The Final Gift

This morning I arrived at Cheryl's house at 8:00 am. In the backyard the branches of the tall maple tree, encircled with green hostas,  were swaying back and forth in the wind, whispering that a rainstorm was imminent. The door of the one-story brick home in a beautiful neighborhood was unlocked, so I entered without knocking.

Cheryl, a woman in her eighties, wouldn't have answered even if I had knocked. The former psychiatric nurse is in the final stage of Alzheimer's. She was sleeping sideways on the twin bed in the front TV room. After using the phone in the kitchen to verify my arrival with the Community Nurses, I heard Cheryl stirring. I went back into the front room to say good morning. Her silver, chin length hair, cut in a bob with bangs, reminiscent of the Beatles hairstyle that was popular many moons ago, was tousled and a little greasy. Sitting next to her on the bed, I gently rubbed her back with my right hand. “Hi, Cheryl. My name is Jeanette.  I'm from town, and I'm here to have breakfast with you.”

Cheryl looked at me blankly and said “I'm going to be dead.”

“Were you dreaming?” I asked.

“What the hell are you talking about dreaming for?” she scolded.

Conversation with Cheryl was usually incoherent, so I chalked it up to her not feeling well that morning. Her mouth was dry. The look on her face was as if she tasted the nastiest thing in the world.

“I guess I'm just talking nonsense.” I replied. 

Sliding the hand I was rubbing her back with down to her bed sheets, I could feel the urine that had soaked through her clothes and bed sheets.

“Cheryl, you are wet. We need to get you cleaned up.”  

With her eyebrows furled she asked “You think I'm dirty don't you?” 

“No, but we need to get you changed.”

“I'm not a baby.”

“I know your not a baby. You are a very smart woman who graduated from the school of nursing. I saw a friend of yours at church yesterday and she told me you were one of the kindest nurses in town.”

“Let's go to the bathroom and get freshened up. I need you to stand up Cheryl.” Just as when my children were little, I learned to give her one direction at a time.

After a couple of tries and throwing the walker out of the way, Cheryl was finally able to boost herself up. She shuffled to the bathroom while holding tightly onto my hand. Her grip was as strong as a steel trap. Getting her to the toilet, was a victory compared to a few months ago when she would be slapping and hitting me all the way. I was frustrated and becoming fearful of caring for Cheryl. Every morning that I went to work it felt as if I was confronting a two-year-old who I couldn't pick up and put on the potty when necessary.

While searching the internet for a solution to get combative dementia patients bathed and changed, I came across a four-hour online Dementia Care Basics class from Alzheimers.org for twenty-five dollars. I immediately enrolled in the class and finished it that evening. Along with learning about the physiological causes of Alzheimer s, I learned first to connect with Cheryl by talking calmly to her and rubbing her back before I attempted to get her to the bathroom. It worked like a charm, and I began actually to enjoy our visits.

Once we got the bathroom, I rattled the toilet seat, so Cheryl had an idea where the toilet was. Alzheimer's affects vision, altering depth perception. Walking is problematic because it seems as if the patient is stepping into an abyss. I learned to put my hand under Cheryl's hand, so she feels steadier while walking. When she got near the toilet, I said, “Cheryl, I'm going to pull your slacks down so we can get your wet pants off.” Not wanting to be undressed she struggled to pull both the slacks and  urine soaked adult brief back up. From behind I kept pulling it down until she surrendered.

I began to sponge bathe her feet first so she could get accustomed to the feel of the wet wash cloth. She again said, “I'm going to be dead.” I thought for a minute about the book Final Gifts that a friend who also cares for the dying gave me. The book said that people who are dying often communicate to people before they die. The week before Cheryl was seeing children running around the house and wondered where the adults were to take care of them. Seeing visions before death was also a common denominator. I realized I needed to take what Cheryl was telling me more serious.

As I rubbed her feet and legs with lavender vanilla lotion, I looked into her eyes and asked “Cheryl are you telling me you are going to die?”

“Yes,” she affirmed.

I felt bad that she didn't have a coherent way to talk about her possible fear of dying, I replied “Yes, Cheryl you are dying. But you are going to a better place. You've suffered from Alzheimers for a long time, and that suffering will soon be over. You will be with your mom, your dad and your husband, all the people that love you and that you love.”

“Thank you for understanding me.”

I wondered how much she did know. Since she was a nurse, a superb one at that I am going to guess that she knows about the stages of Alzheimers and realizes she is at the end of the road.

After rinsing the washcloth out in the sink of warm water and washing her face, I helped her take her shirt off so I could wash her back. Her tune changed as quick as a 45 on the jukebox.

“Fat, fat, fat.” I wasn't sure if she was calling me fat or if she felt fat.

Deciding not take offense I said, “You have gained some weight. It was such a long winter, I think everyone put on ten pounds.”

Massaging her back with lotion, I softly sang “Row, row, row, your boat. Life is but a dream."  I don't know if it comforts her, but it certainly comforts me to know this life is only a blink of an eye in the eternity of timelessness.

“I don't understand.” she stuttered.”

“ I don't understand a lot of things either Cheryl.”

I coaxed her to stand up so I could wash her peri area with warm soapy water, powdered her up, so she felt dry and helped her get a dry adult brief and clean clothes on. I don't know if she feels any better, but I always feel good, knowing she has her hair brushed (without throwing the brush at me anymore), her facial hair shaved (without throwing the razor at me) and her teeth brushed (without her spitting on me.)

I hugged her and asked if she was hungry for breakfast, which she always is as she forgets when she ate last. And it's probably the only enjoyment she has left in life.

After changing the bedsheets, doing some laundry and washing the breakfast dishes I gave her son, Sam a call.

“It's no emergency Sam. This morning when your mom got up she told me was going to die. I'm not saying she is going die today or tomorrow but I think she knows that she's nearing the end of the road. Have you thought about the priest coming to give her the sacrament? I think it would bring her and your family a lot of comfort.”

“That's not something we've considered. I'll give it some thought.”

“Thanks Sam.” I hung up the phone.

When my two hour shift was up, I made sure Cheryl was settled with a snack and some water. She watched the Golden Girls as she waited for the next personal care aide to arrive.

Personal note:

About twenty years ago a woman who I worked commented that of all the ways to die, she wouldn't want to lose her mind. The Head Start teacher was at least fifteen years my senior. Alzheimers wasn't a household word at the time. I replied “I wouldn't mind, at least I wouldn't know what was going on. That would be better than knowing you were dying.”

I didn't realize at the time, how many types of dementia there were, which Alzheimers is only one.  Nor did I know that it diminishes the bodily functions. And after today's conversation with Cheryl, I am not so sure that the person doesn't know what is going on. I think they do, they just can't communicate it because Alzheimers has destroyed the part of the brain that controls speech. Did Cheryl want to talk about how she felt about having Alzheimer's before she was in the late stages? I don't know.

But I know I want to talk to my family about how I don't wish to go through the humiliation of being incontinent, eating like an animal, spitting on the floor, not knowing where I am at or what I'm saying.   I don't want to put them through watching me suffer. I just think it would be too much for them. My son Caleb watched his dad die from cancer, and it just about did him in. He was depressed and feeling suicidal until he got on some anti-depressants. We talk openly about conscious dying. The other day he told me he would go to jail if he had to help me die without suffering. I'm going to do everything in my power not to let that happen. I will choose to die on my terms if possible. It's not that I don't think I can endure suffering. I have no doubt that I can. I see people with less grit than I have do it every day.

I've read articles, most recently one about a professor from Cornell University who was diagnosed with Alzheimers. She chose to end her life thoughtfully. I believe it's one of the most humane things one can do for themselves and those they love. Maybe one of the reasons people find it hard to end their life consciously is because they don't talk openly about how they feel about dying. They don't say I'm sorry, they don't forgive, they haven't let go. I realize if I do become terminally ill, it will be hard for my husband, children, and grandchildren. But I know it will be even more difficult for them to watch me suffer.

In my opinion, keeping people alive at all costs is selfish and expensive.The medical cost for an individual to be in the ICU for just a couple of days or in a nursing home is exorbitant. Young families can't afford three hundred dollars a month for rent.  On the other hand, the elderly are paying over a thousand dollars a month to live in and 8 X 10 room, staring at four walls while someone daily feeds and changes them.

I get that some religions teach that one should die naturally, but what is natural about inserting feeding tubes or respiratory assistance to keep people alive? One woman of the Catholic faith told me that she didn't believe in ending one's life because she benefited greatly from caring for her grandparents. That's nice, but were her grandparents elderly with their minds still intact? If they were suffering from Alzheimers, where they only had glimpses of coherence, she would have been exhausted caring for them. Although Cheryl's children have hired help coming in to care for her they still have to make sure her needs are met twenty fours hour a day. On top of all the stress, they have to worry about getting Alzheimers someday and what it will be like for them.

I am all for conscious dying. I look at it as an insurance policy that I hope I will never have to use. If I age without a significant amount of suffering, I hope to die with grace. If not, I will end my life, hopefully with a celebration before my demise, rather than a funeral. I'm sure tears of goodbye will be shed, but I want those that are left behind, particularly my children and grandchildren to know that I am going to prepare a place for them. I am going ahead of them to forge a path where they will trod. I believe I will be there to welcome them into the next life, just as I was here to welcome them into this life.    

Next on my reading list is The Peaceful Pill.                                                        

Will There Really Be a Morning?

One of my favorite poems by Emily Dickinson:

Will there really be a morning?

Is there such a thing as day?

Could I see it from the mountains

If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?

Has it feathers like a bird?

Is it brought from famous countries

Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!

Oh, some wise man from the skies!

Please to tell a little pilgrim

Where the place called morning lies!

Coldwater

My husband Cliff and I woke up on a Monday morning, the first week in April to a blanket of snow that accumulated to six inches within a few hours. We weren't going to let the snow put a damper on our planned vacation to visit relatives in Michigan and Illinois. We loaded our suitcases in the 2006 gray mini van-without snow tires-and headed upstate New York on Route 219. As Cliff was driving, I inserted one of three CD audiobooks I had picked up at the Ridgway Public Library the evening before. After two hours of driving on barely visible roads, the sun began to peek through the clouds and the warm temperature, more typical of April, made the snow a figment of our imagination. The first audiobook ended as we entered Canada.

After viewing the Canadian side of the falls and having a bite to eat, we headed across Ontario into northern Michigan. We would be visiting my 38-year-old niece, Coleen, my nephew Jim, and their mom, my brother's widow. Twenty-five years ago, my brother Paul had died suddenly of a massive heart attack when he was only forty-two years old. My last visit to Michigan was to his funeral, which left all of us devastated, lost and estranged.

As we entered Michigan and headed south towards Owosso, I studied the map to make sure it coincided with the GPS directions, I noted that we would be going by Frankenmuth, a quaint touristy German town. 

I texted Coleen: We'll be arriving a little later than planned as we are stopping at Frankenmuth before we get to your house.

She texted me back: K. If u have time, stop at Bronner's, the world's largest Christmas Store.

At Frankenmuth, we located a parking spot. As we strolled the picturesque streets, it was nearing the time for lunch. I tried to jog my brain to remember the restaurant we had eaten at with Paul over twenty-eight years ago when I had visited him with my four young children. Paul was the oldest of my five brothers. When our father died, Paul was thirteen years old, and I was three. He filled in as a surrogate father to myself spoiling and teasing me as we grew up together in some adverse conditions. Despite some disagreements as adults, we stayed in touch and tried to visit each other when possible. As Cliff and I wandered into a lovely restaurant, decorated in full German regalia, I felt Paul's presence guiding us. Cliff ordered a variety platter of bratwurst sausages and sauerkraut. I ordered the traditional chicken dinner reminiscent of the meal Paul had treated me to so many years ago.

After eating, we stopped in a few of the shops. While walking back to the car, I looked for Bronner's but it was nowhere in sight. As we were driving away from Frankenmuth and were a mile out of town, I noticed the large Bronner's Christmas Store sign. It was getting late, so we decided not to stop. As we passed the store, I heard Paul say "I wanted to take your there, but you were a Jehovah's Witness and didn't celebrate Christmas. Remember when I took you to see Santa Claus at Macy's in Chicago after I left Mooseheart?"

Clear as day, I could see myself standing in the long line of the department store dressed in blue raggedy stretch pants-shielding my legs from the ice cutting Chicago wind-underneath a red and green plaid dress, the matron had picked out for me. Red cotton mittens hanging from strings-Paul called them idiot mittens-dangled from the sleeves of my ice blue nylon quilt jacket with a fur-lined hood that made me feel like an Eskimo. Red rubber galoshes that stretched over my saddle shoes didn't keep my feet protected the inch of frozen slush on the ground. The cold, wet snow had seeped through my nylon white ankle socks. My toes were numb. I held Paul's warm hand waiting to sit on Santa Claus' lap. I was nine years old at the time, and he was nineteen. I quit believing in Santa, but I pretended I did so I would get presents. It was a struggle not to believe in the magic of Christmas when I was surrounded by the elegantly decorated tall Christmas trees with twinkling lights; that reached the ceilings. Amid the hustle and bustle of people shopping, men and woman dressed in warm winter coats were singing Christmas Carols. My favorite song was Jingle Bells.

I refused to answer him, thinking the voice I heard was my imagination. I suppose it was OK to have a one-sided conversation with him. It was only a few weeks ago–talk about delayed grief-that I had a long talk with him while I was walking out in the woods with my two corgis. With tears streaming down my cheeks I told him how angry I was that he left he left his family and that we missed him. I was sorry I didn't get to thank you for getting me out of the orphanage when I was thirteen years old; he was twenty-three.

I ended my thoughts about the conversation by directing them towards our destination. As Cliff pulled into the driveway of Evergreen Court, the blue sided house was just as I remembered. Dottie and Coleen welcomed us with big smiles and hugs. The inside of the house hadn't changed one bit. Dottie's sister Judy was there visiting for the Easter weekend. My nephew Jim came home from work. He was now a foot taller than me, but still had the same black hair and sheepish grin that I remembered.

My brother Paul and Dottie were in the same class at Mooseheart. Dottie and Judy went to the orphanage when their father was diagnosed with schizophrenia. I went to Mooseheart with my six siblings in 1961 after my father passed away. We reminisced about our years together at the orphanage and multiple counts of sexual, mental and physical abuse that we endured. After supper Coleen's husband Martin stopped by to say hello and played his bongo drum for us.

That evening, as I climbed the steps to go to bed, I thought of all the hard work my brother put into building such a beautiful home for his family. In the morning, I got up to shower. When I entered the bathroom, I couldn't find the light switch. Immediately after saying "OK Paul, where is the light switch?" my had left hand touched the switch on the wall to turn on the bathroom light.

“Thanks, Paul" I mumbled under my breath.

In the morning, we left to visit Cliff's grandaughter, Larissa her family in Illinois. Dottie sent us on our way with Red-Sockey salmon sandwiches and her homemade chocolate chip cookies. As soon as we were on our way I inserted the second CD audiobook that lasted until we merged into the heavier traffic of Chicago. The flat mid-west landscape reminded me of the ten years I lived in the area as a child.

The two-day stay in Galena Illinois, with the brick homes and quaint shops, went by quickly. After a tour of General Grant's home, attending church and enjoying a delicious Easter Dinner of roast lamb and vegetables we began our trek home. We planned on making it past the Chicago traffic to the Illinois/Indiana border by dark on Sunday evening. We would drive the remainder ten hours back to Pennsylvania on Monday.

I opened the last of the audiobooks and inserted the first disc into the CD player after we were on the interstate. The First Phone Call From Heaven by Mitch Albom wasn't a book I would have usually picked. The story was about people who had lost loved ones and were receiving phone calls from deceased family members. My initial judgement was that the story was a little phony. We listened to the CD for about thirty minutes, and I ejected it.

"This is depressing. I'm on vacation from hospice work and don’t care to listen to stories about people that have died right now.”

I turned the radio on to the familiar WLS Chicago radio station and listened to music, almost expecting to hear Wolfman Jack's raspy voice. I thought this is 2015, not the 1960's. Breathe, stay focused and stay present Jeanette.

As the sun was beginning to set behind us signs to Mooseheart, were flashing in front of us. We passed Randall Road, the back road to Mooseheart, the orphanage where I had lived from 1961-1971 after my father had died from health problems related to a drunk driving accident. I could hear Paul laugh as he reminisced about him driving our mom's 1957 green station wagon, without a driver's license. I was in the back seat singing "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall." I was surprised that I had no feelings of sadness or anger as Cliff, and I drove past the orphanage. Perhaps I am tired, and that's why I'm thinking about Paul speaking to me I thought.

As it was getting dark, we found a hotel room at a Red Roof Inn outside of Gary, Indiana. After a good night's sleep, we stopped at Bob Evan's for breakfast. Cliff ordered a hearty home-style breakfast, and I ordered a veggie omelet. The waitress brought us coffee and tea. As Cliff was sipping his hot cup of black coffee, he stated, "I was enjoying that book we were listening to last night. I often wonder if Stephen will try to contact me somehow.” Stephen, his forty-one-year-old son, had died two years earlier.

“I didn’t realize that was on your mind. I’ll give listening to the book another try on our way home.” I had read Mitch Albom's book Tuesday's with Morrie and found it interesting so I was hopeful that I could get through the seven CD set during our ten hour plus ride home. When we got back in the car, I put away the maps, unplugged the GPS and told Cliff I knew the home like the back of my hand.

After entering the interstate, where I-80 and 94 intersect for a few miles, I put in the disc and began listening to the book from the beginning, paying close attention to all the different characters. The setting of the book was in a little town called Coldwater, Michigan, which I assumed was a fictitious place. When the first disk ended, I fumbled for the second disk and put it into the player to continue listening to the entrancing book full of twists and turns. Some of the residents of Coldwater believed the phone calls were truly from heaven causing a religious revival in the community. But a few skeptical people questioned the credibility of the phone calls that were all coming from the same cell phone server.

My concentration was broke by a “Welcome to Michigan” sign. I should have listened to the voice that said “You're on the wrong road Brat (Paul's nickname for me)” but I didn't. A sign for the exit to Warren Sand Dunes caught my eye. We had stopped there on our way to Illinois, just two days ago. My brother Paul and his family camped there annually. Still listening to the audiobook, my mind wandered to what Paul would say if he called me from heaven.

As clear as day I heard him say “Thanks for visiting Dottie, Coleen, and Jim. Please keep in touch with them.”

I answered. “I regret being estranged from them for so long, but it was hard being in a crappy marriage with Gary, on top of not knowing how to manage the grief of losing you. Cliff is a good guy and will support me staying in touch with them."

A road sign that said route 94 jolted me out of my trance. “Cliff we aren’t on I-80. We are in Michigan on Route 94. Why weren't you paying attention and helping me with directions? We are never going to get home at this rate."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them. Cliff was listening intently to the book, and I had told him that I knew that way home. I ejected the disk, exited off Route 94 and pulled into a vacant hotel parking lot. Cliff handed me the Michigan map. I unfolded it and seen that we were near Battle Creek Michigan, only a few miles from Route 69 that would take us down to Fort Wayne Indiana where we could get on I-80. The detour was only forty miles. At eighty miles an hour, only one half hour was added to our driving time. With nothing to fret about, I apologized to Cliff and pushed the disk back in the player.

I eased onto Route 69 and was again caught up in the story until a sign that read COLDWATER caught my eye. Not wanting to miss any of the book, I ejected the disk and said "Cliff, did you see that sign?"

“What did we take the wrong road again?”

“No Cliff, it said COLDWATER. That’s where the setting of the book we are listening to takes place.”

“Don’t tell me this is one of your miracles.”

“Then what do you call it when we are going through the exact town that the story takes place? I'm thinking about what my brother Paul, who lived in Michigan and passed away twenty-five years ago, would say to me if he called me from heaven?"

“When you put it that way it does sound more than coincidental” he replied.

After getting on I-80, I listened to the book even more intently. God had a message for me and I needed to pay attention. As we crossed the state of Ohio, both Cliff and I were intrigued and wondering if the phone calls were from heaven or if they were a hoax. As we headed toward Columbus, Ohio, my right leg was numb from driving. We took a short break and had a late lunch. Cliff took over the driving since we were nearly home. As we crossed the Pennsylvania border, I looked at the map to see how close we were to Hermitage where my mom and dad were buried. It was only ten to fifteen miles out of the way. I thought about stopping at the cemetery but listened to the voice that told me I was tired, and this wasn't the time.

As the landscape turned into the familiar Allegheny National Forest, the book was nearing completion. It held our attention as we pulled into the driveway of our country home. I won't reveal how the story ended, but will say that I am deeply touched and a definite believer that our deceased loved ones can contact us in some way, shape or form. I have no doubt that divine direction caused me to “randomly” pick up The First Phone Call from Heaven, which is far from a phony book.

In July my daughter and three grandaughters are traveling to Michigan to keep in touch with Dottie, Coleen and Jim. Visiting Bronner's Christmas Store is at the top of our list. Paul will be delighted to see our face light up when we experience the magic of Christmas and his presence.

An Eulogy for Ernie

Eulogy for Ernie Allegretti

April 20, 2015

Two years ago I was called to be a caregiver for Ernie.  I knew I was in the presence of greatness from the very beginning.  Ernie was larger than life and taught me quite a bit.  He taught me about history,  language and the stock market.  He also taught me not to procrastinate.  

One day I was refilling his water cup with ice and water.  The ice maker on the fridge wasn’t working, so I told Ernie.  He said, “Give me the damn phone book so I can call and get it fixed. “  I replied “Ernie don’t you want to wait? Maybe a line is frozen, and it needs to thaw or something.  J.J. will look at it when he comes home.”

“Wait is what broke the wagon.  I’m going to call them right now.”  And he did.

Ernie was the kind of man that didn’t wait for anything. 

He didn’t wait to get mad.

He didn’t wait to get over being mad

He didn’t  wait to get over being disappointed by sickness and physical limitations.

He didn’t wait to offer everyone he met a beer or a glass of wine.

He didn’t wait to tell each and every nurse or caregiver that they were the best.

He didn’t wait to  say thank you, even for the smallest act.

He didn’t wait to tell someone how nice they looked.

He didn’t wait to forgive

He didn’t wait to apologize.

He didn’t wait to say the most three important words to his daughter Jean, his son-in-law JJ, his son Jimmy, his grandchildren Dominic, Vincent, Anna and Sara, his nephews, his friends,   his nurses,  nor his  caregivers.   He didn’t wait to say I love you.  When he couldn’t say the words anymore, he breathed them.  Two nights before he passed away his seven-year-old granddaughter Sara came in to say good night to her  Papa.  He tried to say “I love you” to her but couldn’t get the words out. She said, “That’s OK Papa. Save your breath.  I know what you mean.”  

 Just like Sara we all knew that not only did Ernie say I love you, he meant it.  Ernie came into this world alone.  But Ernie didn’t leave this world alone.  Despite having a meager beginning in life, he made a name for himself in the community and left this world brimming with love for his family and friends who loved him in return.

To quote Victor Hugo “To Love another is to see the face of God,”   Thank you, Ernie, for showing us the face of God.

    

A Tough Day at Work

      Yesterday was a pretty tough day at work.  The first woman I care for weighs over four hundred pounds.  The day before she had wet the bed. I thought I was doing her a favor by changing the thin soaked sheet and washing the dark blue mattress pad with perfumed cleaner to eliminate the odor.  
       While she was sitting on the toilet naked with massive amount of scarred flesh spilling over the toilet seat and her long, stringy, reddish graying hair parted in the middle wisping her sagging breasts,  she informed me in a  deep brogue "Next time my sheets are wet just leave them on the bed to dry. I don't have enough sheets to be changing them all the time"
"Really?  Aren't you concerned about the smell?"
"No, it drys."
I wanted to argue with her.  Her apartment does smell.  The urine stench smells stronger than lemon scented ammonia. I'm grateful for a warm day when I can open the window to air out the room.  As I was holding a small plastic bag for her to dump her soiled undergarment into, I clenched my jaw and replied "I never heard of not changing sheets when they were wet." I didn't wait for  a reply as I tied the bag tightly to keep the stench in and deposited it in the garbage can.
She lifted herself off the toilet teetering on the rails of the extra large commode.  Her thin arms, mottled with black and blue blood spots looked as if they were thin toothpicks that might snap any moment holding up a quarter ton of weight. I could feel the pain of her knees as she winced taking three steps to the bathtub and situating her immense behind on the plastic tub seat that barely supports her. She was able to lift her left foot into the two foot high tub and I heaved her right foot over the edge so she could get her daily shower.  
I welcomed the smell of the Head and Shoulders shampoo and the  pear scented body soap as I washed her hair and scrubbed her back.  When I was first contemplating caring for the elderly, I knew  dealing with unpleasant odors would be my biggest obstacle. A friend who is an LPN suggested I carry a small jar of Vicks Vapor Rub in my pocket and put a dab in my nostrils whenever there was a strong odor.  More importantly, she instructed  "Make sure you help the patient maintain their dignity while you are caring for them." I found the latter advice much more useful as I don't remember to carry Vicks with me.      After the shower she teetered back to the toilet seat covered with a towel and doused herself in camphor scented medicated body powder, leaving us both in a much better mood.  
My next visit was to see a ninety one year old gentleman who I've become quite fond of.  His three teenage grandchildren are home during the summer. The family is getting ready to leave for a vacation to the Virginia Beach at the end of the week.  My patient  will be spending the week at an assisted care facility a while the family is on vacation.  I visit my patient on Mondays and Wednesdays.  On Monday's visit when I asked him how he was feeling he told me in a rather melancholy voice "So So."  He was a little sluggish, which I contributed to a busy weekend, but when he was still feeling that way on Wednesday I was concerned.  He told me that he was trying not to let his family know how bad he was feeling as he didn't want to ruin their vacation.   I could tell he wasn't feeling good as he gasped for air and coughed as he talked.  His right food swelled to the size of a softball.  Rather than focus on cleaning the house, I spent quite a bit of time visiting with Ernie.  A Reader's Digest was lying on the end table so I picked it up and paged through it  finding a few quotes to read out loud and then we did the Word Power together.  After a lunch of pepperoni bread, salad and watermelon he hobbled back to his recliner to rest.  I cleaned up the kitchen and clocked out.  "Before you leave, I want to give you a hug, in case I don't see you again.  I thought I was going to live to be one hundred, but I'm not going to make it."   
Feeling tears well up in my eyes and not knowing if this might be the last time I see my friend, sing song words spilled out of my mouth. After the first verse he sang along.
" So long, it's been good to know you;
So long, it's been good to know you
So long, it's been good to know you.
This dusty old dust is a-gettin' my           home,
And I got to be driftin' along."
After the song, with his finger on the button to raise his lift chair he said "What would we do without music?"  As he came to a sitting position,  I bent over and he wrapped his strong arms around me and gave me a larger than life bear hug.  I kissed him on the cheek and told him he would be safe wherever he went.  
"Take care" I said as I closed the back door of the house.

Windmills at Kinderdijk

Jack arrived at our B&B the same time Saturday morning and we headed south to Ablasserdam, the town where my Oma and father lived before immigrating to America. Jack went into a furniture store to ask a gentleman he had met on his last visit where the county courthouse was so we could look up records of our ancestors.  Unfortunately, it was Saturday and the courthouse was closed.  In lieu of finding where our family might have lived, we walked the narrow brick paved sidewalks searching for salty black licorice.  While looking for the licorice we came across a bakery and purchased some freshly baked speculaas cookies. The Sweetie Shop, a little candy shop a few blocks away had an assortment of at least twenty different licorices.  The young lady didn’t speak English and didn’t understand that we wanted salty licorice. In sign language, by putting our fingers to our lips we asked if for a taste of the different licorices including a black diamond shaped licorice imprinted with the letters ZOUT, meaning salt in Dutch. It was just the licorice I was looking for, so I purchased a pound, hoping it would last me for a while after I returned home.

Kinderdijk (pronounced kinderdyke) was next on the itinerary.  The famous Dutch windmills were only a few miles away from Albasserdam. We arrived in time for a movie about why the windmills were built and the origin of the name Kinderdijk, which there are about four different stories. The one I liked revolved around the St. Elizabeth flood in 1400. A child was floating on one of the canals during the flood and a cat rocked the cradle back and forth to keep in from sinking. In a small museum, Cliff discovered four authentic wood spades with metal edges hanging on the wall.  He’s been researching how to make the same shovels for a customer who wants them for reenactments, but had never seen one first hand.

As we enjoyed a picnic lunch of liverwurst and hot mustard sandwiches on whole grain bread and apples, Jack and I talked about how different our lives might have been if our father hadn’t passed away when we were young.  I wondered if my Dutch Oma might have brought my father to Kinderdijk as a child to see the windmills, since it is so close to where they lived.  I thought about how pleased our ancestors were been that we made the journey back to our motherland.  I felt honored to have a rich cultural heritage.  My heart was full of gratitude for all the people that preserved this part of history for us to experience, share and enjoy.

The windmills were built in the 1700’s to pump water into the canals to keep the land from collapsing and going undersea. One of the windmills where the miller and his family actually lived was open to the public. We climbed narrow wood steps to view areas for the children. As we strolled the pathway with people on bikes, families with children and the three story windmill equipped with a kitchen, sitting room, bedroom and play tourists groups, Cliff and Jack counted nineteen windmills along the canals. People from all over the world visit Kinderdijk to see how the Dutch ingeniously manage water.

Arriving in Holland

  We landed safely in Holland around 1:00 pm on Thursday April 3, 2014. Our flights went smoothly with only a half hour delay added to our four hour layover at the Dublin airport due to heavy fog. We passed the time by having an Irish breakfast, coffee, Irish crème whisky samples, tasting chocolates and chatting with a couple from Ireland on their way to Italy and Spain. We turned our watches ahead five hours, exchanged our dollars in for euros and went through customs where our suntan lotion was confiscated.

   At the immense Schiphol airport we were welcomed with displays of tulips and delftware that lines the shelves of airport shops.  After claiming our luggage, we found our way to the Avis car rental kiosk to pick up a car I had reserved earlier.  A young man in his thirties who spoke English with a strong Dutch accent handed me the keys to a small plum colored mini car. Cliff piled the luggage in the small trunk.  After getting in the car, the first thing I looked for was the GPS, but it was nowhere to be found. I went back to the desk to ask where the GPS was in the car. They forgot to give it me. I had to make a second trip back to the Avis office to have the gadget changed from European to English. I programmed the address of the Bed and Breakfast in DeZilk, Holland and was ready to go until I turned on the car reached down to put the car in drive and discovered that it was a standard.  I hadn’t driven a standard car in over ten years, but after a few stalls and jumps, engaging the clutch and shifting the gears came back to me. Just like riding a bike, you never forget.

Due to studying the road map before leaving for our trip I had an idea in what direction we were traveling, but it was nerve wracking  driving on a four lane highway with foreign traffic signs, a standard car and the driving speed in kilometers an hour.  My brain had a hard time adjusting to a 100 kph instead of 60 mph.  I relied on the flow of traffic to gauge my speed and muddled through the road signs. The biggest challenge came when the women’s voice on the GPS said “at the next round about turn left and take the second exit.”  In a matter of minutes I came to an island of grass with two lanes of traffic encircling it. The exits were unmarked narrow roads, like spokes on a wheel, so I had to count “one, two, three” as I navigated around the round-about. There is a ‘round-about’ wherever a road intersects.

The GPS navigated us to the Tulpenzicht Bed and Breakfast, where we met our host who speaks German and a little English.  We were delighted to see that the B&B with contemporary furniture, laminate flooring, colorful Dutch wall hangings and a modern kitchen with an induction stove and oven depicted the pictures on the website.  My brother Jack, who is familiar with Holland forewarned me about the high price of meals in the country and he was right.  One simple meal of cod, french fries and small salad at a conservative restaurant cost 46 Eruos. I sure was glad to have the kitchen included in the B&B.

After unloading our luggage at the B&B we headed to the nearby town of Lisse to stock up on a few groceries.  We found a market, strictly by accident, with a nice selection of food. I headed to the produce aisle leaving Cliff alone to get the cart. When I turned to ask him what kind of cheese we should buy he was struggling to free a cart from the rack.  He was confused as to why he had to insert a fifty cent euro to free a shopping cart until he realized it was a deposit that eliminated having to hire people to return the carts to the store. We stocked up on cheese, lunch meat, herring, and black licorice. When we checked out Cliff asked what he could put the groceries in. The cashier told him something in Dutch, but he couldn’t understand her.  I looked down and seen heavy plastic bags for twenty euro cents. After thirty hours without sleep and a crash course in European driving and shopping, we were both ready for a good night’s sleep.

On Friday after a hearty breakfast of whole grain bread, croissants, fruit, yogurt, granola, fresh squeezed orange juice, soft boiled eggs, lunch meat and cheese, Cliff made sandwiches from the leftovers for our lunch. Jack arrived at 10:00 am and had coffee while we chatted for a few minutes. We tasted the black licorice and were disappointed that it wasn’t salty.  Jack read the label and told me it was German licorice.  After a cup of coffee we hit the road. Jack sat in the front seat of the rental car and gave me European driver lessons while en route to a Clara Maria’s cheese and wooden shoe making factory.  Cliff enjoyed seeing how wood shoes are made and found a hand tool and spoon gouges that that he doesn’t have.  We sampled wild onion, mustard, whiskey, cumin and nut cheese, stocked up on souvenirs and then had lunch at a picnic table next to the house. 

Next we traveled north through the town of Gouda (that the Dutch pronounce howda) and then to the only Delft potter factory in Holland. We arrived at 4:30 pm just as the shop was closing. The owners were gracious enough to give us a quick tour of the small factory housed in a three story brick building.  It was fascinating to learn about the tedious process of making expensive Delft pottery. The Dutch women who explained the process to us, has a daughter who is in college and will be attending Penn State University for a semester. We invited her daughter to visit us when she is in Pennsylvania.

 When we returned to the B&B in the evening I made tortellini, sautéed Italian vegetables and German beef sausage. It was a challenge getting the induction oven to work until we realized that the heating elements wouldn’t turn on with certain pans. I was grateful that my friend Mary Lisa gave me an adaptor for my computer and hair dryer. After checking my email we went for a leisurely walk in the area and enjoyed the sunset, beautifully landscaped homes and fields of fragrant purple hyacinths, yellow daffodils and pink tulips.