The Chautauqua Writer's Conference

                                                                A Dream Come True

                                                                                 June 2016

My husband Cliff was sitting on the porch waiting to welcome me home when I pulled into the driveway from the 13^th Annual Chautauqua Writer’s four-day conference at about 2:00 pm on a Sunday afternoon. I was tired and fulfilled after being with writers of all ages and genres.  No, there are no missing letters.  I didn’t forget to include the letters d and e. I intentionally meant genres; fiction, non-fiction, prose, creative non-fiction, song writing, and poetry.  I was honored to be in the company of over sixty writers, including some who had their poems, short stories, novels, songs and memoirs published.   The writers ranged from having  Ph.D.’s in writing to those, who like myself, have no degree, but a calling and desire to write.

Back in April, I made reservations to stay at the Athenaeum Hotel that was constructed in the 1880’s.  I’ve been visiting Chautauqua annually since the 1980’s when I attended a Mary Chapin Carpenter concert at the amphitheater.  I immediately fell in love with the quaint houses, brick streets, the bell tower and the lake.  Staying at the hotel was a dream come true.   I admiringly looked at the Hotel, only from a distance and wondered who had enough money to stay here.  The Chautauqua Institute in upstate New York was founded in 1874 by a Methodist minister. It began as an educational experiment for summer learning of religion, culture and the arts.  The idea swept across the country and in the 1920’s there were over two hundred Chautauquas across the United States.  The “Mother” Institute is the only one that remains.  Each year I try to attend at least one of the free Sunday concerts, so I can enjoy a day of culture that includes, music, theater and dance.   Last year my friend Marilyn and I even ate at the affordable Tally-Ho Restaurant before attending a concert.

This year, I felt like royalty as I pulled my 2006 Subaru Forester--in my mind it was a Volvo wagon-- into the front of the hotel to check in.  The patterned carpet, elegant chandeliers and sweeping staircases in the lobby took away my breath.  As I was picking up my packet of information that included my name tag, a schedule and bound book about Chautauqua, a  tall, slender man, dressed in casual attire of unpressed slacks and an unbuttoned cream colored shirt-I was relieved this wasn’t a suit and tie event- and black plastic framed eyeglasses approached me and said:

“Welcome, Jeanette. Have you been here before?” 

“No, this is my first time.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.” 

I was surprised to hear a woman behind me address Phil as “Dr. Thurman.”  Phil has a Ph.D. in poetry. 

I checked in at the main desk and retrieved the key to my room; that was on the fourth floor of an annex.  When I looked in the direction of  the stately wood staircase but didn’t see any elevators,  the attendant said: “If you drive around to the side of the building there are elevators that will take you closer to your room that is in the annex.”   I pulled my car around to side as instructed and unloaded my luggage into the utilitarian elevator that was added onto the building as an afterthought.  I wondered how people in the 1940 and 50’s, before handicapped accessibility was mandatory,  managed their luggage.  Perhaps they traveled lighter than I did.   When I found my room at the end of the hall, the door opened with a real key, rather than a credit card device, like most hotels.  As I was arriving with my baggage, my roommate was just leaving the room. We exchanged names and shook hands.

Our room was less elegant than the lobby of the hotel, but it had two comfortable single beds and fan folded towels and washcloths.  I plopped my suitcases by the bed next to the window with a view of the scenic Chautauqua Lake.  After getting unpacked and settle in, I headed back down to the dining room for a lunch of artisan bread, soup, and salad.

After lunch, I found  Nancy McCabe’s class on non-fiction writing, in the back of the hotel lobby.    Nancy authored four published memoirs and is the Director of Writing at the University of Pitt-Bradford campus.    The six writers, including my roommate,  lingered in and found seats around a dining room table with a white covered table cloth.  I had already met one of the writers in person the week before at an Author’s Forum, in DuBois.  It was comforting to see a familiar face.   The other classmates I had met online through required writing submissions before the conference began.  I put names to faces as if I was playing the childhood game Guess Who.   After introductions, Nancy briefly gave us an overview of different writing styles, including narrative essay and descriptive essay. I was the first in line to have my writing reviewed the next morning.

After the workshop I walked over to Seaver’s Gym, just across from the Girl’s Gym, admiring the stately houses lined with magenta pansies, fire-red geraniums, and amethyst shaded azaleas, to attend an open mic session. On my previous visits to Chautauqua, I had never ventured past the hotel.   The outbuildings, still in good repair, but without modern accommodations felt as if I was in the 1950’s  setting of Dirty Dancing.   A wood walkway led into the gym with no air conditioning, wood framed windows that were opened widely to cool off the building from the summer heat.  We sat in wood folding chairs listening to writers and poets from the age of twenty years old to eighty-five years old read their work.  It was pure pleasure to listen to the lyrical readings of seasoned poets and writers.

With enough time in between the readings and supper, I walked down to the lake to slip off my sandals and dip my toes into the cool water.  Supper out did the lunch with a spread of salads, vegetarian main dishes and meat dishes. The desserts, cheesecake, fruit tart, brownies, carrot cake, cookies, parfaits, were more than enough to satisfy my sweet tooth.  I sat at a table with writers from as far away as Vermont and as close by as Bemus Point. 

Each evening, after supper, when the sun was setting, we gathered in the parlor of the hotel, or at another outbuilding to hear  an instructor  read their published works of poetry, memoir and stories.  The most memorable for me was hearing  Stephen Dunn, poet and distinguished professor of creative writing,  in his raspy aged voice read his poem,

The Imagined

By Stephen Dunn

If the imagined woman makes the real woman seem bare-boned, hardly existent, lacking in gracefulness and intellect and pulchritude,and if you come to realize the imagined woman can only satisfy your imagination, whereas the real woman with all her limitations can often make you feel good, how, in spite of knowing this, does the imagined woman keep getting into your bedroom, and joining you at dinner, why is it that you always bring her along on vacations when the real woman is shopping, or figuring the best way to the museum?

 And if the real woman

has an imagined man, as she must, someone probably with her at this very moment, in fact doing and saying everything she’s ever wanted, would you want to know that he slips into her life every day from a secret doorway she’s made for him, that he’s present even when you’re eating your omelette at breakfast,or do you prefer how she goes about the house as she does, as if there were just the two of you? Isn’t her silence, finally, loving? And yours not entirely self-serving? Hasn’t the time come, once again, not to talk about it?

After the readings, we walked along the lake to the Pier building where an event called “The Hoot” was scheduled.   Writers strummed guitars and ukuleles and sang along to favorite folk songs from the sixties and seventies.  Young college students with a penchant for singing courageously got up and sang their favorite songs, following lyrics on their smartphones.  The audience sipped on glasses of merlot and clapped to the beat of familiar and some unfamiliar tunes until the bell tower struck midnight.  

At the next morning’s workshop, we dove right into evaluating our previously submitted writings.  I was hoping for rave reviews but instead was challenged to improve my style of writing.  I have over 40,000 words of my memoir wrote and was overwhelmed when Nancy suggested I write in the descriptive scene.   I came to the conference hoping to get suggestions on how to organize what I already had written and wasn’t expecting to hear this. Being highly sensitive to criticism,  I  felt as is a big gust of the wind came and blew over the house I had just built.  Thankfully, the writing framework is sturdily in place, and the house just took a little pummeling. The structure is now needs windows,  siding, wallboard, paint, wallpaper and some trim.    I failed to say that I received more than enough compliments on the strengths of my writing.

At our next class, Nancy instructed: “Choose a scene and write everything you can see in that scene.”  After writing a few minutes, she interrupted our writing and said: “Now, write about everything you can hear in the scene.”  We then changed to textures and feelings.  By the time, it was over I had two pages of descriptions.  My scene was I of Muncie hall at Mooseheart.  Our homework for the next day was to write a paragraph or two from the scene. 

In between the workshops, each of the students had an opportunity to meet with Nancy one on one, and she encouraged me to keep writing in a narrative style -- I think she sensed that I felt overwhelmed by the descriptive style of writing--and that the chapters would fall in place. That night after tossing and turning in bed, I opened my laptop and completed the homework assignment. When two other classmates and I read our homework to class the next day, Nancy said: “You have exceeded my expectations.” I felt like I had accomplished something.  Throughout the conference, I met some new friends and hoped to keep in touch with them.

 Just like Cinderella, my carriage turned into a pumpkin, and I drove home--not in a Volvo, but my scratched up Subaru-- feeling tired and thinking I never wanted to write or read another word again in my life.  After a warm hug and unloading my luggage, Cliff asked: “How did was the conference?”  I didn’t want to disappoint him by saying what I was thinking.  After getting caught up on my rest, I sat down and edited the piece I wrote and explained what I learned.   At breakfast the next morning,  I read him my descriptive essay of Muncie Hall. After listening intently without any interruptions, he  said:  “If your whole book reads as good as that it will be a best-seller.” 

One Special Woman

One Special Woman

Yesterday I had a phone conversation with a woman who just celebrated her 90th birthday on Monday.  She distinctly remembered me when I was seven years old.  That was fifty years ago.  Alma, Mrs. Gulley and her husband Charlie, Mr. Gulley were my brother Jack's house parents when he was in Maryland Delaware Hall at Mooseheart. In the orphanage, boys had houseparents, a couple who were married, giving them a male influence in their lives and girls had matrons. I guess we didn't need father figures, but boys needed a mother figure.

    Mr. and Mrs. Gulley hailed from southern Illinois. When hired as houseparents in the late 1960's,they made it clear to the higher ups at Mooseheart that they would take care of any discipline needed for the boys. The boys wouldn't be sent to the farm-another name for the detention hall-for laborious hours of work.  The Gulley's found it atrocious that kids were separated from their siblings and parents, so they invited them to visit their hall.   I had never met any of my brother's houseparents and felt special going off girl's campus onto boy's campus to visit my older brother at his hall. It was a big change from the crowded little room in Loyalty Hall where we usually visited our mother for a few hours on Sunday.

    The first time  I walked in the back door of the MD hall I had a real sense of a home.  Granny, Mrs. Gulley's mother, a small framed woman,  wearing an apron was stirring a batch of peanut butter fudge. Without knowing my name, she handed me a large wood spoon with plenty of fudge still on it and said “Sweetie, would you like to lick the spoon?”  

    Just as I was scraping the last of the fudge off the spoon with my teeth, I felt another presence in the room.  When I turned around, a tall woman with blonde hair styled in a beehive on top of her head was standing in the doorway.  Expecting to get hollered at I stiffened up and hid the spoon behind my back.   “You must be Jack's little sister. I see that Van Zanten look in your eyes.”  Instead of scolding me, she walked over to me and gave me the first hug I had in seven years.  When she hugged me, I wanted to melt into her large bosoms, held up by a sturdy brassiere that I could see through her neatly pressed cotton blouse. “Charlie, look who we got here, Jack's little sister.  Isn't she a cute one?”

    Charlie came around the corner of the living room. The aroma of Mr. Gulley's pipe tobacco swirled around the house as he puffed on his pipe that he held between his strong jaw.  He wore cowboy boots, blue jeans, a large belt buckle with a picture of a horse, a long sleeve, a plaid shirt that had pearly white snaps instead of buttons.  He had jet black hair, slicked neatly to the side. His deep, dark eyes didn't look away when he spoke.

    “Well, hello young lady.  It's a pleasure to meet you.  We've heard a lot about you from your brother.” 

    I hid behind Mrs. Gully and gave him a little wave.

    I was surprised at the difference in Jack's behavior. There wasn't any teasing or monkey business.  It seemed as if he had grown up into a respectable young man instead of an impish boy.  He called me Brat only once while I was there.

     Mrs. Gulley kindly reprimanded him “Don't you call her that.”

    “But that's what everyone calls her.” He retorted.

    “Her name is Jeanette and that's what you will call her from now on.” Mr. Gully chimed in, looking Jack directly in the eye.

    For awhile Jack didn't call me anything, but after awhile he began to use my name.

    While on the phone with Alma, now remarried and is Mrs. Scarlett, we spent an hour catching up on the last fifty years. I could hear the age in her voice that wasn't quite so strong anymore.  She's had four bypasses, hip replacements, knee replacements, a steel plate in her head, but a memory like a steel trap. She was sorry to hear about my mother and my brother Paul passing away.  She remembered all my brother's names and asked how they were doing. She reminisced about  Mooseheart.  She told me about the time my brother Jack was going to the Illinois State Fair to show cows.  A few days before the fair he sprained his ankle and begged the Gulley's not to take him to the hospital.  He wanted so bad to get out of Mooseheart for a few days.  So instead of sending him to the hospital, Mrs. Gully put horse liniment on his ankle, wrapped it in an ace bandage and sent him off to show the cows.

    With tears in my eyes, I said, “You and Mr. Gully were so kind compared to the matrons in the girl's hall. 

In her innocent benevolence, she said, “You mean not everyone treated you kindly.  How could they do otherwise?”

    “Unfortunately your kindness and love were the exceptions.” I answered.

    “I didn't agree with how strict Mooseheart was. Your mom told me that she had no idea that they were going to take her children away from her.  She thought you would all live in one building together. After the fact she felt stuck and couldn't do anything about it.”

      I often wondered how my mom felt about being separated from her children. A few years ago I talked to a mother who dressed in black clothes and snuck out of Mooseheart at night through the cornfields. She landed a job bartending nights, so she could get out and have her kids back.  My mother didn't have that constitution though.  And, maybe we were better off.

    I adopted Mrs. Gulley as my new mom.  Each year my mom would make an annual pilgrimage back to Pennsylvania for funerals or vacations. I wouldn't tell my matron that my mom was away, and I would sneak over to see Mrs. Gulley for an hour.  I would play with her little grandson Tommy Jo, who was visiting her.  He was just learning to walk, and I would hold his hands and walk him around the house while Mrs. Gulley and Granny prepared supper for the boys. On long Sunday afternoon visits,  Mrs. Gulley would get out her portable typewriter and help me type a letter to my mom even though we didn't have an address where she was.

    When it came time for graduation from elementary school, Mrs. Gulley bought me a training bra and nylons for the event.  She went shopping with my mom and I. Since my mom wasn't good at shopping she helped us pick a dress. When I couldn't make a decision, she held up two dresses and asked which one I like the best.  I picked the blue and white checkered jumper that had a lacy white blouse underneath.   She attended the ceremony with her grandaughter Shelley, who was a few years younger than me.

    The Gulley's were at Mooseheart for five years, long enough for my brother Warren to get assigned to their hall.  After they left Mooseheart, my mom would get a special permit to visit them on a farm they rented within a few miles of Mooseheart. They had a horse and a pond where Shelley and I would throw rocks.  Whenever I would ask Mrs. Gulley for permission to do something she said “Honey you don't need to tell me everything.  You just go on and have fun while you are here.”  

    Her son, big Tommy Jo was a truck driver and needed his name embroidered on the uniform shirts he wore.  My mom told Mrs. Gulley that I liked to embroidery, so they paid me real money to sew his name on the shirt. Before I had to go back to Mooseheart at night, Mrs. Gulley took me to the store to spend the money on whatever I wanted.  I bought more thread and a pillow case to embroidery.

    It wasn't long after, that I finally got to leave Mooseheart for good.  My first night out of the orphanage we stayed at Mr. and Mrs. Gulleys where I slept in a little cove in their attic with Shelley. I slept in my clothes as I had read stories in my history classes about the Underground Railroad where slaves had to get up in the middle of the night to move from one place to the other.   I didn't sleep much that night as I waited for the guards from Mooseheart to pull up in the driveway anytime to take me back to Mooseheart. Thankfully that didn't happen. 

    The next morning I woke up to the smell of bacon cooking.  When I came down, Granny had her apron on cooking breakfast for over ten people. I helped her butter the toast just as I was trained to do at Mooseheart.  After breakfast everyone had said their goodbyes and we were headed to Pennsylvania.

     I wished I could have stayed right there with Mr. and Mrs. Gulley and Granny.  When she hugged me goodbye I didn't ever want to let go.  “We'll see you again honey.  Write me letters and let me know how you all are doing.”  She gave me a little heart shaped jewelry box, lined with red velvet.  The top had a blue background and a white ship embossed on it.  She told me it reminded her of my Dutch heritage. I don't know if I ever wrote her a letter, but I thought of her each time I looked at the jewelry box that I carried with me for many years.

    After talking on the phone for over an hour, she said, “Honey, hearing from you has just made my day.  Let's keep in touch.  I don't do Facebook, but send me your address and phone number.”

 I assured her I would.

“And if you ever could come out and visit me that would mean more than anything in the world.  I have two extra bedrooms, and you are welcome here anytime.”

    The twelve hour trip to southern Illinois doesn't look foreseeable in my near future, but a 90th birthday card to a very special woman is in the mail.

A Mooseheart Puzzle...

Yesterday I drove to St. Marys to pick up some groceries, run a few errands and see my grandchildren. After lunch, I stopped into the Community Nurses office. Boxes of books for the upcoming used book sale to benefit Community Nurses Hospice program lined the walls of the front office.  I said hello to Chad, the scheduler and to Tiffany, a tall, slender woman with brunette wavy hair past her shoulders, with a smile that brightens the world. 

Tiffany is the manager for the Community Nurses Home Health Support, and we've gotten to know each other over the past three years.  From day one, with my employment with Community Nurses as a personal Care Aide, Tiffany has made me feel an important part of the team. She is never too busy to greet me when I stop in the office and personally thanks me for the work I do.  

 Chad asked me what I needed, and I told him two boxes of gloves. Tiffany was standing closer to the glove cabinet and took the initiative to get me the gloves. Before I left, she said, "Let me get your DVD that you lent me. She came back with the DVD and some other articles I had given her to read.   I gave Tiffany a hug, said good bye and turned to leave.

Before I walked out the door, Chad asked, "Did you get your appreciation gift from us?"  

I turned around and said "No, I didn't."  

As Chad went to the back of the room to retrieve the gift, a box of puzzles for the book sale, stacked up about three feet high caught my eye. I stared at the picture of a familiar building wondering if it would be an easy puzzle to put together. I was bewildered by the drab colors of a stately, tan building surrounded by green grass and a blue sky. I picked up the box and seen that it was a photograph of the House of God, a children's cathedral located at Mooseheart, the orphanage I was I lived in over fifty years ago.   

Chad returned with the thank you gift and handed it to me through the office window.  I thanked him for the gift and then asked Tiffany "Are these books for sale now?" 

"Sure, everyone in the office has been going through the boxes and we've been taking donations for them." 

 I picked up the puzzle box. "You will never believe this, but this is a picture of the children's cathedral, called the House of God, from the orphanage I lived in at Mooseheart." 

Both she and Chad raised their eyebrows and said "Really?" at the same time.  

I proceeded to tell them that children's cathedral is one of a of a kind and was built between the years 1948-1950. I spent every Sunday morning at the church while at Mooseheart from 1961-1971, sitting with my mom and my six siblings listening to sermons. I thought a lot about God when I was in that church.  One repetitive sermon, about casting your bread upon the water and it returning still stays with me.  Each Sunday a gold plate lined with green felt was passed, and we deposited a token penny. The choir consisting of high school students dressed in silky, burgundy choral gowns with a gold sash, sang hymns that brought comfort to my lonely soul.

On Christmas Eve, beautiful carols were sung by the chorus made of high school students dressed in silky choral gowns. 

The church touted to be "multi-denominational" was Catholic and Protestant.  The Catholic wing had confessionals and candles.  The Protestant wing had a marble baptismal pool, which I don't recall being used. In between the two wings was a large church area with pews, a sanctuary and an impressive organ that bellowed out hymns such as the Old Rugged Cross, when Mrs. Elsie Buckley was at the keys.  Many priests, chaplains and reverends served at the church.  If the walls could talk, just like other structures at Mooseheart they would testify to some of the abuse that took place at the orphanage. 

Although it was fifty years ago, I related my experience of being Protestant to Tiffany and Chad.  When I was about seven years old, about ten of the Catholic girls at Muncie Hall were all dressed up in pretty white dresses, a white hanky on top of their heads, white lace ankle socks and white patent leather shoes that they shined with Vaseline. I recall them bragging about their holy middle names they would be acquiring. While the "holier than thou"  girls went to church for their First Holy Communion, at least eight of us Protestant girls had to stay at the hall. Dressed in our raggedy everyday dresses, we sat on a  bare tile floor, with our feet under the dressers.  One of the matrons, Mrs. Paulson, who was a crotchety old woman with bluish gray hair told us how all the heathens, including the Protestants, would burn in hell someday for turning away from the church.  The blasphemous Martin Luther King was the devil incarnate.  Like we knew what all those big words meant.   When "us heathens" got a little older and acquired freedom, we didn't hesitate to live up the expectations set for us.  We would sneak in the church and blow out all the red candles and then play hide and seek in the confessionals.  

Tiffany was sympathetic and couldn't believe children were treated in such a manner. 

 I asked her what the donation for the puzzle was.  "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."   The three of us were in awe at how coincidental it was that I found the puzzle.  If it was a different day, it might not have been there. Or if Chad hadn't reminded me to pick up the gift -which, by the way, was a useful pocket flashlight that I put on my keychain-I wouldn't have found the puzzle.   I thanked Tiffany for the puzzle and said good bye to her and Chad. The puzzle has been sitting on my dining room table, and I've been pondering what I am going to do with it. I've entertained thoughts of putting it on Ebay. Perhaps there is someone that collects Mooseheart memorabilia and will pay more than the twenty-five cents it may have fetched at the book sale. If it's a substantial amount, I 

Mooseheart House of God Puzzle 

might donate the proceeds to the Community Nurses. It will make a newsworthy story that might stir up interest in the memoir I'm writing.  Bids anyone? 

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.