The years creep up on each of us, guietly and unseen.
Before we know what’s happening, we’re no longer child nor teen.
We learn, we grow,
We make mistakes.
We seek what we must find.
A path is made, we follow it, by destiny or design.
Our clock of life is ticking, steadily but quick.
We are not even aware of when our halfway mark is hit.
We move so fast.
We work so hard.
We never ‘have the time’.
A look into the mirror and we find we’re past our prime.
And the sand sifts through our hourglass, silently and fast
We now know what is happening, but we can not change our past.
We wish we’d said,
We wish we’d done,
We wish we could once more.
Blow out the candles on your cake. Now, forget what’s gone before.
Every hour of every day, so precious and finite.
Each one’s an opportunity, each dawn’s a new delight.
So, laugh out loud,
Set new goals,
Make every minute count.
Cherish all the little things, cause they’re what life’s about.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Her Mind Went Traveling Today
My mother Avis was 85 years old when she passed on January 8th, 2009. She had had signs of memory loss for a couple of years but only minor signs. She was diagnosed with mild dementia in 2006, but none of us knew enough to know what was coming or recognize it when it began progressing.
She lived with my brother for the last two years of her life, and I visited her in March 2008 for her birthday; she seemed fine. There were signs then that I would now recognize, but at the time I just chalked it up to 'old age'. That May she began obsessing on some things in her past and getting herself worked up over them. By June, she had become paranoid and afraid. She thought her life was in danger, and her behavior became very suspicious and odd.
She started imagining things, mixing up facts, hiding her possessions and closing the drapes in her room. One morning my brother woke up, and she had called 911 and told them that he was trying to kill her. She was truly terrified. My brother did not know how to react.
He called the doctor’s office and took her into emergency. She spent the next three weeks in a senior psych ward getting medication and treatment.
Mom and I used to write poems together when we were worried, waiting or just had something emotional to say. I wrote this poem the day after hearing about all of this happening while I waited to board a plane to go be by her side.
Her Mind Went Traveling
Her mind went traveling today,
It packed its bags and slipped away.
It wanders old paths and memory’s lanes
and her dementia holds the reins.
It travels down roads that were not taken
and desires things long since forsaken.
It dwells on what she should have done
and fights old battles lost and won.
It relives talks that once she had
and remembers happy times and sad.
It replays her life again, again.
Her dementia adds what might have been.
It plays games and tricks her senses.
It concocts lies and it convinces.
It exaggerates her greatest fears
And gives her reasons for her tears
It jumbles memories all together
and forgets the truths that she would never.
It confuses facts, people, and places.
Yet remembers forgotten names and faces.
It makes her doubt the ones she loves.
It makes her question all she does.
It shows her things that are not there
and makes her think that we don’t care.
Her mind tries constantly to deceive her
She worries why we don’t believe her.
She says things that anger and annoy us.
Her mind’s filled up with paranoia.
So, is her dementia friend or foe?
That answer we may never know.
It’s stolen her from us, that’s true.
But protects her from her future too.
And why the anger and mistrust?
Why does it make her turn on us?
Her life was grand in so many a way,
What purpose does this deception play?
Does it create these stories to help her cope?
Does it ‘make believe’ to give her hope?
Does it shield her from her own lost mind?
That, in itself, is not so unkind.
Does it help us do what we must do?
Does it lessen the guilt we feel too?
Is deception dementia’s deceiving way,
to get us ALL through this difficult day?
Whatever the reason, we may never know.
But let's travel this together, here we go!
Cause her mind went traveling today.
(It won’t be back. At least not to stay.)
...... Mom did come back to us mentally, sometimes in spurts, but I visited with her just a few weeks prior to her passing and she knew me, told me she loved me. I could see in her eyes though that she was ready to go. She was a unique and truly awesome woman. I loved her so.
She lived with my brother for the last two years of her life, and I visited her in March 2008 for her birthday; she seemed fine. There were signs then that I would now recognize, but at the time I just chalked it up to 'old age'. That May she began obsessing on some things in her past and getting herself worked up over them. By June, she had become paranoid and afraid. She thought her life was in danger, and her behavior became very suspicious and odd.
She started imagining things, mixing up facts, hiding her possessions and closing the drapes in her room. One morning my brother woke up, and she had called 911 and told them that he was trying to kill her. She was truly terrified. My brother did not know how to react.
He called the doctor’s office and took her into emergency. She spent the next three weeks in a senior psych ward getting medication and treatment.
Mom and I used to write poems together when we were worried, waiting or just had something emotional to say. I wrote this poem the day after hearing about all of this happening while I waited to board a plane to go be by her side.
Her Mind Went Traveling
Her mind went traveling today,
It packed its bags and slipped away.
It wanders old paths and memory’s lanes
and her dementia holds the reins.
It travels down roads that were not taken
and desires things long since forsaken.
It dwells on what she should have done
and fights old battles lost and won.
It relives talks that once she had
and remembers happy times and sad.
It replays her life again, again.
Her dementia adds what might have been.
It plays games and tricks her senses.
It concocts lies and it convinces.
It exaggerates her greatest fears
And gives her reasons for her tears
It jumbles memories all together
and forgets the truths that she would never.
It confuses facts, people, and places.
Yet remembers forgotten names and faces.
It makes her doubt the ones she loves.
It makes her question all she does.
It shows her things that are not there
and makes her think that we don’t care.
Her mind tries constantly to deceive her
She worries why we don’t believe her.
She says things that anger and annoy us.
Her mind’s filled up with paranoia.
So, is her dementia friend or foe?
That answer we may never know.
It’s stolen her from us, that’s true.
But protects her from her future too.
And why the anger and mistrust?
Why does it make her turn on us?
Her life was grand in so many a way,
What purpose does this deception play?
Does it create these stories to help her cope?
Does it ‘make believe’ to give her hope?
Does it shield her from her own lost mind?
That, in itself, is not so unkind.
Does it help us do what we must do?
Does it lessen the guilt we feel too?
Is deception dementia’s deceiving way,
to get us ALL through this difficult day?
Whatever the reason, we may never know.
But let's travel this together, here we go!
Cause her mind went traveling today.
(It won’t be back. At least not to stay.)
...... Mom did come back to us mentally, sometimes in spurts, but I visited with her just a few weeks prior to her passing and she knew me, told me she loved me. I could see in her eyes though that she was ready to go. She was a unique and truly awesome woman. I loved her so.
Poetry and Letters
It might not be apparent by my dismal attempts at keeping this little blog going, but I do like to write and I do like to write rhymes. The love of little poems I know I get from my mother... the writing, I think maybe from my father. He was quite the master of prose. I need to figure out how to save some of my poetry on here somewhere... Can't I create a link to a poem. Let me go research this.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The story of Butterhorns.
Today I am making butterhorns. If you are not family, you have no idea what I'm talking about, but, if you were raised in our house... or lived anywhere in the vicinity at Christmas time... you know that butterhorns are an Eaves family tradition that dates back to 1957... when Mom got her copy of the recipe from her friend. It just isn't Christmas if you can't have a butterhorn. :)
My mother made few friends in her lifetime... lots of acquantances, but few friends. One of those friends was Lorraine Ditlefsen. Lorraine Ditlefsen was of Norwegian decent and the recipe for butterhorns had come from her great grand-mother in Norway. She made these flaky buttery dessert roles - kin to a danish - on special occasions. Mom had always loved them. She had asked Lorraine for the recipe many times but Lorraine had always kindly refused. When Mom was moving away from the neighborhood, and since they had become good friends , Lorraine finally gave Mom the recipe... but with a promise required. The promise was that Mom would not share the recipe with anyone else, except family. Mom held to that promise. If you have a copy of Mom's butterhorn recipe... you are family. She would ask that you honor her promise and only share it with family.
I haven't made butterhorns in years. Not that I don't like them. I do, especially when someone else makes them! But... they are a lot of work. And I can be lazy about those kind of things. John doesn't really eat them.. maybe one.. (he prefers the cookies) and I don't really need them (calories). But this year, I felt the need to make butterhorns. To share them. To tell their story. To be part of the tradition. And to remember.
I of course couldn't find the recipe. My filing system is somewhat akin to my mothers'... (uh.. no... I'm not one bit organized). So... I put out a plea to my big brother Lee... and lo and behold a recipe arrived in my inbox (Thanks Donna). As I pulled out all the ingredients and got them settling in to the required "room temperature"... I thought of the many many many times in my life that I have made butterhorns. Almost always with Mom. She'd put us to work... when we were younger we'd ice them fresh from the oven. (By the way, that's when they are BEST). As I got older, I was allowed to learn/do the twist that gives them their shape. Each year, plastic Christmas plates piled high with horns were delivered to our neighbors and friends on Christmas eve ... with a reminder of how Santa loves these horns much more than any cookie. They were always welcome, always appreciated. Mom had one of those big yellow tupperware bowls... you know the ones with the lids... and she used to put the ones we didn't give away (or eat right then) in that big bowl and set it up on top of the fridge ... and watch them disappear. Dad loved them. Had two or three for breakfast whenever they were in the house. It never took long for them to dissappear.
Now... I haven't made butterhorns by myself before. OK, maybe once... but Mom was probably on the other end of the phone telling me what to do. So today... I was on my own. I read the recipe and started in. I knew exactly what temperature the milk needed to be... I remember Mom showing me how to test it. I knew how to tell if the yeast was good... Mom had showed me the tricks many times. As I made the well in the flour and began to pour in the ingredients... my hands looked just liked Moms.. spotted, wrinkled, covered in dough and moving just as they should....kneading it all together to form the soft dough. So... the dough is resting now. The butter will be incorporated shortly and tonight... I'll bake. Tomorrow, I'll pile up butterhorns on plastic christmas plates and deliver them to the homes of my friends. I'll be too late to suggest they offer one to Santa... but I'm sure they'll all get devoured quickly.
Mom passed away on January 8th this year. Making butterhorns is a Mom thing. I had to do it. Thinking about her made me smile and gave me exactly the gift I was looking for for Christmas. It gave me a sweet memory, and made me happy. She would be tickled pink to know that batches of "her" butterhorns were being baked this Christmas and that her tradition of making and sharing was being carried out, not just in my kitchen but in the kitchens of several of my brothers. That would delight her.
Merry Christmas Mom.
So... I posted this on my Facebook page Christmas Eve 2009. What a wonderful response I got back from the family. Many had not recalled having heard the story... others wanted to let me know they were making or had already made butterhorns this year. It was such a sweet confirmation of the power of tradition, of how they unite a family even accross generations. In the kitchens of Mom's sons, daughters, grandson's, grandaughters and even great granddaughters... butterhorns were being made and their story listened to. How sweet is that. I love traditions. :)
My mother made few friends in her lifetime... lots of acquantances, but few friends. One of those friends was Lorraine Ditlefsen. Lorraine Ditlefsen was of Norwegian decent and the recipe for butterhorns had come from her great grand-mother in Norway. She made these flaky buttery dessert roles - kin to a danish - on special occasions. Mom had always loved them. She had asked Lorraine for the recipe many times but Lorraine had always kindly refused. When Mom was moving away from the neighborhood, and since they had become good friends , Lorraine finally gave Mom the recipe... but with a promise required. The promise was that Mom would not share the recipe with anyone else, except family. Mom held to that promise. If you have a copy of Mom's butterhorn recipe... you are family. She would ask that you honor her promise and only share it with family.
I haven't made butterhorns in years. Not that I don't like them. I do, especially when someone else makes them! But... they are a lot of work. And I can be lazy about those kind of things. John doesn't really eat them.. maybe one.. (he prefers the cookies) and I don't really need them (calories). But this year, I felt the need to make butterhorns. To share them. To tell their story. To be part of the tradition. And to remember.
I of course couldn't find the recipe. My filing system is somewhat akin to my mothers'... (uh.. no... I'm not one bit organized). So... I put out a plea to my big brother Lee... and lo and behold a recipe arrived in my inbox (Thanks Donna). As I pulled out all the ingredients and got them settling in to the required "room temperature"... I thought of the many many many times in my life that I have made butterhorns. Almost always with Mom. She'd put us to work... when we were younger we'd ice them fresh from the oven. (By the way, that's when they are BEST). As I got older, I was allowed to learn/do the twist that gives them their shape. Each year, plastic Christmas plates piled high with horns were delivered to our neighbors and friends on Christmas eve ... with a reminder of how Santa loves these horns much more than any cookie. They were always welcome, always appreciated. Mom had one of those big yellow tupperware bowls... you know the ones with the lids... and she used to put the ones we didn't give away (or eat right then) in that big bowl and set it up on top of the fridge ... and watch them disappear. Dad loved them. Had two or three for breakfast whenever they were in the house. It never took long for them to dissappear.
Now... I haven't made butterhorns by myself before. OK, maybe once... but Mom was probably on the other end of the phone telling me what to do. So today... I was on my own. I read the recipe and started in. I knew exactly what temperature the milk needed to be... I remember Mom showing me how to test it. I knew how to tell if the yeast was good... Mom had showed me the tricks many times. As I made the well in the flour and began to pour in the ingredients... my hands looked just liked Moms.. spotted, wrinkled, covered in dough and moving just as they should....kneading it all together to form the soft dough. So... the dough is resting now. The butter will be incorporated shortly and tonight... I'll bake. Tomorrow, I'll pile up butterhorns on plastic christmas plates and deliver them to the homes of my friends. I'll be too late to suggest they offer one to Santa... but I'm sure they'll all get devoured quickly.
Mom passed away on January 8th this year. Making butterhorns is a Mom thing. I had to do it. Thinking about her made me smile and gave me exactly the gift I was looking for for Christmas. It gave me a sweet memory, and made me happy. She would be tickled pink to know that batches of "her" butterhorns were being baked this Christmas and that her tradition of making and sharing was being carried out, not just in my kitchen but in the kitchens of several of my brothers. That would delight her.
Merry Christmas Mom.
So... I posted this on my Facebook page Christmas Eve 2009. What a wonderful response I got back from the family. Many had not recalled having heard the story... others wanted to let me know they were making or had already made butterhorns this year. It was such a sweet confirmation of the power of tradition, of how they unite a family even accross generations. In the kitchens of Mom's sons, daughters, grandson's, grandaughters and even great granddaughters... butterhorns were being made and their story listened to. How sweet is that. I love traditions. :)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Close Call with the iphone
Today I had a nightmare start to my morning. I was headed out to a meeting and decided to go poddy real quick before getting in the car. With my pants around my knees and getting ready to sit, I heard a 'plop' and turned to discover my iphone (new!) had just jumped out of my pants pocket and into the toilet... I forgot completely about having to pee.... grabbed my phone from its watery abyss (sp) and hurridly began trying to dry it off. I was sure it was gone forever and it just ruined my whole morning. I could think of nothing else for the next few hours while I kept checking to see if it was still working. It was, but weirdly.
I know this is the perfect place for a long story but I'm going to keep this short. A few hours later I admitted to my hubby what i had done (he didn't think I was worthy of an iphone anyway and always knew this was going to happen... I'm famous for destroying cell phones).... and asked him to see if he could dry it out for me. It was working, but shorting out and trying to make phone calls all on its own and such. Well... some online research, very small screwdrivers, a few cursewords and a couple of hours under a hairdryer and 'voila!'... my cell phone is working once more. Its charging up now and appears to be healthy. We shall see if there are any long tern negative affects... but... wish me luck. Not such a fun day mentally... but... alls well that ends well.
I know this is the perfect place for a long story but I'm going to keep this short. A few hours later I admitted to my hubby what i had done (he didn't think I was worthy of an iphone anyway and always knew this was going to happen... I'm famous for destroying cell phones).... and asked him to see if he could dry it out for me. It was working, but shorting out and trying to make phone calls all on its own and such. Well... some online research, very small screwdrivers, a few cursewords and a couple of hours under a hairdryer and 'voila!'... my cell phone is working once more. Its charging up now and appears to be healthy. We shall see if there are any long tern negative affects... but... wish me luck. Not such a fun day mentally... but... alls well that ends well.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Oh My... the year flew by.
I lost my blog. LOL. The year is almost gone and I'm just now getting back to this. I'm hoping to keep it up more regularly in the next couple months and put in writing what a year 2009 has been for me. It has been a year! I can't say I would want to repeat it.... but, such is life, loses, challenges, triumphs, and tribulations. We just must keep moving forward and doing good.
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