As If Looking Into a Distant Mirror

When I recently visited my uncle and stayed in a suite at The Dahlia Retirement Home, it was as if I was looking into a distant mirror and I did not hate it. I did not like it, but have, since my visit and stay at the retirement home, come to realize that it is a good fate and not some horror story.  I went to visit my Uncle Morris at his retirement home called The Dahlia, which looks like a Las Vegas Hotel Lobby and Casino.  When you ascend to the floors and the hallways are dotted on each side with doors to the individual or shared suites.  I was offered one of the suites that are set aside for out of town visitors.  I was nervous, not terribly, but worried about staying in a place like this hopefully way before my time. 

I was given a key to what was going to be my personal suite for the next few days and directions how to get there.  I wheeled my bag down the maze of hallways and into elevators, finally arriving at 

# 221, put my key in the door and let myself into the home away from home for the next several days. I sat down and realized that once you close your doors, here or anywhere, you do not know the outer surroundings. You are just in there and you are just alone.

Dining every night is a glamorous affair. It reminded me of shipboard dining. We were scheduled for the early seating. The early seating starts at 4:30 P.M. and my uncle expected me to be there and be on time! I was still chocking down lunch, but dinner was ready to be served.  You are handed a menu, you make choices, you can have half of this and half of that and extra this and less of that. You can pretty much have anything you want. The dining room is a den of gossip.  As people come in and they pass your table, the buzz begins. You hear all about them, what they were and what they are up to now.  When the food comes, the gossip dies down.  When dinner is over, and as people pass by to leave, the buzz starts again.  Oh my what they must have said about me being there is too much to bear and I am sure they are still talking about the niece that came to visit her uncle and stayed several nights. Believe me it is not that I am so interesting; it is just that not much else seems to turn up to talk about.

I meet several people in the elevators and thank goodness they asked if I were visiting a parent or family member.  Early the first morning I was coming out of the game room and a lady nearly ran me over with her scooter. She was driving way too fast for a place where people are so slow. I think she should have received a ticket. for speeding in a restricted environment.

There is gossip that goes on all day long, but this particular gossip is what I got walking down the hallway with my uncle. A new story is revealed every time you pass a door on your way to the elevator. “The guy inside this door,” he said was the former CEO of a prominent national bank, recently had a stroke, got carted away and has not returned. The door next to the CEO’s houses a woman who got herself into very bad shape, but has pulled herself back to life and only needs a walker now. People across the hall from each other are very much in love. It is the romance of the month. Sporting a new shirt and sweater as he bounds out of his door is Harvey. Harvey is rather young for The Dahlia, but needs to be there. He is a very wealthy young man who is unable for various reasons to take care of him self. There is Charlie who sits on the couch in the lobby in same spot at the same time every day all daylong. He sleeps there on and off, but never looks rested.  There are knee and hip replacements behind those doors.  There are heart attacks, curvatures of the spine, hairline fractures, kidney failure, and various forms of illnesses from time to time and some win and some loose.  The losers do not return. You never know what happened to them. Then, there is Fran a famous world-renowned dancer who has only been here for two months. She does not want to follow the rules and has been very outspoken about there being too many rules. There are rules for everything she says and it is driving her crazy.

On Tuesday morning there was a big buzz. They were going to change a 5-year tradition. They decided in the board meeting that they were not going to have Blintzes on Tuesday morning’s anymore. Everyone was quite disturbed about this development.  I told them to start a petition to keep Blintzes on the menu. They loved that idea, but I am sure it did not get past the table. I will have to call my uncle and see what replaced the Blintzes on Tuesday mornings at The Dahlia.

Not only do I realize, I am in a retirement home, albeit for only a few days, I realize that in my real life, I have never been alone. I have always been with someone, gone somewhere with someone, gone in a group or met someone. Nothing like being alone has graced my experience. This needs to be pondered under separate cover.

I realized that my suite is on the first floor. Even though I have the number 221, it is still on the first floor, but a floor over an underground parking structure. Thinking out loud, it comes to me that someone can climb up into the window. Now who would want to do that in a facility like this one I do not know, but still I went around locking all of the windows. It got hot in the suite, but I did not care. I just know now never to buy or rent a northwest facing living quarters and be up high enough to make it impossible for someone to climb into your window. I kept the windows locked and that was that.

I also now know why you lock yourself into and out of these suites. If not, the residents come in and whether you lock or don’t lock, the staff come in at will. I was sitting on the second hand couch just thinking about something and oops, a cleaning man came into the suite. Oh, was I miffed.  Then, he backed out apologetically and I realized that locking yourself in or out of a retirement home suite does not mean you are safe from someone coming in whenever they feel it necessary. So there goes your privacy. The first thing to go in a place like this, I soon realized.

Everything at The Dahlia is timed; everything is a rule. Everything is deliberate, calculated, measured and precise. Everything restricted and oriented to the easiest, fastest most expedient and cost effective way to operate. Forget about humanistic. Forget about dignity. Forget about privacy. Forget about for the betterment and for the good of the whole. It just isn’t like that.  Beyond the beautifully decorated lobby and dining area, what you have is you, yourself and your bits and pieces My dear Uncle Morris says, maybe the Good Lord will have mercy and take us sooner than later.

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All MY MOTHER’S CHILDREN

     There on the top of a pile of old pictures from sixty years past, is a small photo that features my mother’s three children. We are walking through piles of stones in Yosemite National Park. I am a head taller than Taylor who is two heads taller than Stuart. What has become of my mother’s children is not what this story is about. It is about my mother and about her other children.

     I knew that my mother loved cheese, was a good friend and neighbor and learned to drive a car later in life. I knew that she was president of several organizations, after overcoming paralyzing shyness. She prepared only the freshest foods and never served fish. I knew that she fiercely loved her children and would go to the ends of the earth for them. What I didn’t know about my mother was what I will call her secret life. The life she lived parallel to ours.

     The other woman who lived in our home for 28 years was my parent’s housekeeper, Lula. Having all of my mother’s household duties performed by another gave her a lot of free time. My mother’s free time was daytime hours because when my father came home at 5:30 p.m. sharp, our mother was there dressed to the nines. I had no idea what my mother did in the daylight hours. I knew everyone liked my mother because as I look back, people sought my mother out and were overly friendly and very thankful. They would gush and smile while blessing her, thanking her and hugging her. I didn’t know what my mother did, but I knew she did something important.

      I wanted to know more about where my mother went and what my mother did, so I stayed home from school with fake excuses of being on death’s door. When my mother slipped out of the side door, I slipped out right after her. I had to put the move on because since she did not drive at that time, she had become a speed walker. I followed her to the poultry market, which was on the corner of State and California. I saw her through the window. She received a paper and read back the information to the individual behind the counter. He nodded and off she went. She did not slow down for anything, even sped across busy streets. I almost lost her, but got myself to speed along almost as fast as my jaunty mother. She slowed down to read the paper and made a turn into a building that housed several families. She disappeared into one of the doors and did not come out. I got tired and bored with just my fingers to pick, so I ended up going back home for the comfort of my bed.

     Every so often for years I would fake being sick and follow my mother. She again and again would return to the poultry market, receive a paper and off we would go. I’d follow, but she would repeat her disappearing act each time at a different location. I suspected she was a spy for the FBI and I thought if she were, I would have one of my own dreams realized in my mother. You ask, why didn’t I just ask my mother what she was doing?  I did and she would always reply with, “ Oh, I m visiting a sick friend.” At the time I wondered why my mother had so many sick friends.

     When my mother got her driver’s license, my father surprised her with a little dark gray ladylike car. She practiced and practiced. She had an obsession with proper hand signals and you would see her with the driving manual under her arm wherever she went for months. . Pretty soon I could tell she felt pretty confident behind the wheel of her car. I was sinking inside knowing that I could never follow my mother once she drove off in her car. I knew there was something more to her life than what I knew. I could see it in her eyes. I watched her self-confidence grow.  I knew my mother was growing into a person with special qualities, but back then, in my child’s mind, I saw my mother as my mother not the person who began to be the center of attention wherever we went. She was glorious. My father was oblivious to all of it.

     One night after my mother started driving her car, she called to say that she would be late and to go ahead with our dinner without her. After that time more calls came in with messages that contained, ‘go ahead without me for dinner’. When the calls came in for my mother, she would jot down an address and go in her car somewhere. She didn’t walk to the poultry market anymore.

     I kept thinking to myself all those years before I got my driver’s license that when I got my license, the first thing I would do would be to follow my mother and see what she did that I didn’t know she did. I got my driver’s license, borrowed my dad’s junkyard car and followed my mother in her car many times. I never saw more than her arrival at a residential destination. She would do the same things every time. She would take her bag from the back seat, disappear into the building or home and would not come out for hours and hours. Usually my impatience won and I would drive off, not being able to uncover her secret.

     I knew that my brothers had no idea that their mother and mine had a parallel life. I knew my father was unaware of what she did and when I asked him if he knew where 

our mother went, he would say, “She has a household and children to attend to.”  I respected his answer. There came the time in my life to move from our home in our small southeastern town to the west coast of California. I finished my degrees and settled down with a job, family, home and friends. 

     Our mother died on August 24, 2009, during the early morning hours. We decided on a small graveside service since our family is small and there are very few of my mother and father’s friends still alive.  On the day we buried my mother, next to my father, over  two thousand people lined the burial site. I was astonished to see this crowd of people and before the service began I talked to many of them. I thought maybe they had the wrong site, but no they were here for my mother. Through several conversations with some of the mourners I was able to realize that my mother’s secret was midwifery. I learned my mother was a person who was very suitable for this position. She had all of the abilities and all of the skills to perform her duties. She loved her work and had a very sympathetic disposition.  She was quiet and had a calming effect in high anxiety situations. It is still astonishing to me that my mother was a midwife. A midwife!

     All of the people at her graveside were connected to her, connected to each other and connected to all my mother’s children by the work she did for all of us. They each had a story of wonder about when my mother helped them have a healthy pregnancy and a natural childbirth experience. The children of these births were of all ages. They were here at her final resting place to send her on her way to the almighty. It took me some time to gather and process all of the amazing grace my mother performed without the knowledge of her family and friends.

     I can only question how did my mother do all of this work without any of us knowing about it. It seems so supernatural. Also, I query why she kept it a secret. Did she know that my father would have put an immediate end to it?  If he knew he never let anyone know. Did she worry what her children would not understand? Did she want something for herself?  Did my mother know that she was on the right path and did she know she had the approval of God and did she cherish the love of these thousands of connected souls?  May this power of holiness and may this power of the spirit carry my mother to her just reward.

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Flossie’s Mandel Bread

SIFT TOGETHER:

3 CUPS ALL PURPOSE FLOUR UNSIFTED

1 TSP BAKING POWDER

1/4 TSP SALT

BEAT TOGETHER:  3 Eggs

1/2 CUPS SUGAR

1 CUP MAZOLA OIL

1 1/2 TSP FRESH LEMON JUICE

1 CUP CHOPPED WALNUTS, ALMONDS ETC.

ADD FLOUR MIXTURE BY HAND

ADD NUTS LAST

OIL ALUMINUM PAN

BAKE AT 350 20-25-30 MIN: LIGHT BRN

COOL 5 MIN

CUT AND BAKE 15 MIN ON EACH SIDE

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Amazing grace!  How sweet the sound—
That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost but now am found.  Was blind but now I see. 
Amazing Grace, John Newton (1725-1807) 


This morning I went for my annual doctor’s appointment. I arrived 15 minutes early and sat down for “the wait.” AS I waited the nurse called other names. I actually had to sit up with my jaw open when she called Albert Sweitzer. No way, right? An Albert Sweitzer did get up and shuffle over to the admittance door. Now it is my turn. You know the drill with gowns, blood pressure and the usual questions, so I will spare you the words. I wait some more. Finally my brilliant little doctor comes in the door, politely nods hello and assumes his position at the computer. He spends 20 minutes on the computer intermittently asking pertinent questions.

Then he popped the question. He said, “Do you mess around?”

“What does that mean?”

“Do you have multiple sexual partners?”

“Huh? Actually I am lucky these days if I have one.”

“Then at you do not need a pap smear.”

“If I messed around then I would?”

“Yes, but considering your age, and your sexual practices, you don’t need one.”

“Okay”

“You need a bone density test and a Mammogram.”

“Okay”

I am thinking to myself, is this guy ever going to touch me, listen to my heart, knead my breasts, and bang on my knees.   I guess not. I finally broke down and asked, “Aren’t you even going to touch me?”  So he gets up from his chair and with an ungloved hand, pokes me in the belly.  He asked, “Does that hurt?”

I said, “No.”

“Then you are fine,”

“Huh?” What just happened here? I was asked to come prepared to discuss my past medical history during this appointment. I said, “Doctor, I wanted to discuss a few things with you.”

“I want to discuss a few things with you, too. Now how is your diabetes?

“My what?”

“You have diabetes type 2.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, it says here you are being treated for it.”

‘No I am not.”

“Well, it is here on your medical records. And, also you are being treated for Hepatitis C.”

“No, no stop right here. There are big mistakes here and I think you have someone else’s records mixed into my name. You don’t even know whose records you are reading and those are not mine.”

I began to kind of throw a tantrum, a tirade, and heard an outburst I am unaccustomed to hearing from me.

“Now just a minute, you know we are installing a new computer program where all of the records will be computerized and we do expect some discrepancies.”

“Will you take off those discrepancies immediately?”

“Well, no I can’t, but I will report it to the department that is imputing all of the data.”

“Will I be informed when it is done?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then how will I know that this false information about my medical history and my false illnesses are removed?”

“I don’t know.”

I gave up and left only to call membership services over and over again to have the false data removed. I still do not know if I have been successful. My goodness gracious, me oh my, amazing grace!!

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