Cold Spaghetti

Will, still wearing his shark p.j.s, eats a breakfast snack (“they’re not peas, they’re GREEN DROPS“) before school, 7:10am.

Since Katrina, the residents of New Orleans (and perhaps former residents as well) collectively have suffered from lingering effects of post-traumatic stress. This operationalizes in different ways for each of us, with each on a different cycle of ups and downs, good days and bad. It makes everything a bit more interesting because you are never quite sure when anyone (yourself included) will be pushed that teensy bit too far. As a result, we have people blowing up or breaking down regularly over things like not finding Splenda at the coffee shop counter. Or tripping on uneven sidewalk. Or, like the woman in line at Whole Foods, who burst into tears when she thought that she left her wallet in the car.

My bad days find me drifting in a blue hazy funk.

This is where I am now. I call it my “Katrina time of the Month,” although the reality is that it can last much longer and comes and goes without the regularity of monthly intervals.

My Katrina blue funk fills me with apathy, freezes my decision-making, shortens my patience, and leaves me with a small amount of coping skill to handle stressful situations. It is triggered by stress, frustration, feeling out of control, and sadness. It feels like all those things together.

I have this “thing” about bad years and good years and having the tendency to overgeneralize as I do (occupational hazard), have come to believe that my “lucky” years are even numbered years and my “unlucky” or “difficult” years are the odd ones. Much too much brain power has rationalized this. And whether a true fact or an outcome I’m assigning myself to believe, 2007 is sucking. As the year progresses and life continues to gnaw away at our rear-ends, I’m starting to look forward to 2008. Surely there will be happy times ahead, once we get out of this awful, off year? For someone who honestly tries to live in the moment, looking ahead for encouragement feels crummy. It means I’m missing out on something today.

Perhaps my funk is contributing to my overall sense of dread over Kate’s (and my) condition. This feeling, her illness… the yeast, the on-going night waking for food, being hungry all day no matter what, extended periods of irritability, difficulty sleeping, and beating the tar out of me at every opportunity… are all bothering me. So I called the doctor and began the over-worried discussion that:

unexplained yeast
+ sudden increase in appetite and thirst
+ irritability
+ fatigue
+ sores that take a long time to heal
+ my general feeling of dread and “waiting for the next bad thing”
= a situation where it would be a good idea to run a tests.

Kate has never had anything outside of physical exams and so a little test wouldn’t be too crazy, right? Just in case….? (In my defense, Will’s first ear infection was diagnosed out of my feeling that “something was wrong,” holding firm even while being accused of bringing him to the doctor because I wanted something to be wrong. Paul reminded me of this, I think in an attempt to boost my ego or get me to just call to get all this worrying over with.)

The doctor generally humored me — in the sense that she didn’t accuse me of being a Munchausen parent — and is leaving diaper collection baggies in the office for me to pick up. We’ll collect some urine, they’ll run a test. Hopefully this is what it will take to bring me back to the sunshine for awhile.

…and worrying about Gwen, who I hope is returning home as I write to enjoy a deep and blissful sleep.

Arriving yesterday, a package written in her hand. Postmarked on Saturday, the day she left us. Inside, her book. And a note:

Sign in Cafe Luna, local cafe from where I’m working today:
“Unattended children will be given espresso and a puppy.”

Barbara Carlisle (known as “Babs” by us Birds), beloved scholar, teacher, artist, playwright, director, dramaturg, mother, wife, and all-about-woman-of-the-world died this week after a years-long, on-and-off tango with ovarian cancer.

Barbara was one of my mentors in college and beyond. The doors she opened for me are too many to count. She invited me to teach with her while I was still an undergraduate, giving me keys to her Director’s office, calling me her co-teacher (rather than assistant), requesting my comments and insights on syllabus development, student assignments, and evaluation. She cast me in one of my favorite roles of all time… the uppity “Woman” in Offending Shadows, a character so fed up with the manor of things that she begins to rebel against the classic stories. Barbara wrote my recommendations for everything, asked me to read parts of “M Words” with her for a women’s studies event, and put my name into the hat for the lion’s share of fantastic opportunities I participated in during college.

With a PhD from Michigan, a friendly, supportive, and like-minded husband, and interesting children, Barbara was the kind of woman I wanted to emulate. Professionally, she had this marvelous way of describing even the most technical and banal details in ways that connected them to ideas of creativity, artistry, and learning. (This evaluation tool she wrote for the Michigan State Arts Council is a bit of an example of that.) She made me curious about the world, the role of gender, and the structure of things by suggesting exercises so removed from theory that they seemed ridiculous in isolation: word association on huge mats of paper, exploring a classroom through a hole in a piece of cardboard, drawing shapes to correspond to emotions. I used to take notes about her teaching styles, furiously copying down the steps of her “games” in an effort to remember how she managed to bridge the steepest gaps in unassuming, guided ways. Barbara valued the process of things and encouraged students to dig deep into the range of their experiences and interests to find unique ways to build on new information. Barbara was one of the first to realize that I had somewhat accidentally made my way into a second degree and championed my completion of both. She would look at my mess of degrees and concentrations and interdisciplinary foci and think of it as interesting, rich, and fulfilling. She was very content, maybe even preferred, the inability to describe someone in one word. The more messy, varied, and collected… the better.

Barbara was tall, stately, and confident. She was warm and thoughtful, thinking with sparkling eyes over a students’ collage of pictures and poems, ready to see what other new connections she could make between seemingly opposing sides.

In the last email she sent me, she described how she had decorated her bust of Cadmus (a gift from the Chicago cast of Offending Shadows) with the Mardi Gras beads I’d sent her. In her words, she “liked making the connection.” I can picture it… a marble white bust with every detail of Old World style, draped with layers of gaudy beads. Classic, with a twist, and a slight side of humor: this was definitely her style.

Barbara was a fantastic writer. Everything she sent… emails, letters, announcements, cards, were filled with the kind of voice others work for hours to find. But with Barbara it just fell out effortlessly. Sentences that made you feel supported and encouraged, and sent you out in the world fresher than where you were before you’d read them. Receiving a message from her was always a delight.

One of the last things she said to me: “Enjoy every phase of this life you are living — all that you give it, and all that it gives you.”

Thank you, Barbara, for everything. You are sorely missed.

UPDATE: You can purchase Barbara’s collection of plays (including the ones discussed above) in her book “The Louise Plays.” Available here from Amazon.

So THAT’S why nursing has felt like being stabbed by tiny daggers!!

Kate and I have thrush. And we feel crummy. Slightly sore throat, headache, dry mouth, tired, boob hurts. As if I needed something else to make me feel more dulldrum-ish.

Good news: it looks worse than it is (at least, medically), there’s no daycare restriction on thrush (it’s just yeast), and we’ve got meds.

Bad news: Kate is sort of old to have thrush, so there is a big question about where it could have come from. I guess this is one of those situations where you just have to wait it out and hope for answers (or, considering the options, I’m hoping to not get answers.)

This is Kate. This is Kate checking out PapPap.



Gotcha! Who needs Thomas the Train when PapPap can honk with the best of them?

During our trip to Pennsylvania, we drove out to the Lancaster area to the City of Strasburg to visit the Strasburg Railroad. Paul is pretty sure that as beautiful and quaint as it is, the railroad and surrounding hoop-la is sort of like the Pennsylvania Dutch‘s version of South of the Border.
All that aside, we were out with the masses to see Thomas. He comes to Strasburg (and maybe a station near you) a few times a year. He here is, coming into the station below!
Extra excitement: thanks to the presence and willingness of my Dad, there are actually photos which feature ALL FOUR of us in the same frame. Amazing.
Even more excitement: I had warmed up to the friendly conductor and gotten permission to stand on the platform for pictures while Thomas pulled up. Apparently, this upset someone who yelled at my Dad while he took the pictures above. We missed Dad turning to tell the guy “bite me.” And I thought I got my edge from my Mom. That’s us from inside one of the railcars!Inside the car ahead…
The kids LOVED looking down the line and waving at everything and nothing.
Beautiful countryside, complete with horse and buggy. There were horse and buggy parking spots throughout town.
Friendly conductor.
Kate, our entertainment.
After riding Thomas, we took a break and strolled around the train yard. Then rode one of Straburg’s regular trains. The deal is that you get pulled out of the yard and through the countryside… then the engine unhitches, chugs to the front, and pulls you back in. In the picture below, you can see the engine pulling out.Will loved all the cows in the fields. He worked very hard to talk to them, calling “MMOOOOO!!” as loud as possible.
The corn in the maze was about knee high — low enough to see the patterns of the maze from our views in the train. My Uncle Gus went along for the day — it was great to share all of this with him! He was quite a trooper to handle it all… heat, people, and kids… with a smile!
My Dad playing with Will.
Will rides one of the cars around the kids’ track. He LOVED this.

Betty Lorraine DiMarzio Pirkheim Elm was born and raised in Ambridge, Pennsylvania, a little steel town hanging on to the slopes that rise up from the banks of the Ohio River, upstream from the city of Pittsburgh. She grew up not far from where her parents, August DiMarzio, Sr (known by his friends as “Gus” and to us as “PapPap”) and Anna Battistone, ran away from their families in the Ellsworth coal mines to elope in the night. Although her own parents had fought against the wishes of their parents by marrying and refusing the coal miner’s life, Betty’s options for marriage would be strictly reviewed by her father. Grandma Betty was a Daddy’s girl, hanging out with PapPap’s band singing Dixieland tunes. Her love of music and dance was almost destroyed in childhood when she was hit by a car in downtown Ambridge, suffering from amnesia and wearing casts for months. (Her childhood idol, Eleanor Powell, sent her a signed “get well soon” photograph.) While carrying a torch for high school sweethearts, Betty was introduced and engaged to an man with a degree in Electrical Engineering and a good job at the Electric Company where her father worked. Frank Pirkheim, my grandfather, became her husband and the father of her three children (my mother and two uncles). Betty worked assorted jobs while raising her children. After putting herself through beauty school, she opened “Fashion Flair” from the household basement. My mother’s yearbooks have ads from Grandma’s hair boutique, showing Betty perfecting a client’s beehive, gazing up in the mirror to admire her work.

This is one of pictures that immediately comes to mind when I think of my Grandma. I picture her in her 30s, poised over someone’s setting hair, working with pride and looking as cute as can be.

Grandma Betty was a constant in my life, particularly in my adolescent years. We moved from South Carolina the summer before 6th grade and settled in Woodstock, Virginia, with Grandma while my parents looked for a place to live in the Washington, D.C. metro area. Shortly after we moved, Grandma sold the house in Woodstock and settled a few miles away from us in Centreville. She was close enough that, in moments of desperation, I could tramp through the woods and streams to Stone Road and down to Grandma’s townhouse. Grandma was very involved through my junior high and high school years: she was a chaperone on field trips and overnight competitions, she did hair and makeup for performances, and she was always in the audience for all of my events. All of my friends knew Grandma Betty; she embraced her role as my grandma by being everyone’s grandma.

At the start of my senior year of high school, I moved in with Grandma Betty to avoid having to relocate with my military family. It was a big year of responsibility for me; Grandma and I lived more like roommates than child and caretaker. She left for work before I was up for school. Most nights, she didn’t cook dinner. We shared shopping responsibilities. I always packed my own lunch, did my own laundry, and proofread my own work. No one read my college applications or even checked in to see if I was applying; our relationship wasn’t about my academics, it was about fun and stories, dresses and music. She even got me to come along on a double date to the VFW in Manassas to go dancing with one of her boyfriend’s grandsons. Grandma delighted in all the trophies I brought home from speech competitions, helped me sew a dress to wear for Homecoming, attended every theatre event, took pictures of me on prom night, and watched my senior awards. We had the pleasure of enjoying the details of each other’s lives.

Now it is just my memory that holds those details. This August 2nd, my Grandma Betty will be 75 years old. Her father lived until just before his 97th birthday, driving daily down to the “old folks’ home” to play the organ, sing, and call bingo until the end. By all rights, Grandma should have the same longevity and in some ways she does — except, without her memories. Grandma Betty has Alzheimer’s disease.

I cannot remember the last time Grandma Betty called me by my name. Or looked at me and knew, really knew, who I was. There was a time when her recognition of me was triggered by my voice, her face suddenly changing when I spoke. But that time was long ago. I don’t call her much anymore, it’s hard for me. Not because of her limitations in words, but because it is empty of that special lift, that one-of-a-kind voice that grandmas use when they are talking to their granddaughters. She may still be here, but THAT is gone and without it, I am no longer HOLLY — her first grandchild, only daughter of her only daughter, holder of all her secrets and stories — I am just a girl that she sees and hears. Not being that to her anymore, and not having the ability to see her lavish my babies with that same specialness, is a tremendous loss. Her symptoms are consistent with what the Alzheimer’s Association describes as Stage 7, or very severe cognitive decline. There is no Stage 8.

For almost 2 years, my Uncle and Aunt have cared for Grandma Betty within their home in Carlisle, PA. While we’ve spoken, I had not seen her since before her move. Upon reports from my Aunt and Uncle, we know that Grandma is showing progression in her disease. Still, she is far from the Hospice state she was incorrectly given almost two years ago. I have been determined to bring my kids to see her, regardless of whether or not she would know them or me. I have to believe that somewhere within her she knows my children and is drawn to them; that meeting them, holding them, hearing them would in someway matter to her. Still, I didn’t go expecting anything. My expectations were that she would see them flatly, say little (maybe a “god bless that baby,” which is something she has said a lot in the past when we talk on the phone or had visited with Will), and not have any sense that they were her great-grandchildren.
But the mind works in mysterious ways. Perhaps knowledge, recognition, and response are more subtle than I had thought. Maybe good care, like the wonderful care given by my Aunt and Uncle, can be a salve to aid in little improvements.

There was no “awakening” moment, no dopamine-inspired flood of memories, no grand outpouring of action or words. But there were subtle signs of emotion that at times were so strong it took my breath away. After years of not hearing Grandma say anyone’s name, we were shocked when Will said, “Goodnight, Grandma Betty” and was answered, “Goodnight, Will” without a moment’s pause. Two years ago, regardless of how much we said his name and explained who he was, Grandma introduced Will as her “beautiful granddaughter” in one breath and in the next completely forget that he was even related to her. Although we discussed his name in length during my pregnancy and after his birth, she had never called him by name. I still cannot believe how she answered him so causally, piping up so quickly and clearly that we knew without question that her flat demeanor did not represent her state of mind. She was, and possibly is, much more alert than we are aware.

There were other moments, some too subtle to describe. Reaching her hand out to Will as he lie playing on the floor at her feet. Grasping for Kate’s ever moving foot, bringing her leg up to kiss it with big, sloppy, squeeky Grandma kisses, holding on tightly despite Kate’s wiggling. Her face changing, softening as if to smile, when holding either child. Her eyes looking right into mine and sending a message of frustration and anger so clear and loud that it rung in my ears… only to be gone a moment later, either forgotten or pushed out or lost behind what my eyes could see. Her swift, brisk, terse rocking on a rocking chair after being told that she was going to have to wait a minute before getting up to go inside. Telling me that she “like to hear what they talk about” while watching my kids play. Her voice humming along to every tune I played on the piano, sometimes breaking into a whistle or vocalizing the melody. When I played ‘Jingle Bells’ she sang some of the words. Then, when I stopped playing the piano and asked her where everyone went, she surprised me by trying to tell me — three times. She started out describing my mother (“the girl that was singing”) and faltered as the memory, words, or functionality of telling slipped away until it was gone.

All of these were small gifts, moments to be celebrated because they showed me that she was still there. She isn’t lost to me after all because I still have these moments. And that is a lot more than nothing; it is something. It taught me that just because I can’t see or hear her the way I did years ago, somewhere inside of her she is still my Grandma Betty and I am still her Holly. More than that, her amazing breakthroughs (which by all accounts were, truly, amazing) showed how much she loves and adores her great-grandchildren and how much she wants to hold them, kiss them, and cuddle them. I was very wrong to think that this trip would be a symbol or gesture that would not have full appreciation: my Grandma had a great deal to share with her great-grandchildren. She was able to show them that she loves them. We are so lucky that we had those moments together.