A Touch Here or There

Anyone who has ever cared for a senior citizen on a daily basis will tell you, if he's honest, that it's dadgum hard. In fact, it's exhausting and frustrating. For the caregivers AND the senior. For the caregivers, it taxes their patience and energy. For the senior, it robs them of their security and independence. When we're having a particularly difficult day with Papa T., I try to remind myself that he doesn't want to be weak and dependent, and I try to imagine what it's like to walk in his aged shoes. It must be scary to lose your memory, and I can only imagine how frustrating it is to lose your ability to do simple math or to see or hear clearly. I fully understand why there are days when he's downright difficult or surly. I'd probably be mad too, if I couldn't find the bathroom when I know it's just yards away in a house I've lived in for years. Those thoughts and a deep breath (or two or three) help me to find the patience I need on those troubling days, which don't outnumber the good days, but they are certainly gaining ground. There are enough of them that when an especially good day rolls around it seems special.


Monday night, I sat with Papa T. so Hubby could have a poker night with his buddies. It had been weeks since Hubby and the boys had gotten together for their "me" time, and it was something Hubby needed desperately. For a few hours, I sat with Papa T., and we ate dinner and caught up on some routine things, like trimming his fingernails and reading aloud the monthly magazine about the University of Kentucky Wildcats, the Cats' Pause. He's a huge Big Blue fan, so he soaks up every word of that magazine. The reading aloud duties fall to me because Hubby and Teen Angel hate reading aloud, and Papa T. says they don't enunciate well. Because I don't often have many opportunities to read to him, we usually have more than one edition to read per session, and it takes a while. So, for quite a while we read stats and articles about the players, most of which I have little interest in but have learned quite a bit about during these reading sessions. It's starting to rub off a little, I think. Don't tell anyone, but I flipped the TV over to the game the other night to catch the tail end of it. I'd like to pretend that it's just because I wanted to know the outcome so I could talk intelligently about it with Papa T., but alas, I really just wanted to see them win. I've also been watching the Murray State games in snippets, too, but I'm blaming that on the fact that I'm a Murray alum. Surely, I'm not falling under the spell of this thing they call college basketball?

Anyway, we eventually got around to trimming his fingernails, which also falls to me because Hubby can't seem to tell the difference between the nail and the nail bed. (I like to sum up my care giving duties as the Three F's: food, finances and fingernails.) Papa T's fingernails grow like crazy, so he and I have a little trimming session every couple of weeks. I pulled an ottoman up to his recliner and grabbed his hand. The skin was soft and wrinkled, signs of someone who retired from a desk job years ago. They've long lost the traces of his years spent working on the farm. I pulled his hand close and started working, and as I did, it suddenly occurred to me that it was one of the few methods of touch he receives on a regular basis. Oh, he gets touch through hugs from Teen Angel but he's not one to hug adults. We hold his arm when trying to lead him somewhere, but we don't do a lot of that because we and he are trying to keep him as independent as possible for as long as possible, and that means sometimes letting him find his own way. Mama J. is gone, and so is her touch for him. His isolation has left him in an environment where the contact with people's voices, presence and touch is gradually diminishing. It was a light bulb moment for me, and I got lost in that moment as he told me a story I no longer heard, and Wheel of Fortune rumbled softly on the TV behind me.

I thought about him. I thought about age. I thought about my age and how quickly I will be in his shoes. And I wandered if the same thing will happen to me. And I wondered how often I forget that he needs the touch of human hands, arms and faces. I forget that too often, I think. I refocused on our conversation, slowing down the work, realizing that it wasn't a job that should be rushed. I took my time, turning each finger gently, holding his hand for as long as possible and filing his nails with great care when I was finished with the clippers. Filing for much longer than necessary really. And I listened.

Our conversation drifted to the trip to Europe with Teen Angel, and he started asking me to describe things there he'd never seen and would never be able to see. "What's the Mona Lisa like?" he softly asked. "Smaller than you'd think," I said. I described the room in the Louvre in which it hangs, the crush of people squeezing in to see her behind the glass case and her delightful smile. I told him of the beauty of the Venus De Milo and how close you can stand to her. I described the construction of the Eiffel Tower and what it's like to stand at the top and witness a rainbow stretching from one side of Paris to another. He asked about the other art museums, and I told him about the beauty of the Orsay and the wonder of Monet's Water Lilies at the L'Orangerie. I tried to find words adequate enough to relay the beauty of the stained glass in St. Chappelle Cathedral and how it takes your breath away to stand in the midst of it. I let him ask the questions, and I added tidbits I thought he'd find interesting. He nodded from time to time with an occasional, "Hmm," or a smile. At some point, I told myself, "You will always remember this evening, Hula. When he's gone and even before then, you will remember this conversation." We wrapped up when his overnight sitter came through the door, bustling in with her bags and shouting greetings from the front door all the way into the den where we sat. The magic of the evening was broken with her arrival.

In the past week or so I've been trying to decide what I want to give up for Lent. I've considered several things and haven't been able to settle on one particular item. It certainly wasn't going to be cake. I did that one time, and it was the longest month of my life. I couldn't concentrate on being God-like because I was too busy trying not to gnaw off my fingers. Deprivation does not work for me. Besides, that's not really what Lent is about. As I listened to the Ash Wednesday service at lunch today it finally occurred to me that I shall focus on the human touch throughout Lent. Using it to connect with people who really need it, especially Papa T.. It could be as simple as the grasp of a hand, a touch on the arm when talking or just a pat on the back. I'm not talking about invading someone's space or making him feel uncomfortable. I'm just thinking that it wouldn't hurt to be more affectionate with those who seem to really need it, especially the elderly or the lonely. Perhaps with enough practice it will become a habit. And perhaps it will give me more patience with Papa T. And Hubby. And Teen Angel. I think it's important at this stage we're in right now, and I'm not sure I can adequately explain why. It's significance is a little harder to describe than the Mona Lisa.

I Hear That Train a Comin'

I need your help. Each month, at our local photography club meeting, we do a photo challenge. There is a different theme each month, and we each bring a picture that is our best interpretation of that theme. I love the challenge. It inspires me, and I love seeing everyone's different perspectives on the same subject. Often, I look at the pictures and say, "Hula, why didn't you think of that?"


The March theme is "Fixed Object", specifically the train that sits downtown near our floodwall. Our submissions have to feature that train (or one other landmark in our community that I found to be very uninspiring. After two visits to that train, I have now shot it from 1,683 angles. I'm not sure I'm done. I should be done. But I'm probably not. I should just stop right now, but I have another week or so for a few last shots. The perfectionist in me is never satisfied. Also? I'd be less than honest if I didn't admit that I'm so darn competitive, I can't stand that I haven't won a ribbon in those challenges in several months. I know it's just a ribbon, but remember, you're looking at the gal who slid six feet across the deck of a cruise ship on her butt to win a plastic ship on a stick. Oh, we all have our weaknesses. Anyway, I can't decide which pictures, among the ones I've shot so far, I want to turn in. And that's where you come in.

I've learned in the last year or so that what appeals to me in photography is often very different than what other folks like. Sometimes, I just fall in love with a picture and then find myself really disappointed when everyone else looks at it and says, "Meh." So, peruse the photos and tell me which one you like best and why. And tell me your second favorite. If you don't like any of them, that's okay, too. I'd like to know why. Be honest. I'm looking for good feedback.

You won't see a photo of the whole train because, frankly, I was trying to avoid that. I specifically avoided obvious shots that I thought others might submit. I'm trying to stretch my skills this year in some very specific ways, so I limited my options when shooting the train. I'm interested to see how the opinions of the locals who are familiar with this train compares to those who have never seen it. And I need several opinions, so if you usually just lurk and run, then today's the day to leave a comment for a change. Vote and then run. Thanks, brothers and sisters. At this point, I'd do my best imitation of a train whistle if I could. But alas, I'm a whistling failure, so a big "Toot, too!" will have to do.  Oh, and for the locals, yes, I am well aware of the big signs all over that train that ask you not to climb on it. 



Quotography-"Weather"

I hate winter, except for the fact that every now and then it gives me a cool picture.  Other than that, I find no use for ice, snow and temperatures below 60 degrees. 

Pop on over here to check out everyone else's entries.  Even better, sign up to participate.



Photo Friday Challenge-"Eat"

Okay, I know those of you who stop by here regularly have seen this one, but I can't help posting it again.  It just fits the theme too well.   If only, we all relished everyday joys as much as little J. savored this ice cream cone.  It was her first ice cream cone ever by the way.  I love how she just dove in with her whole face.

For the other wonderful entries, click here.  Oh, and go have an ice cream this weekend.  It's good for you.  Kind of.

Sun Flare!

Right now, I have close to 15,000 pictures in my archives. Yeah, chew on that for a moment. What that means is I need a lot of storage space for those files. To a lesser extent, it means I sometimes forget what I have, and it is a nice surprise when I stumble across a favorite image I didn't remember. I have 957 pictures from our trip to Europe, and one day I hope to get them all cleaned up and select some of them for a Shutterfly book about our little adventure. If I do one picture a day, maybe I'll get them finished before the Duggar's quit having babies. As it is, I work on a few every six weeks or so, get busy and stop.


Until this week, it had been about three months since I had looked at them closely. And aside from some early favorites of the Eiffel Tower, the Palace of Versailles and a few of the sites of London, I had forgotten what else was in that folder. Lo and behold, I stumbled across this little jewel. It's from the front of Notre Dame Cathedral.

I'd like to thank the sun for cooperating that day. And for the invention called external hard drives.

I Love it When my Family Gives me Blog Fodder

This is the picture Teen Angel texted me today.

It's the jar Teen Angel placed on the kitchen counter today.  I like it.  I'm in.  She tells me so far we have about a dollar.  That means we can afford a beverage out of the vending machines in the Metro or a trip to a public toilet.  But not both.

Be Mine

A gal couldn't ask for a better Valentine.  Besides, no one else would put up with my nonsense.  Or my ancient flannel pajamas with the stains on the top.