Doctor Speak

Why can't doctors call a spade a spade? Why do they call it a digging tool, a shovel, a trowel, when, let's be honest, it's a damn spade.

Why can't doctors say the word cancer, instead of calling it a mass, a tumor, a growth? Say the 'C' word and let the shock settle, let the talk begin as to how to deal with it.

And when someone is approaching the end of their life, give the family some honest answers, it's not as if they want your time frame written in blood, it's an estimate, not something that can be predicted, as no one can predict the strength of the human spirit.

Writing about the day my Mom died, and reading of another's personal experience, reminded me of the day Mom and I went to see the oncologist.

Mom was in Week 2 of radiation treatment, and was seeing an oncologist for the first time. As I was in Florida, and would soon be returning to Canada, I needed to know what Mom's status was. Being a nurse, I was given some professional courtesy, some frank talk.

The doctor said, and I can quote as it's etched in my memory, "without chemo, she has about 2-3 weeks, and she's too weak for chemo".

That doctor was right on the money, within 2 weeks, Mom was in the hospital, and within days, was gone.

Too many times health care professionals talk around situations, and with an uneducated patient (and I mean medically uneducated) there can be many misunderstandings. Add in the hierarchy, of who gives the patient the information, and this time I mean doctor as opposed to nurse, there's all sorts of room for confusion in an already emotional situation.

Too much precious time can be lost because people don't understand that a trowel is just another word for a spade.

I Remember the Day

I'm not one that usually dwells on dates, especially for the day a loved one died. But with my parents it's a little different.

I always think of my Dad on his birthday, which is within days of Father's Day, and also is the day he died. It's always a bit of the happy, remembering a great father on his special day, and the sad, that he was taken too soon.


With my Mom, I can never think of this holiday weekend without remembering her and the day she died. Funny, how the events of August 2 still stand out so clearly in my mind. Some of that s guilt, because I never made it to Florida to say goodbye in person.

 I carry way too much guilt around, even after all these years, that my dedication to my job, my sense of responsibility to those in my care, sometimes took precedence over family.

My mother was diagnosed with a brain tumor in June, a secondary cancer, first being the lung. My brother and his wife were in Florida, helped her through the set up and scheduling of her radiation. My kids and I went in early July, and for a couple of weeks, taxied her to her treatments and to the oncologist.When we left, my sister took over for the next week.

She was very weak, and it was like that old cartoon, "I've fallen and I can't get up". She entered hospital on a Thursday. My brother and I, living in Canada, made arrangements to go back down, he on the holiday weekend, and me on the Wednesday after.

This is where the guilt comes in. I was the in-charge/on-call person for three long term care facilities. My supervisor was returning to work after her holidays on Tuesday, August 2, and I was planning to give her my report, go home, pack, and leave the next morning.

While in my office, clearing my desk, the phone rang. It was my mother, calling from the hospital. She didn't make a lot of sense, but the I love you's came across clear and strong. My brother apologized for dropping such an emotional call on me at work, but Mom had insisted she speak with me and he felt it was better to call, to calm her down.

Needless to say, I was an emotional wreck. I went to see my boss, who was also a friend, and she took over, taking care of everything. She took my plane ticket, called the airlines and changed my departure to that afternoon. She even arranged for a rental car to be available in Tampa when I landed.

My daughter, bless her heart, threw all my stuff in my suitcase, picked me up at work and drove me directly to the airport. Next thing I knew I was on a plane, flying first to Atlanta, then on to Tampa.

I held it together until we changed planes in Atlanta. When I was seated, waiting for take off, they played this video of all these lovely nature scenes, with appropriate music. I started to cry and couldn't stop. A woman sitting across from me was very kind, and expressed some concern that I would be driving, late, and in what would be the dark, inland to where my mother lived. I admit it was a worry for me too.

It was not to be a problem. As I was heading to the car rental booth, I heard my name called, and when I turned, there was my brother. I knew as soon as I saw him that I was too late.

We had an interesting conversation as to how he finally learned I was on my way early. As his wife had arranged all our tickets, he knew when I was flying down, and when he called work, couldn't understand why my boss kept saying I was already gone. I think their discussion got a little heated, understandable given the high emotions.

At any rate I didn't have to make the drive alone, and my brother and I were able to talk.

So, on this day, I'm remembering my Mom, love you and miss you always.

I'm remembering my great take charge friend Marg B.

And I remember and always appreciate the brother who has never let me down, and has always been there for me.  Love you too, baby brother.

Art, Learned at Home

There was always art in our house growing up. My mother was a gifted artist, mostly in oils in those younger years. Mom had a basement studio, and taught art lessons at home.

I'm not sure when I started to draw, or paint, but I remember some of those earlier times, trying out oils. I guess it was when I went away to school, where there was no convenient art studio, that I realized how important art was to me.

After nursing school (I know, how far from art could that be, long story) I married and moved to a small town.

My next venture into something creative was pottery, and then macrame. After having two kids in two years, I was pretty busy, working part time, living on a farm and taking care of family.

Skipping forward, I realize I always did something creative, always self taught, always moving on to something new. I found my way back to painting, but not oils. I tried watercolors, was a dismal failure, then went on to mixed media collage, which is still my favorite medium.

I play with other, what I guess are crafts, knitting, crocheting, and have diddled with ceramics, photography and jewelry making. I had always written poetry, and nine years ventured into more serious writing. Art and writing are my sanity, and I need them to stay steady.

So, what is strange, is that neither of my children have shown any real interest in art or craft. There was a time my son was interested in photography, but work and family intervened before he got invested in it.

The closest my daughter has come to any interest in art is decorating. Something creative.

This week she attended a Paint Party. I guess you go, and as a group, are taken through the steps to creating a painting. Everybody doing the same painting, selecting their own colors, maybe putting a bit of their own flair into it. Sounds like more of a social event than a true art thing, but from all reports, everyone has a good time.

I'm sharing my daughter's effort, which she couldn't wait to share with me. It brought a tear to my eye, my daughter, the artist. Oddly enough, she'd do it again, so maybe there is some artistic talent there, hidden all these years.

I think not, I think it's the social, and maybe the adult beverages, but whatever works.

The Long, Hot, Summer

Although this may be an apt description of our weather, I'm thinking more of the movie.

Made in 1958, the movie The Long Hot Summer starred Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. It's set in the south, the bayous of Louisiana, where the summers are indeed long and hot.

I loved watching all these old movies, originally filmed in black and white. This was a favorite with my Dad and I, along with all the Errol Flynn swashbuckler movies.

I searched and found a number of clips. Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward were married later that year, and had one of the most successful marriages that Hollywood ever saw.

Here's a clip to remind you how good some of those old movies really were.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=brbP9gILCOg

So Now What?

I wrote some weeks ago about those people who feed my addictions, I call them enablers. Every time I think I'm getting my yarn stash thinned down and organized, I get a 'gift' of more yarn.

This last donation was new, large, skeins of cotton yarn, so more than just scraps. and along with the cotton were two balls each of a green and brown, very soft, but finer than my usual worsted weight. The colors weren't what I would use for hats, so what to do, what to do.

I decided to make a few Loveys, baby blankets with a stuffed animal head. A snugglie and toy all in one. First it was a cat and a dog from the brown, then a cat in green. After that it was like I was on a quest. I dug out all my leftover yarn, mixed and matched colors, found a better pattern for making a teddy bear head, and I was on a tear.

After giving three as gifts, I still have eleven left. And again, I ask, what to do, what to do.

People say I should sell them, but that begs the question, where? If I started to make some other things I might get enough made to do the round of bazaars in the fall, but that takes such effort. Not the creating, but the packing up, setting up a display, manning a booth, and dragging the leftovers back home. And did I mention, I have no storage space to spare.

I create to create, to make things that make people happy, that they can use. If I make a few bucks at the same time,okay, but I don't want to get involved in all this bazaar stuff again. Last time it wore me out, and as much as there seemed to be positive comments, I didn't sell out.

I've decided to donate all the Loveys to the women's shelter. I think if there were small children, away from home, in a strange environment, maybe they would like a new toy, something soft and huggable, something just for them.

 So, next time I'm out, I'm taking them to the shelter.