty percent better. He took last night's pills, this morning's pills, and yesterday, he went on the field trip to the Buck Knife plant in Post Falls with seventeen others from Harvard Park. Last night we played Bingo. It's good that he's doing well. We'll take it as long as we can get it.

I've come to realize in recent posts that this story of George is becoming more the story of Tim with a little salting of George thrown in. I'll explore that part of the story later, but first, there is the story of George Sr. and Rosa. Both of my grand parents were born to immigrant parents. Their six children were born in the pre-dawn of WWII. Even with America's attempt at neutrality, this must have made for an anxious time. Yet grandpa and grandma raised six fine children, all of whom became good citizens, and most of whom lived lives as professionals. It's interesting that their middle child, George Jr., was the only one of their children who did not aspire nor acquire an adult life as a professional. Even then life was all about choices. But the important part is that when George's early adult life fell apart, his mother and father stuck with him in the form of emotional, financial, and practical support. It may be common place nowadays, but I doubt that many adult children lived at home in the fifties. This says more about my grandmother than anyone else. She stood firmly behind all of her children, but clearly she had a special place in her heart for George. That idea of enduring heart, that idea of unconditional love, that idea of everlasting hope defines my grandmother. She was and remains the ever fragrant bloom of love in the Williams' family. And remember, even though George Sr. came from a time of stoicism, he too, fell under the spell of my grandmother's love. The rest of us are better because of their example.

 George learned how to love from his mother. Here, Vina, his current love, knits away.

 Bingo!

To this day, the work ethic taught to George by his mother still dominates. He makes his bed every day just as he was taught, and he's always the first and last to help make things work. Here, he, Vina, and Jangle clean up after Bingo. The twenty others merely melted into the night.

 We Williams' come from a strong gene pool. We all take after George Sr.

 George Sr. and Rosa, strong and vital in their early retirement years. This is where the love started.

Interestingly enough, George stayed married to Margaret for something past fifty years as did my mother, Chris, to her second husband, Jack. They both learned good lessons from their practice marriage.

Adventure 452: The Story of George, 29

February 21, 2018

This morning it was 4 degrees. Judy stayed snugly warm by the fireplace.. I checked on George. Real time found him dressed, calm, and collected waiting in his usual spot for Vina to come down for breakfast. He'd taken his morning pills, voiced no complaints, and seemed in good spirits. I asked him if he did his exercises, and he said, "A little". Who knows what that means, but if yesterday's performance with the physical therapist is any guide, he must be doing something. However, it's becoming clear that the new normal will be a twice a day check, but since every day brings a new adventure, we'll see what this evening brings. I"m scheduled for dinner and Bingo. Wish me luck.

One oddity that George practices when eating is to cut all of his food into bite sized pieces before he eats them. For example, if he has a stack of pancakes, he asks for the egg to be put on top. He then criss crosses the whole plateful with his knife and fork, cutting the mass into cube shapes. He does this with everything: chicken, steak, pork chops, etc. The really odd thing is that for most of my life I've done the same, especially with the pancakes or waffles. I must have seen him do it. The strange part is why I would copy it. The old argument between Nature and Nurture surfaces at this moment, not that I argue much. I believe both have influence. What amazes me is the natural similarities that appear in any gene pool. Mannerisms, voice inflections, gaits, postures, and so many other "clone like" examples make me wonder at the power of creation. It's just another of the many mysteries that cannot be contained by definition.

Selfie of the day.

Way back in the ideal fifties.

 Stack.

Cubed stack.

Adventure 451: The Story of George, 28

February 20, 2018

It's a good news, bad news day in real time for George. The good news is that he's demonstrating improved strength due to the exercise regime Joel, the physical therapist has him on. He says he's been doing the exercises, which must be true because he was able to demonstrate some proficiency today. The bad news is he forgot to take last night's pills and this morning's. If this pattern continues, which seems likely, it will require twice daily checking. It's undetermined if and when the twice daily checking will become more invasive, but we're approaching a new level of care requirement at light speed. We inquired about next level housing though "A Place for Mom". They've been hounding us like used car salesmen. It's a little bit mystical right now. Our crystal balls don't have  much range, even when Judy and I take turns balancing them in our eye sockets. I guess this is where the faith comes in.

A year or so before George and Chris split, and before we moved to the big yellow house on Seventh Avenue, we lived in a post war housing project situated directly across the street from the Lewis and Clark Normal's ball field. There were a dozen or so houses, all about eight hundred square feet with unfinished basements, all painted light green,  and all with oak floors. Some were two bedrooms, and some, three. We lived in one of the three bedroom houses, which even then was too small. At the time, George was working three jobs to make ends meet, and to get enough money for the move to the bigger house on Seventh. I remember this place because it's where I earned the ten inch scar on my forehead. We used to get a quarter a week for allowance. I usually spent my whole quarter on candy. As soon as my grubby little boy fingers grasped the quarter, I'd be off running for the store. Once, I tripped and tumbled, sliding head first like Pete Rose stealing second. Only I didn't have my arms out in front of me to break my fall. Instead, my arms remained at my side and back. I landed smack on my forehead, tearing the soft skin just above my eyebrow. Although not seriously hurt, I was a bloody mess when I went screaming back home. Worse, I lost the quarter. Worse yet, I got no sugar that day, just a tetanus shot, a deadening agent expressed through a needle in my forehead, and ten stitches in a crescent shape to close the flap. When I walked in the door, I must have looked a sight. George, who was reading the paper, took one look at me and yelped like a wounded dog. The next thing I remember, he grabbed me by the belt, tossed me into the car, and I can still hear the tires on his big Lincoln ripping up gravel like a hydroplane's rooster tail. I don't remember much else about the ride, but I'm sure we made it to the hospital in near record time. It's interesting that so many of my childhood memories are attached to some kind of trauma or stress. The mind researchers say food, sex, and safety are our basic needs. The first two are obvious, but safety, or lack there of, create a world view based on our "procedural memories", which is psycho babble for life experiences. Bottom line: Safety engenders trust. Trauma breeds suspicion. Both create emotional survival skills.

 Miss Judy giving George a back scratch. He says, "All the hair that was supposed to be on my head moved down my back. It itches!"

 Tim, Tom, Sandy, Judy out front in the housing project. Notice my bare feet.

This photo, taken some time later in Grandpa and Grandma's front yard, if I've reconstructed the timeline correctly, is just before Chris (Mom) took herself and the girls to Edmonds.

Adventure 450: The Story of George, 27

February 19, 2018

We took two days off in real time from seeing George as an experiment to test his independence. He seemed alright this morning. He ate a good breakfast, took his morning pills, but he seemed a little pensive. It could be nothing. He also continues to forget his evening pills. He did warm up a little when Kelly, the home health nurse made her weekly visit this morning, and by the time we left, he was fairly effusive, which is good.

Consider these words from Lewis Smedes: "Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future..." to forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that that prisoner was you.  I'm sure my siblings have complicated feelings about George. I've been examining my own for years. Lately, I've come to realize that a generous spirit toward the man's failings is helping me to accept my own. It feels soothing, like healing. I used to tell my students who were struggling with the divorce of their parents (Which often happens when a child is around twelve) that there was one thing in life I knew for sure: "You either have a relationship with your parents, or you want one". I'm taking what time George has left to allow him to grow in his role as father, which means, of course, that I must grow in my role as son. I believe that is why the sun comes up every day: it's a promise that things have a chance to be brighter.

 George (On the left) was president of the student body as a senior in high school.

 George was always happiest out in nature.

And, of course, when he was on the way to catch fish.

Adventure 449: The Story of George, 26

February 16, 2018

No direct evidence of real time for George this morning. We're not going over to Harvard Park until it's time for Tai Chi. However, we've received no call this morning, so it's safe to assume that he got up and going, and he might have taken his pills. We'll find out when we get there. Really, this is just our little test to see just how independent he is at this point. Right now, we're encouraged that he's progressing every day.

I mentioned yesterday that one of the great absences in my life was any real connection with my cousins on Dad's side. Now that I've thought about it, It may not have made any difference even if George and Chris had stayed together. There doesn't seem to be much connection between George and his siblings. I can't remember any times that George and his brothers and sister just got together. There were two huge family reunions, but no one came together on any regular basis. Maybe it's because life took each of them on separate journeys. Aunt Betty, who was a nurse like her mother, raised four kids, cared for her husband as he died of cancer, and remarried late in life. She and hers lived mostly in Libby, Montana. Bob, a high school shop teacher and ultra-successful baseball coach raised four kids with his wife Phyllis. He had three different teaching jobs, but most of  Bob's career occurred in the Dalles, OR. Richard, a mid management type for "Ma Bell half raised two boys with his wife, Vivian. I say half because Richard was killed in a car accident returning to his home in Las Vegas after the first big Williams' family reunion in Spirit Lake, Idaho. The year was 1972, which made Richard somewhere around forty years old at the time. George and Chris split  for the last time when I was nine or ten. I know George considered himself a failure as a family man. It bothers him to this day. Roger and his first wife raised nine kids in Nampa, Idaho. Roger, a lawyer,spent much of his professional life as both a district and federal judge. He's been married three time, having divorced his first wife, having lost a second wife to cancer. He now lives in Arkansas with his third. Jim, another high ranking management type for the phone company and his wife Bertha raised two children. They spent most of their lives in Bellevue, WA. The rest they spent near Goldbar, WA. So, it seems to me that lives, families, and careers kept the Williams clan separated. I hadn't really thought about it until now. It's made me realize that even had I had a stable family life, it wouldn't have increased my chances to know my Williams side cousins. So it goes.

My great grand parents bought this clock out of the Montgomery Ward catalog in 1907 for $5.00. It lived on my grandmother's mantle for many years. My grandmother willed it to me. The good news is that she gave it to me before she died, which meant I didn't have to negotiate for it. It is a very dear heirloom. 

 It runs on spring tension.

 Originally, one wind would last seven days.

 These days, I have to wind it every five days.

 It keeps very accurate time.

The gold leaf is real gold. Whoo Hoo!

Adventure 448: The Story of George, 25

February 15, 2018

Real time found George up and at it by the time we got to Harvard Park at 7:40 A.M. He was dressed well, appeared calm, and was able to hold a conversation. He took his pills out of the daily box, put them on the desk, and walked off without taking them. Judy brought them to him. We talked about his hip and told him Leticia would come today to give him a massage. She'll try to release some of the pressure along his right leg. If George keeps this up, his daily life will be too boring to report on. We'll see.

George came from a interesting distribution of siblings. He had one sister, the oldest child-Betty. Then came Bob, Rich, George Jr., Roger, and Jim in the typical stair step fashion of Catholic families in those years. Dad was especially close to Richard, who if you can believe it was bolder and wilder than George. One of the great absences in my life is any connection with my cousins on my Dad's side. I've seen some of them over the years, but I have no real connection with any of them, which is polar opposite to my Mom's side, although it's fair to say that I've not had contact with any of my cousins on my Mom's side except for Barbara's kids, and that is mostly because we lived together during our formative years. Like most extended families, I suppose, I have vignettes of memories that include cousins from both sides. For example, I can remember clearly the time I spent with Bob's kids up at the ranch in Craigmont, Idaho. I can also remember a few close moments with Barry who is my mother's sister Diane's oldest son. So really, when I think about it, I've just scattered memories concerning my blood relations. That aside, I do have a clear understanding of how my grandmother ran her home. Tom and I lived with my grandparents for two full years. We cleaned, weeded, scrubbed, and rubbed just about anything grandma told us to. She took no guff and no prisoners. But she was fun, too. She loved playing the piano, and all  of her boys could sing like meadowlarks. She had her own Idaho quintet. My point is, I don't know very many specifics of George's early years, but I can make a pretty good guess that grandma and grandpa raised their crew to be good, hardworking citizens.

 Dad and Judy exchanging some "spuut" (Geman for trash talk, I think.)

 Back row: Roger, George Jr. Richard
Middle row: Jim, Bob
Front row: Rosa, George Sr., Betty

My siblings before the split: Judy, Sandy, Tom, Tim

Adventure 447: The Story of George, 24

February 14, 2018

Real time found George on top of his game this morning. Judy, who was on morning duty while I cleared the driveway of snow reported that he had breakfast, had taken his pills, had made his bed, and he had his work out clothes on (Not really) ready for Joel to arrive. He's taken to the added exercise regimen without complaint. Hopefully, continued strengthening of his muscles will alleviate a little bit of the arthritis in his hip. At any rate, that's what we're telling him. The rest of his day was busy. He and Vina posed for a a Valentine picture and played a game of cards. He ate a good lunch, took a nap, had dinner, and when we arrived in the evening, he was actively involved in Wednesday night bingo. After the Bingo, we watched him perform his nightly chores, and said good night.

George has always been a ladies' man, so it's not out of the realm of reality that he's hooked another one at this stage in life. It's so good to see him and Vina together. They play cards, play bingo,  smack the balloon ball,  roll the Wii bowling ball , and any number of other things during the day. I think she's his reason for living. Kent Hoffman, a therapist who has spent his career working with people who suffer greatly-the mentally ill, the terminally incarcerated, and homeless street kids- says that one very basic and forever constant human need is that of being held. The smallest loving touch provides us comfort. I find much joy in watching George and Vina express their caring and loving bond. They fulfill for each other the need to be loved, the need to be wanted, the need to be touched. It seems that age is no barrier to the warmth of a nice Valentine's Day kiss. And according to Mr. Hoffman, a good squeeze ain't bad either.

A few deep knee bends in the morning, along with an assortment of other exercises.

 A little SkipBo in the afternoon.

 And finally, a little Bingo. Not a bad day in the life of George

Adventure 446: The Story of George, 23

February 13, 2018

Real time found George waiting for us when we got there this morning at 7:30. We trekked across town to the urologist's office, where Dr. Kruger gave us a cursory look (Due to the fact that the records we requested hadn't arrived), and she ordered George's catheter changed out to a permanent Foley. They also took a clean urine sample as a benchmark for Dr. Kruger to begin her treatments. We'll return in a few weeks in order to have Dr. examine the bladder with her scope. I'm glad there are physicians who specialize in urology. It seems less glamorous to me than other specialties, but it takes all kinds. Talking with George, he no longer remembers the fact that he self catheterized for years. This is troubling on the cognitive front, and we're still determining if this sudden loss of mid-memory stuff is caused by the UTI. Regardless, we've a new level of care required: i.e. daily monitoring. He's also complaining quite often about pain in his hip. We're taking physical therapy steps to help alleviate that, which means bringing in a physical therapist twice a week, and me running George through some strengthening exercises daily. As for me, I'm trying to remain calm in the face of the onerous medical records system. While privacy concerns are important, there must be a more efficient way for patient records to be transferred internally. The "hospital shuffle" as I call it can be a  source of frustration. A word to the wise. We thought we were prepared. We're not, fully. When your turn comes, it pays to check and re-check the system.

One of the reasons George and Margaret chose La Pine, OR for their dream home was the proximity to lakes and other fisheries. They spent many a weekend happily cavorting with nature, searching out a few elusive trout. they most often went alone, but at times a few friends and relatives shared their adventure. In short, they loved to fish. George had quite the comfortable set up. He had a thirty foot fifth wheel camper that he hooked to his propane driven pickup. Behind that he pulled his fourteen foot boat. I'm sure he and Margaret pulled fish from every hole in the area. It was simple, enjoyable, and nearly free. He must have got the love of fishing from his youth. The earliest memory of fishing I have is with George's dad, George, Sr. He took me and my brother to a lake south of Lewiston called WaHa. I remember catching a fish, but I didn't like the slimy feeling of the fish as it flopped, gasping for air on the beach. Much to my everlasting shame, Grandpa had to take it off the hook for me. George Jr. was not so encumbered. He like to catch 'em, clean 'em, and  eat 'em. Like many of the things he did for enjoyment, like golf, bowling, and leatherwork, he was also pretty good at fishing, especially if catching is the measure of success.

 George wheeling into the urology office.

George signing, in triplicate, the release forms.

 

A collage of victories. Bring on the frying pan.

Adventure 445: The Story of George, 22

February 12, 2018

Realtime with George took a downturn today. He didn't wake up for breakfast, even though he said he slept well during the night. We arrived about eight-thirty. Judy woke him gently, and he dressed himself in a timely manner. He was ready by nine just as Joel, the physical therapist, arrived. Joel took George through a set of exercises for about forty-five minutes, which also included to walking laps down the hall and back. George is complaining of a sore hip, which is aggravated by tight and weakened muscles. Joel wants us to repeat the exercises twice a day. This increases our care giving time in a very proactive way. It's just another click on the circle. Right now the future is uncertain, so Judy and I are swimming around like goldfish. Every time we swim down the the bottom, we see the castle and say, "Wow! When did that get here." We're trying to anticipate the unexpected, but really we just deal with whatever reality faces us each day. We left George in good spirits. He ate fairly well, and he was even laughing when Judy told him he looked so handsome in his Sunday suit that he could be called in as a guest preacher. Vina chimed in that she'd take the offering on that day.

Nineteen guys in George's high school class joined the same one year Navy program that George did. It made boot camp easier for them, and as George says, "It kept us out of the Army." It was a good time to be in the service. There was no danger of combat, a real and important mission that was quite easily accomplished, and the power of being a "Man in Uniform" was real. The boys felt good. Looking at a picture of George's boot camp days makes me realize that in many ways, he's lived a good life. That's part of what makes his current life such a challenge. In his book Being Mortal, Dr. Atul Gawande talks about preserving a person's independence and self-esteem for as long as possible. We very much want George's life to be as much of his own as  possible, which is why this current "bubble" period is uncertain. We're not in control of the time line, yet we're faced with deciding when, where, and how to move George's life forward. I've got this feeling that George wishes he could just sleep things away. At other times, like when he was laughing about being a guest preacher, he seems as alive as anybody could hope for. For now, we've committed to the care giving, which means we'll become physical therapist assistants for the foreseeable future. Who knows what the next click on this circle of life will be? 

 I found this amusing. George has jars, boxes, bowls, and drawers full of "stuff". He's always had these collections. the amusing part is that I tend to have these kinds of collections as well. Genetic patterning?

 George, up and at it at the crack of 9 A.M.

 Joel and George taking a lap.

We're so fortunate to have drawn Joel. He's competent, caring, gentle, efficent, and so very kind.

 George and his Lewiston buddies out on the town in San Diego (1949). This was during their boot camp days.

 He really likes my Bunny. She got him laughing about being a guest preacher today.

Adventure 444: The Story of George, 21

February 11, 2018

Real time found George and Vina sitting at their usual table waiting for lunch. They had been to Mass as usual, and when I asked George how church was, he replied, "About an hour." As I walked in, George wrinkled his brow, smiled a bit wryly as if asking me, "What are you doing here." I said, "I'm here to check up on you." I'm quite sure he's feeling a little bit like we've been spending too much time on him. But he also appreciates it. The bottom line today is that he looked good, so I said, "See ya'". His fall didn't seem to have bothered him - his color, spirits, and energy seem good. Judgment on the reliability of his cognition remains in question, but it would appear that he's living as large as any 87 year old could hope for.

George was a very good bowler. He bowled for many years on different leagues and also  traveled a little bit to compete. For much of the middle of his life, bowling served as an outlet for everything from a social platform to a competitive space to a bit of physical exercise. I can remember watching George bowl. He had a stylish and rhythmic approach to the lane. His ball traveled very close to the right gutter, but halfway down the lane would arc smartly in the direction of the pocket. Often, the ball would strike the pocket in such a way that the pins, all ten of them, would explode inside the pin box. It was common for George to bowl two hundred. He even managed for a number of years to belong to the six-hundred series club. In league bowling, three games are played. The totals are added together, and the team with the highest total wins. A player who consistently added 600 or more pins to the total was seen as pretty valuable to the team. I don't think George ever bowled a perfect game, but I do believe he rolled a few in the high 280s. I know that he enjoyed bowling very much.