The Bone Menders

I envision a small workforce of Bone Menders,  busy inside my wrist, repairing my shattered radius bone. They dress in white coveralls, and wear  white soft booties. They carry small buckets filled with marrow and cells, and they cheerfully plaster around the silver titanium plate; they fill in fractures in the crevices of bone, using tiny shovels that look like pie spatchulas.

Eccentric little artisans, the Bone Menders like to sing as they work, but often the mean background hum of pain pressure drowns out their voices.  When I tell my wife and daughter about these creatures, which I do at least daily, they both respond, ”And how much CBD did you take today?”.

Granted, I am getting stoned to offset this pain, but this image of the Bone Menders is part of the conscious healing regimen I have launched since my surgery a week ago.

I am taking a bone healing protocol from my naturopath, that includes supplements with names such as osteo5x  (hydrolyzed collagen), and Osteo Minis (some for For Am and pm that contain magnesium, copper, selenium, calcium, and Vitamins D and K and K1. ) I drink down drops of Vitamin  A, B-12s, and D’s, and a dropper full of a brown liquid remedy called Bone Knit.

Hum, I may have to supply my Bone Menders with some knitting needles and yarn.  I am bravely trying to adjust to this surprisingly potent disability and when not in relentless discomfort, relax into my new routines.

I’m drinking cups of bone marrow broth, and trying to eat small meals, to keep my stomach in tact from the medications. I’m monitoring my self pity levels to ensure that I do not plunge off the deep end.

I’m icing, limiting myself to one long walk a day (although not long enough since the Dogsitter does not go as far as I go), and spending not too much time on devices.  

To function in my new little world, I must move much slower, and deliberate first, act second. I’ve been mostly homebound, which thankfully limits my exposure to the entitled people of Marin, whom I find terribly annoying when in a weakened state.

Today an older white man who did not have his scruffy little dog on leash, yelled at Patricia,  my dog walker that ”your dog is a monster!” when Sadie growled and bared her teeth at his approaching dog.

It just took a moment to remediate the situation between the dogs, but the man wouldn’t stop his invective.  “You are just unkind,” I told him as he refused to move on both literally and figuratively. As we walked away I couldn’t help myself. “You are a mean bastard.”

On the other hand,  let’s call it my good hand, my friends have stepped up, coming by to share a meal, and to help me take the dogs out at night. They bring by Special CBD lotion, flowers, cards, and takeout, and provide me with much needed distraction.

But honestly, I’m still shell shocked. It’s been just over  a week since my mom died and I broke my wrist. My routine is disrupted and I am a creature of routine.  i haven’t driven my car, Pat and Soph are in Boston and I’m on my own, no demented mom to worry about or attend to.  But I’m feeling this numb dumb pain in my hand that appears to have a life of its own, even though it is almost completely immobilized in plaster and white mesh.

Still, I meet with my students, editing with one finger, and getting them excited about finding and writing their stories for college applications. I walk the dogs on our street, hyper aware of keeping them under control. Just one lizard, and things could end badly.

It’s exhausting. Today has been my most pain free day. It’s a five. On the morning dog walk we saw the nasty man again. He started up with me and from 20 feet away, I told him i would be happy to talk about our interaction yesterday, but that I didn’t want his negativity. This gave him pause and he finally stopped yelling at me. I ended the encounter by wishing him a good day.

Watching the teenagers play their hearts out at the US Open, I will rest on my sofa, and resume my icing. Gotta keep those Bone Menders well hydrated and busy. They have lots on their platelets.

ThreeThings

They say bad things happen in threes.

First bad thing;10 days ago, Percy, our little corgi, ate a plastic mass that obstructed her small intestine. She had emergency surgery, resulting in a belly incision that runs the length of her long body.

Second bad thing: on Wednesday of last week I fell trying to avoid a pickle ball line drive headed my way. It knocked me off my feet. I put my hand back to catch myself and shattered the radius bone in my wrist into smitherines. I was put into a ridiculously rigid uncomfortable temporary cast that captured my elbow after sobbing for two hours in excruciating pain at the ER with no meds.

Third bad thing: one day later, on Thursday, my mom died after a horrible decline and complicated situation at her board and care home.

I spent the weekend zonked on pain, drugs, and grief. Unable to do the things i usually do to manage stress in my life— walk the dogs and write— I let my wife and daughter take care of me, watching the two loves of my life step up to offer comfort and support.

They did a great job with a difficult to say the least patient. Once the Orthopedic surgeon I visited on Friday told me I couldn’t take CBD with some THC to ease my distress.because of the CBD’s anti-coagulate properties, my mood darkened.

The weekend is a bit of a haze. I spoke to friends and family, trashed my stomach with Advil, joined the opioid crisis by taking hydromorphine that barely seemed to touch my pain, gathered my mother’s things from her place, and cried frequently. The dogs licked my tears and wondered why I was not taking them out on their usual frolics throughout Marin.

Today is Monday, actually now Tuesday, and it is 2 am and I can’t sleep, after returning home from my day spent in outpatient surgery.

My right arm is completely numb from a block the surgeon, a smart Jewish woman from Long Beach with 2 sons who go to our local middle school, instructed the anesthesiologist to put into my IV. The arm and hand feels as dead as my dead mother.

When i got into bed tonight and took the casted arm out of its sling, it flopped away and I panicked. I thought i had lost my arm. Pat thought I was kidding but I was not. “Enough with the loss metaphors,” I text my therapist, using the index finger on my left hand..

Wait, I can still use my left hand! So, does this mean that good things also happen in threes?

First good thing: I can use my dominant left hand. I must be patient with how long the simplest things take me— buttoning my shirt, getting toilet paper from the roll, trying to make food, using my iPhone and computer. There must be something spiritual and good about slowing down but I’m not yet a believer.

Second good thing: i have many people around who love and understand me. My family and friends and support professionals never cease to amaze me with their kindness, resourcefulness, tolerance, insight, and humor. I am used to being in charge, and being extremely competent and efficient, traits I learned from my mother. I do not gracefully accept my disabilities or limitations, and though I feel profoundly grateful for all the help that is coming my way. I’m working on the grace and acceptance parts. I will hug little Sue with love and compassion.

Third good thing: I know that I have been a kind loving daughter to my mother and I have not an ounce of Jewish guilt nor regret.. Because of the dementia and my mother’s unique deficits in the nurturing department, i have been a mo better mother to her than she was to me. But I still love and respect the many facets of her— her intellect, independence, take charge attitude, honesty, sense of humor, willingness to challenge sex role stereotypes, commitment to my dad and our family,

My mom and my relationship with her is complicated and I’ll continue to spend hours in therapy and in my writing unpacking it because I just will. As I look at my daughter, and watch how she has metabolized my example of daughtering and mothering, i know this is all worth the effort.

Sophie returns to Boston tomorrow.. Pat will fly there on Thursday to help her move in to her new studio apartment. I will stay home with the dogs and the dog sitter, who will also keep an eye on me.

I will focus on taking of care of myself and my healing. My bones will mend with a little assistance from a titanium plate newly embedded in my radius. Titanium, is a lustrous silver colored metal that is low density, and high strength. It is resistant to corrosion and is considered a transition chemical. To close with one more metaphor, as I breathe into the pain, this too shall pass.

Approaching death

My mom nailed her Hospice by the Bay interview.

Peter, the good looking millennial admitting nurse spent an hour talking to me, my sister Jamie, and Pilar, the extraordinary caregiver and founder of Shalom House, a group home for people with dementia. He asked several questions intended to qualify my mom for the Medicare funded range of hospice services.

Then he asked to speak directly to my mom, who slumped in her wheelchair at the dining room table, eyes closed, right arm shaking. We believe that she suffered a series of TIAS, or mini strokes this week, bringing her to a new level of dysfunction, unable to move, speak more than a word, or eat more than a few bites of soft food with assistance.

“Hello, my name is Peter,” he said leaning in, his face close to hers. “Can you tell me your first and last name?”

No response. He asked again. Nothing.

“Mom, can you open your eyes and meet Peter. He’s here to help us.”

She manages to open her eyes and looks for a second at Peter, who repeats, “What is your first and last name?

“Sexy,” she says and we all crack up.  

“Sexy” Zemel qualified for hospice services. Within a day, I received calls and met with members of her support team including her nurse, Casey, a social worker Katerina, and Rabbi Miriam, our spiritual counselor.  From my intense conversations with each of them, ranging from understanding how to make decisions about discontinuing medications, to honoring our cultural Jewish roots and practicing loving kindness in the face of death, to identifying mortuary services,  I am sure that we are in good hands.

Though I have witnessed family and friends utilizing hospice services, this is the first time I have been so intimately involved.  I am greatly relieved.   Providing pain and symptom management, and care and comfort to patients, their families, and caregivers, is the mission of this organization that has been around in Marin for 44 years.   

End of life – these people have seen a lot of endings and know what to do.  For the past few months I have been using an app on my iPhone called “WeCroak.”  It randomly sends me  5 quotes per day, all reminding me that we are going to die. The creators of the app decided on the number 5 because in Bhutan “they say that contemplating death five times daily brings happiness.”

I enjoy this antidote to the bad news barrage of other social media.  Reading words from writers, thinkers, and spiritual leaders about death keeps life real and grounds me as I navigate this transition with my mom.  My own mantra this week has been “embrace fragility, accept uncertainty.”  

Dying is one incredible process to witness and experience.  We don’t talk about it nearly enough.  Nor do we discuss ambiguous loss and dementia, though this robber of a disease has stolen so much from so many families.  Often what I’ve experienced with my mom this past ten years has left me feeling very alone and sad.   I am still very sad but feeling less alone as we make this journey towards her death. 

In the Nowness

I sit in the sunshine with Shirley, whose eyelids flutter, then shut like the yellow dogface butterflies that flit about the peonies planted in pots on the patio outside her bedroom at Shalom House.

Her royal blue shirt matches her eye color, and her white silver hair curls feathersoft on each side of her head that tilts a bit to the right. She relaxes as Frank Sinatra croons from my iPhone.

She’s in this dementia fugue state more often than not. Today, I attempt to engage her in a game of War, one of the first card games she taught me and I played with my daughter when she was a toddler.

“What card game did your parents like to play? Poker?” I ask even though I know the answer. Sometimes I can reach into her past and pluck a memory for her like a fragrant flower.

She shakes her head yes, as I turn over the cards in her pile. I end up playing both hands, so honestly, I’m not sure who actually won. A fierce competitor, my mom liked to win. She was a lousy loser. With time I’ve learned to be a gracious loser but I too prefer winning; more importantly I give a game my all if it interests me. I invest more in the process than the outcome.

Shirley rests in the sunshine, with so little cognition left that she can no longer do simple puzzles, speak sentences, or sing the lyrics to the songs etched in her failing brain. I ask her if she is comfortable and she once again slowly nods. I stroke her arm and take her hand in mine.

I examine her face closely, marveling at the smoothness of her skin. and wonder where in the world she has drifted off to. I softly ask if she’d like to leave the planet but she doesn’t open her eyes, nod, or answer my question that is more a suggestion. I look again to make sure she is breathing. She is.

I wonder what her death will look like. Will she slip away in her sleep? Will her brain stop sending instructions to her body? How much more can she possibly lose? What is she waiting for?

I think a lot about her dying, about her life, and how she has arrived at a place that is defined by deficits. Memory, language, mobility, ability, identity, these all elude my once smart, stubborn, in-charge mother, as she struggles to do most everything. Without her caretakers, she surely would die.

They tell me that my mom wakes sometimes in the night and cries out for help. But she can’t say what she needs, and once reassured, she falls back to sleep.

Some days I can hardly muster the strength to simply sit beside her. But I do it. I am present and kind and gentle with her, with myself, for her, for my father, for my family.

Witnessing this long descent into dementia hell has tested my patience, flooded me with anxiety, and racked me with sorrow. But here I sit with her, in a moment of acceptance, the sun on my face, reminding myself to just be here in the nowness. For my mom the now is what she has left.

Henrietta's Closeup

I sit on a lawn chair in a hay carpeted shed with Henrietta, a large brown hog, at my side, and a renowned portrait artist, Brenda Zlamany seated directly across from me, peering into her Camera Lucida, a drawing aid that performs an optical superimposition of the subject being viewed.

“This one is from the 40’s,” explains the slight dark curly haired woman dressed in black jeans, now smudged with dirt. “I could replace it, but…”

Brenda, a city gal from Brooklyn, has never had a close encounter with a hog; she’s nervous that Henrietta might destroy her delicate piece of camera equipment. I reassure her and distract Henrietta with a carrot. From the sketch she quickly makes, Brenda will paint Henrietta and me with watercolors; this portrait will be included in a project Brenda is doing about the impact of climate change on people’s lives.

Brenda, who brands herself “the Itinerant Portraitist” is visiting Goatlandia, one of several stops in her exploration of the devastating Sonoma fires. She’s studying how Californians live with the effects of climate change induced threats. When she’s done with us, she’ll conduct her final interview and make a portrait of the Fire Chief of Sonoma County; she'll pack up her paints and proceed to her next destination, Alaska. She'll be painting portraits of Inuit whalers in Utqiagvik and of scientists and park rangers in Denali National Park.

Through portraiture and video interviews that will later be edited for a documentary film, Brenda gives context and meaning to social and environmental justice issues. She captures the faces of people (and now, pigs), collecting narratives that both inspire and inhabit each portrait. The collaboration between artist and subject that Brenda facilitates results in something remarkable.

Her work is not just a rendering of a person -- it becomes part of a story, an exchange that belongs to something larger, something that she hopes will move people to care deeply and perhaps take action about issues such as climate change. “We’ve gotten so used to and numbed by the media images,” she explains. She is interested in slowing things down and providing a richer perspective through her art. 

I talk to Brenda about how my experience at Goatlandia has helped me counter the despair I feel about the state of the world; I explain how caring for these creatures soothes my soul and sparks joy. I think about the sign I pass on 101 when I drive home from the animal sanctuary that declares, “Sonoma, we will rise from the ashes.”

Before our session in the shed is over, Henrietta places her snout into Brenda’s palette of watercolors.

Laughing, I grab Brenda’s iPhone, and start videoing the curious hog and the artist interacting.  “I’ve never had an experience like this one,” Brenda declares as she wipes “pig slime” from the top corner of her paper.  

Some of Brenda’s past projects include traveling throughout China, painting portraits of aboriginal Taiwanese teenagers and over 888 Chinese people. She’s created 100 portraits of 100-year-olds at the Hebrew National Home in New York, painting and talking with many Holocaust survivors.  She has received a Fulbright grant to pursue her artistic globetrotting, and later when I check out her web site (brendazlamany.com), I am blown away by the beauty and humanity of her work.

“And now you’re here at Goatlandia, where we also have stories of survivors,” I observe. I describe how as a runt, Henrietta was thrown into a fire by an abusive farmer, and then saved by the founders of Goatlandia. I show her a photo of Henrietta as a baby, wearing a t-shirt reading “Pants Optional,” that protected the burnt skin on her back. I tell Brenda how Alana and Deborah rescued a large herd of goats during the Camp Fire.  

She remarks on the calm and peaceful vibe at Goatlandia, marveling at how the animals interact seamlessly across species. To punctuate the point, a rooster pops into the shed to check out what we’re up to, and then the Hog sisters amble in, wondering why they aren’t being included in the portrait. I reward Henrietta with an apple, as she has been such a willing participant.

We talk for a while on the porch as Brenda continues to paint  -- about our daughters, about the power of storytelling, about art and writing. “Goya painted animals,” Brenda says.  “Did he do pigs?” I ask, delighting at the image of Henrietta she has captured.  Me, I am looking pretty intense in the portrait, but that’s not surprising. 

Brenda promises to send me an image of the finished portrait and then hurries off to her next meeting because what was supposed to take 20 minutes has turned into three hours.  She waves goodbye from behind the wheel of her rental car; inspired by this interaction, I return to raking goat poop. Another unexpected day at Goatlandia.

Spit Gel

When I look at Greer, I feel the force and fancy of her grandmother.  Kathy, my wife Patricia’s older sister, is present in the essence of our niece Kristen’s baby girl, who wears her name,  Greer Kathleen, like a multicolored polka dotted romper. 

Our broken hearts heal just a bit when we hold Greer close. She leans in, relaxed in the crook of my arm. She watches everything, so attentive; I can almost see the synapses forming in her baby brain. Her small chin is determined, her blue eyes so bright. She smells like the promise of apple blossoms and summertime. 

How lucky am I to breathe her in, when her grandma cannot; I exhale a moment of grief, then take a steady breath, grateful for this baby girl.

My sister-in-law, who left the planet far before we were ready, faithfully convened the Keaney family at the Jersey Shore every summer for years at a house that did not survive Hurricane Sandy.  On this Memorial Day weekend, Kathy’s oldest daughter, Kristen graciously steps in to fill those awesome sandals; she gathers us at her comfortable home in the suburbs of New Jersey for her childrens’ birthday party.

Our nieces, the Shala Sisters, Kristen, Katlin, and Karen, have grown to be such kind, funny  enterprising, creative young women. They pitch in and they support each other in substantive ways. Their mom, Kathy would be pleased to see them in action, surrounded by loving partners and friends. 

Greer is busy as a honeybee; she scoots about, holding a stuffed Micky in each small fist, focused and intentional as she fetches a third Micky from inside a tepee. When she catches a rolling yellow ball, she quietly squeals her delight. Low-key, yet energetic, she makes her way to a small ladder in the kitchen where she pulls herself up to a standing position. She bounces gleefully, up and down in place.

Later, she will applaud herself, clapping her tiny hands together because she remembers or doesn’t remember this feat. She is so pleased. Pleased much of the time, she is a delicious  piece of pleasantness.

She is passed with reverence, among the women in her world: her supremely competent multitasking mom; her dedicated grandma Maryanne, whose daughters Meghan and Erin delight in their contented niece; her great aunt Maureen, who fills the room with her big heart and keen mind; her cousin, Stephanie, Mo’s sweet and smart daughter, who scooted down the green hillside in Vermont, much in the same way that Greer now moves; and the bubbly 80-year old cousins, Margaret and Theresa, who still speak with lovely lilting  Irish brogues, even though they emigrated from Leitrim as teenagers.

Celebrating  Level 1, her first year,  Greer, carried amongst partygoers, takes in the crowd with poise and equanimity. Her big brother Nolan Stanley, entering Level 4, a whip-smart and willful guy, plays with the rough and tumble boys he loves from across the street. He manages to navigate all the excitement, sometimes taking a moment alone, or touching in with his reassuring mom and dad as he approaches melt down.

At night I read to Nolan in bed as he gently touches my curls. We both appreciate a good book. 

At his birthday breakfast the next morning when he turned his head, his profile reminded me of his Grandfather Stan, Kathy’s husband. Stan the Man also left the planet before he could meet his grandkids. I miss my steadfast brother-in-law, whom I called my beloved unlikely friend. Nolan is so fortunate to have such a devoted dad, Ryan, and a wonderfully patient grandfather Rich, to help him become a good man.

This family has endured huge losses and has enjoyed enormous love. When I am surrounded by the Keaney women, by my wife, her sister, our nieces, now our great-niece, I appreciate all the intelligence, creativity, humor, and kindness possessed by these women, who all share the same rare mitochondrial maternal DNA, Haplogroup X1. Their capacity for happiness and sadness, their strength and goodness of being, their connectedness, their perseverance, and ability to enjoy a good laugh inspires me.

One afternoon, I watched in amused horror as Nolan generously spit into his hands and rubbed a mess of saliva into his hair announcing that he was using “Spit Gel.”  “Where did you learn this? You use only a little spit and even that is disgusting,” I opine. He is unfazed, not a hair out of place.  

When his Aunt Katie arrived for breakfast wearing a lovely off the shoulder black and bright flowered print dress, he asked, “Why are you naked?”  This kid is going to be something, I think.

Three generations, I don’t know where the time goes; I came to New Jersey over thirty years ago for the christening of Patricia’s middle niece, Kaitlin. When a priest asked Pat, the godmother, to renounce Satan at the ceremony, I looked at her in utter dismay.  What kind of mishugenah question was that?  

Now here we  are, attending a party for the new generation. How can this be? But I am comforted by this clan — the continuity, the flow of it all, the recognition of my dear departed relatives in the shiny faces of Greer and Nolan.  Stan and Kathy did good. 

Reunion Redux

Last night, I got revved up after two hours of conversing with Beth to whom I last spoke when I was about 15 years old.  Back then in the suburbs of Denver, in a tightly knit Jewish community, her  family curiously mirrored mine. She had an exceptionally kind Jewish pharmacist dad (who she described as having saved  her life...ditto) and a smart crazy mom who was as harsh, controlling, and unfiltered as my mother.  Beth was one of my older sister’s frenemies, and I always liked and admired her, especially her intelligence.   

Recently, I have been reconnecting with people from my past and these encounters have blown me away by their richness and resonance. I am energized by lively exchanges with my complicated and self aware Jewish peers.  I like learning about their life trajectories and marvel at how unchanged they are,  and also how consistent I am — still the creative intellectual queer funny hippy athlete that Beth and others remember me as being. 

My friends’ lives have turned out to be well lived, not always easy, after all, our Ashkenazi genes have occasionally brought us to our knees; high achievers, anxious and intense, we all keep moving forward with our critical and questioning minds. 

I love hurtling into the present without missing a beat — because what connected us back then somehow connects us now. I feel fluid and light as a time traveler, vibrating with a feeling of authenticity and continuity. Time compresses, converges, and expands in these conversations that cover so much ground; yet we plant ourselves in the soil of what matters  most to us— our families; our work; our passions. 

Maybe this is a bonus of growing old, to have the time to engage in the  art of reflective connection. My dad modeled this magnificently. He used to pick up the phone, talk deeply to his childhood friend Al, or his college roommate Hank, or the ex-detective Rick, he played tennis with in his early 50’s. He held his people close over his lifetime.  He always asked me who I stayed in touch with, implying that I would greatly benefit from doing so. He was right. 

Beth, a MIT educated Radiologist, it turns out, lives in the South Bay with her Ophlamologist Pickle ball playing husband of thirty five years.  (Since I have  just taken up the sport myself  I hope to wrangle an invitation to play on their court — yes,  oddly enough they have one). She has 3 grown kids who have challenged her considerably but now that their brains have developed  they seem to doing quite well.  She just sold her medical practice, works part time because she loves doctoring, and hikes, bikes, and travels. When she tells me that she still loves to ski, I tell her we are definitely going! She wants to write a few books, one about choosing medical professionals and the other a memoir.  I talk about my writing practice and coaching and encourage her to make time for writing as I sense that this woman has some great stories to publish.

“Even now when I see my mother she tells me that I look horrible with no makeup and she wants to drag me into Nordstrom’s to buy decent clothes. She is profoundly disappointed in me,” Beth confides. “Oh Beth, I’m sorry, “ I say. “My mom’s dementia in many ways made her nicer, but she was so mean and judgmental. Clearly, none of her daughters met her expectations. Oh well. Not our problem.”

We laugh, intimate with this brand of inflicted damage,  and we agree to share mother/daughter, and pharmacist father stories when we get together, which I hope will be soon.

“There was a pill in my family for everything,” Beth remembered and I told her about the huge garbage bags full of drugs we removed from my parent’s house when my dad died.  And then we were off talking for another half hour.  Honestly, I don’t know how we managed to get off the phone call.