Both my parents are in a nursing home - together, thankfully. But both suffer from dementia and speaking over the phone, because they live in Texas now, is difficult, at best. My dad can barely string a sentence together. In fact, it often consists of the simply phrase, "That's good, that thing, yeah." My mother is difficult to understand over the phone as she slurs her words from Parkinson's disease. Now she's bedridden, too, and barely taking any food. My sister's been told that soon she will not take any food and will just drink. Then she will just sip and eventually take nothing at all. It's just a matter of time.
On the one hand, this will be a blessing as my parents have little quality of life. On the other hand, we're talking about losing my parents, and despite the diffcult relationship growing up, it has been so much better as an adult. I already miss talking to my mom. When my marriage nearly ended, I didn't have her to talk to. With my daughter's new challenges, I cannot share them with her. She doesn't remember or understand, really. I just tell her everything is good for us all the time. I know what is best in my mind. Now if my heart could just move there with it.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Old Friends
I just spent the last 2 & 1/2 hours reminiscing with my oldest, best friend on the phone tonight. We've been friends since we were fourteen years old and there are a lot of memories - fun, funny and not so wonderful. We were talking about our junior high school math teacher, Mr. Taylor, and how we tortured the poor man. One of the cowboys (I grew up in the sticks), after the teacher walked out of the room for a moment, climbed out the second floor window and was hanging on the ledge by his fingers. Mr. Taylor came in and asked where he was. The classes were small in my hometown of 3,000 back then. Suddenly, we heard a yell, a thump and then a groan as Bert slipped and landed on his back, knocking the wind out of himself. We all ran to the window cracking up. Of course, he was fine once he caught his breath.
Another student, Scotty, was really tiny. He was a willing participant as everyone liked him and no one would have been mean to him. We put him in the cabinet of an old china cabinet in the room which held books on the top shelves and nothing in the one cabinet on the bottom left. When Mr. Taylor returned to the room and asked where Scotty was, you could hear a quiet little voice saying, "Help me! Help me!" Needless to say, Mr. Taylor was not amused.
We didn't stop there with our torture of this poor man who was just trying to make a living and actually likely expected he would enjoy teaching children. Sadly, he got the wrong class with us. My best friend, Laurie, drew kissing lips on his wooden chair at his desk with lipstick (again while he stepped out of the room - you'd think he would learn and never leave us). Since it was the 70's and light brownish corduroy was actually in style, this act did not bode well for him. Ever faithful in his trust in us, believing we would get better, he never checked his seat before sitting down and walked around for a good part of the rest of the day with those lip marks on his backside. He never even felt the tacks she put there one day. Not stopping there, Laurie also once poked him in the butt when he was bent over helping someone, then when he turned to yell at her, she acted like she'd been looking away and didn't even realize what she'd done. Not that he fell for that.
As you can imagine, his frustration with us grew each passing, down-right hellish day he spent as our teacher. When he got angry, which was often, he would clap his hands and stomp one foot in rhythm while he yelled something like, "I'm sick and tired of the behavior in this class!" Our response, little darlings that we were? We clapped our hands and stomped our feet with him.
I don't know why he never turned us in to the principal. Maybe he was embarrassed that we were so awful in his class. Maybe he felt like it was his fault. Of course, it wasn't. We were just absolute terrors. If my daughter were to behave this way, she would never do so again because her punishment would be severe. Then again, my daughter NEVER WOULD behave this way. Thank goodness.
The last part of this story begins in my 9th grade year. I was forced, by my parents, to take Algebra. There were five of us in the class (yes, I said 5). Guess who the teacher was? He smiled as the others entered the room and when I did, his face visibly dropped. I quickly muttered, "Sorry about the last two year" and went to my seat. I behaved well and we ended up having a pretty good year. He helped me make it through that class, math-hater that I was (my daughter gets it honestly) and I remained respectful thereafter.
I just blame the rotten years on Laurie. (whispers) Don't tell her I said that.......
Another student, Scotty, was really tiny. He was a willing participant as everyone liked him and no one would have been mean to him. We put him in the cabinet of an old china cabinet in the room which held books on the top shelves and nothing in the one cabinet on the bottom left. When Mr. Taylor returned to the room and asked where Scotty was, you could hear a quiet little voice saying, "Help me! Help me!" Needless to say, Mr. Taylor was not amused.
We didn't stop there with our torture of this poor man who was just trying to make a living and actually likely expected he would enjoy teaching children. Sadly, he got the wrong class with us. My best friend, Laurie, drew kissing lips on his wooden chair at his desk with lipstick (again while he stepped out of the room - you'd think he would learn and never leave us). Since it was the 70's and light brownish corduroy was actually in style, this act did not bode well for him. Ever faithful in his trust in us, believing we would get better, he never checked his seat before sitting down and walked around for a good part of the rest of the day with those lip marks on his backside. He never even felt the tacks she put there one day. Not stopping there, Laurie also once poked him in the butt when he was bent over helping someone, then when he turned to yell at her, she acted like she'd been looking away and didn't even realize what she'd done. Not that he fell for that.
As you can imagine, his frustration with us grew each passing, down-right hellish day he spent as our teacher. When he got angry, which was often, he would clap his hands and stomp one foot in rhythm while he yelled something like, "I'm sick and tired of the behavior in this class!" Our response, little darlings that we were? We clapped our hands and stomped our feet with him.
I don't know why he never turned us in to the principal. Maybe he was embarrassed that we were so awful in his class. Maybe he felt like it was his fault. Of course, it wasn't. We were just absolute terrors. If my daughter were to behave this way, she would never do so again because her punishment would be severe. Then again, my daughter NEVER WOULD behave this way. Thank goodness.
The last part of this story begins in my 9th grade year. I was forced, by my parents, to take Algebra. There were five of us in the class (yes, I said 5). Guess who the teacher was? He smiled as the others entered the room and when I did, his face visibly dropped. I quickly muttered, "Sorry about the last two year" and went to my seat. I behaved well and we ended up having a pretty good year. He helped me make it through that class, math-hater that I was (my daughter gets it honestly) and I remained respectful thereafter.
I just blame the rotten years on Laurie. (whispers) Don't tell her I said that.......
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