Retirement Revisted

This is a piece I wrote from a writing prompt on retirement. My gal pals (Debbie and Lori) and I get together once a week and write about whatever comes to mind, starting with prompts that Debbie gives us. It's always fun to read what we come up with. Sometimes, we write memoir pieces; other times we go off into fantasy land and write fiction. I'm thankful that I have made so many wonderful friends on the island, especially my writing group gals! 

Retirement Revisited

We were about to enjoy the last years of our lives, visiting parts of the U.S. that we had never seen before, eating at local pubs and diners where the town folk eat, and taking photos for our memory albums. That’s all Bill wanted to do after he retired. Travel and dine out.  

Bill at Museum

  

Clowning Around Taking photos

It wasn’t all I wanted to do, but I enjoy these things too. I could still craft, read, write, walk in the park, and do the things I enjoy when we were home. So, for me, life was going to be good. We had enough money to live comfortably and enjoy our retirement. Just a simple life with simple plans. 

Visiting a Bird Sanctuary

But that simple plan failed. Instead of traveling and dining in the U.S., Bill is now dining in a memory care unit in Houston, Texas. Instead of making new memories, Bill is desperately trying to remember whether he has Army Reserve drills this weekend or flying the police helicopter out of Dover, Delaware. Is he fixing computers in Tulsa, Oklahoma, or taking photos in Virginia Beach? Some days, he’s trying to remember how to get to work. Other days, he thinks he remembers that he owns this memory care unit. Where did that come from? I have no idea. He had been a man of many talents, but he had never owned his own business. 

 

And me? I sit here in Galveston in between visits to Bill, lonely, confused, and angry. There is no one here for me when I wake up in the morning. There is no one here for me to compliment the meals I make. There is no one here to call an ambulance for me if I have a heart attack. 

 

For a while, I continue this pity party. “Oh, woe is me. Who’s going to take care of me?” Then I think about my single kids and friends. How do they do it? All their lives, they’ve been single, but I don’t hear them complaining about the things I complain about. Instead, they’ve learned to adjust their lives to being single. 

 

I mentally slap myself in the face and force myself to reevaluate. “Move on with your life,” I tell myself. “You have a husband in memory care, but you still have hours, if not days, of every week left for you. Take them. No one else can take them for you. Staying home and sulking won’t make your husband any better. It won’t help him to have the retirement he deserves. Nothing will. That’s a given. But you, home alone, crying, bitter, and yearning for a life not possible, helps no one. Not Bill. Not you. Not your family and friends trying to help you move on. 

 

“The guilt won’t go away; that’s true. But it also can’t be solved. It’s not your fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just the way it is. Accept that fact that you feel guilty, but also accept the fact that you can’t change the circumstances no matter how hard you try. And then, get on with the rest of your life. Enjoy the time you have for yourself. Do the things you’ve wanted to do. Experience life as you’ve never done before. No, it's not the retirement you had hoped for, but it can be a retirement worth living, for both you and for Bill.

 

“As you embark on new adventures and experience a life that refreshes the soul, your visits to Bill will become a pleasure instead of a thing to be dreaded each week. When you smile, he can smile. When you’re refreshed, you’ll have the ability to shower him with the few pleasures he can still have, whether it’s a home-baked cookie, a “contraband” coke, a visit with his dog, or even a short ride through Freddy’s drive in for a Peanut Butter Concrete. It may not seem much to you, but for him, It’s a special treat for a special day.

 

“Now, that’s a retirement you can be proud of.”

 

Travels with Oreo - A Book Review

I read the book, Travels with Oreo, in one sitting. The author, Lucinda Brief, insists it’s the only way to appreciate the book’s short, quirky plot.

The story begins in Galveston, Texas, where our hero, Jocelyn Starback, decides to go on a cruise through the beautiful northwest and into Canada. Her ticket purchased, her luggage packed, and her passport in hand, Jocelyn arrives at the airport only to discover she left Oreo home alone. That will not do.

Insisting the TSA Clerk hold her plane while she travels home to alleviate the situation, Jocelyn ends up in handcuffs. 

The plot moves forward, a bit slow in my opinion, until the FBI is called in. At that point, we are introduced to Jocelyn's father, Harry Hoopert, the head of the FBI. He releases her from airport security and admonishes her for causing such a ruckus at the airport. 

Meanwhile, her plane has left and Oreo is still home alone. The author now strays from the plot and moves back to Galveston where Oreo is guarding Jocelyn's house.

Two drug-induced neighborhood teens have decided to break into Jocelyn's home. They enter through the patio door, which Jocelyn never keeps locked. 

Oreo, a resourceful dog, grabs one teen by ankle and tosses him into the enormous, decorative cactus growing in Jocelyn’s living room. The second teen manages to get past Oreo and is now rummaging through stamps, dies, and other card-making supplies that fill Jocelyn’s ebony black desk. As the teen mutters about not finding money or jewels, Oreo devises a new plan of attack. Knowing that teens are always hungry and love sweets, Oreo grabs a wrapped, chocolate CBD gummy from the candy dish and drops it at the teen’s feet. 

The teen snatches up the treat, unwraps it and stuffs it in her mouth. 

At this point, Jocelyn walks in with her FBI dad and discovers one teen speared by cactus thorns and the other teen passed out in a drugged delirium.

The story ends with Jocelyn and Oreo taking off in a motorhome to travel the USA. “Screw the airplanes and TSA agents,” she shouts as dust kicks up behind her spinning wheels. “We’re off to see the USA.” 

I recommend reading this book with a steaming hot cup of cocoa. I guarantee you will finish the book before your delightful beverage gets cold. 

I give this book 2-1/2 stars. It was inventive; however a bit farfetched, too short, the language coarse, and the vocabulary too elementary. 

The author hints at a second book coming out soon. My recommendation to her is to spend money on the cover or no one will buy it.

Author's NOTE: The chocolate gummies are a figment of the author's imagination. No such things exist in the hero's home.

Academic Shenanigans - A Memoir

My daughter tells me that she sometimes uses my college academic experience to encourage her students to work harder on their grades. Today, I thought I’d write about my college antics for my writing practice. Maybe someone else will realize how important it is not to waste your college years! 

It’s spring, 1968. The country is in the middle of the Vietnam War. I lost my favorite uncle, Bobby, age 25, in the war just last year. But here in small-town Lewes, Delaware, on my family farm, Vietnam is far away and not currently in my thoughts. All I can think about, today, is my new home for the next four years, the University of Delaware. 

My Uncle Bobby

I had made plans for my boyfriend, Ernie, to meet us and drive up with us to visit the campus. I met Ernie, a coast guard sailor, through my older brother, and we had been dating for the last year. As my parents and I were getting ready to leave, the phone rings. It was Ernie. He gives me an ultimatum - marry him or go to college. I was speechless. I sure didn’t expect that. I chose college, however I did spend quite a bit of  time crying on the way up the highway. But, the excitement of going to college kept me moving forward.

 

I loved school and I especially loved my home economics teacher, Miss Parvis. She was my hero. I was going to be just like her - a home economics teacher. Because I was a good student and from a lower income family, I had earned a scholarship/work study program that paid my way through college, in full. There was no way I was giving that up.

Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year

What I didn’t realize was the difference between small-town, sheltered farm life and big-town, university life. Instead of classes being 10-15 students, my classes are in lecture halls of 300+ students. Instead of teachers who know you and encourage you in your studies, my new teachers are dots on a stage. The classes are not what I expected. My dorm smells like marijuana. Students are making out on the steps of classroom buildings. Boys are streaking in their birthday suits, wearing a mask no less! Hydration is primarily booze, not water, and partying is the main course. I am definitely a “fish out of water.” 

 

It wasn’t long before my goal in college was no longer to become a home economics teacher, but to date one guy from each fraternity on campus. Studying was non-existent. It was all about the fun. This was a life I had never experienced, and I was ready to experiment.

 

By the end of my first year, I was on academic probation. Therefore, I quickly devised a new goal - study just enough to stay in school. I did NOT want to go home. The only classes I did well in were organic chemistry and psychology, so I changed my major to psychology. I didn’t like that. Next, I changed to business administration. Why? I have no idea, but it worked, at least for the remainder of my college career. In fall of my 3^rd year, I married Bill and left college for good, or so I thought.

 

Fast forward to the year 2007, almost 40 years later. I’d been very happy as a stay-at-home mom while my children were growing up. Now, my kids were out of the house. Bill was legally blind and no longer able to work. Any additional income was now up to me. I decided to go back and finish my college degree. 

 

I applied to Oklahoma State University and was appalled to learn that my 1.7 GPA from University of Delaware followed me all the way to Oklahoma. I was admitted, but I was on probation with the understanding that I had to get my GPA up to 2.5 in order to graduate. In other words, I had to earn a 4.0 in every class or I would not graduate! 

 

I never worked so hard in my life. I studied for hours on end, read extra books when available, and spent many hours in the tutoring center. I was a journalism major so I started my own blog and even made it on Good Morning America because of my blog. 

But I did it! I brought my GPA up to 2.97 and graduated at age 60. Even though I had a 4.0 cumulative average at OSU, I was disappointed to learn that I wouldn't graduate with honors, again because of my past shenanigans! But at least I did graduate! 

 

It makes me wonder what my life would have been like if I had applied myself the first time around! The moral of this story is: Your grades will follow you everywhere. Do it right the first time! 

COVID Days -2022

I have been writing little “Mini” memoirs for the past several years. Each chapter is a short personal essay on a different aspect of my life, rather than a chronological “I was born . . . and then I died” longer piece.  My goal was to share a bit of my life with my family in an interesting format.

This piece was written in March 2023 as a therapeutic piece for me – trying to make sense of my loneliness. Hopefully, this will also provide a glimpse into what some of us went through during the pandemic.   

Alone Together . . .

From the driver’s seat of my SUV, I watch my husband shuffle behind his cherry-red walker, heading for another day “at work.” Depending on where his mind lands today, he’s going to national guard weekend, the police station, or Camp Dry Gulch. Perhaps it’s somewhere else in his past – only he knows for sure. The nurse slings his black “man bag” over her shoulder and gently leads him away from the car. The bag contains his “tools” for the day including several pairs of glasses, an iPad, an oversized magnifying glass, and a small flashlight. His “contraband” coke dangles in a snowman bag off the handle of his walker. I try to listen as he tells the nurse about his morning, but the door clicks and locks behind them.

Halloween Party at Daycare Today!

Bill is legally blind and has Alzheimer’s; I’m his caregiver wife. We’ve been married for more than 50 years; and, for the last thirteen of those years, he’s been unable to care for himself. Today, he’s going to adult daycare while I do some grocery shopping and whatever else I can do to distract myself from the fact that my life sucks. 

We moved to Galveston from Tulsa, Oklahoma, in January 2021.  Our daughter, Shelly, lives on the island and asked us to move down so she could help with her dad. She’s a teacher at Galveston College and has an apartment in the same complex. It’s a perfect solution. I get help caring for Bill which then gives me time to do things for myself. What I didn’t count on was the COVID 19 Pandemic lasting so long. 

I press “Car Play” and head for Sam’s Club, about 20 minutes off Island. Rain is on the way, and I don’t want to be stuck on flooded roads, so this will be a quick trip. I mentally prepare myself for the drive by listening to music.

“All by myself...

Don’t want to be all by myself anymore…”

I realize the words blaring from the car radio describe exactly how I feel. I left my life in Oklahoma, and I haven’t been able to make friends here in Galveston because of COVID. My main communications with the outside world are digital. Text messages to friends and family. Zoom meetings for caregiver support and online classes. Digital messages from friends on Facebook. Unreal people in an unreal world.

And when I do meet real people, we’re wearing masks. We rush by each other, “at least six feet apart,” hoping not to breathe in COVID germs. No one looks at the other; after all, we only have half a face. I still don’t know what my primary care doctor looks like. What color lipstick does the librarian wear? Does the postal clerk ever smile? 

As I drive out of town, I find myself looking forward to seeing the homeless man on the corner of 61st and Broadway selling his “wares.” He doesn’t wear a mask. Instead, his sun scorched face peeks through a scraggly brown beard, unruly hair, and large, black glasses. He strolls up and down the median wearing a black and white baseball cap, camouflage shorts, and a fluorescent yellow vest. I roll down my window and ask, “How are you today?” He smiles and hands me a cold water, and I hand him a couple bucks. A smile from a real person. It made my day. 

I complete my errands, return home to a grilled cheese sandwich for one, watch two episodes of “Midsomer Murders” and wait for the clock to tell me it’s time to pick up Bill. 

He gets in the car and hands me a half-eaten chocolate cupcake. “I wanted to bring you a whole one,” he says, “but there wasn’t enough to go around.” I say, “Thanks” and ask him to hold it until we get home.  He then sits back and asks, “How was your day?” As we drive home, I tell him what I “accomplished” for the day. He’s satisfied that I had a good day, even if I’m not.

I can’t ask him what he did today, though, because it agitates him. Was he in Oklahoma? Delaware? Texas? Was he flying his helicopter, on military weekend, or working at camp? Who drove him there? Did he leave his uniform at work? He can’t remember. He’s alone, too, in his own little world.

We arrive home; alone, together. All by ourselves… 

Memoir: Crabbing

    I was walking Oreo yesterday and came across a fellow getting ready to go crabbing in the lake at our apartments. It reminded me of crabbing as a kid. 

We didn’t own a boat, but friends of ours did. Their home was on Love Creek, a few miles from our farm and the Atlantic Ocean. Every once in awhile, they would take us out crabbing. What I remember most is the excitement of catching them and the pleasure of eating them.

We loaded the boat with chicken backs, heavy twine, and some nets. Once on the water, we tie one end of the twine tightly around a chicken back, throw it in the water, and then wait. We have learned that the key to successful crabbing is to watch your string carefully. If you see it moving, there’s probably a crab on the other end. 

Next is the capture. I see my twine bobbing in the water. So, ever so gently, I pull the string towards the boat. Using my thumbs and forefingers, I rotate one hand after another, trying not to let the unsuspecting crab know he is about to become dinner.

As the crab comes into view - S-W-O-O-S-H! I scoop a net into the water and swallow the crab from the bottom up! Its blue claws grab at my net, getting tangled in the process. I reach in, grab him by the back of the shell, untangle him from the net, and toss him in a bushel basket. Feeling quite proud of myself, I send down another chicken back.

Within an hour, we collect a bushel basket full of beautiful blue crabs. Now, it’s time for cooking. This is the part I don’t enjoy. In fact, I try to stay far away from the kitchen until this part is over. Mom puts the live crabs in a big metal pot with a bit of cold water. Then she turns on the heat. The crabs begin frantically clawing and scraping at the sides of the metal pan, desperately trying to get out. This is the stuff of nightmares! But it doesn’t stop me from eating them when the cooking is done.

The now-red crabs are thrown onto layers of newspapers covering our eight-foot-long table. Dad and mom have beers, my brothers have cokes, but I skip the beverages. Instead, I concentrate on the crabs. 

While everyone else is enjoying themselves cracking open a crab, digging through the shell, eating the sweet and salty meat, talking, and drinking their beverages, I am busy hoarding. I, too, crack the crabs and dig out the meat; but I eat none of it. Instead, I pile the meat in front of me creating a mountain of seafood goodness. When all the crabs have been distributed, I drizzle melted butter over the pile of meat I’ve hoarded. While everyone else looks on, I dive in, stuffing sweet, salty, buttery goodness into my mouth, big lumps at a time. In between the savory bites, I think to myself, “Now, this is the way to eat crab!”

My husband Bill . . .

I met Bill while attending the University of Delaware where he was studying Entomology. He was also in ROTC where he became a 2^nd Lieutenant and earned his flight wings. In his spare time, he took photos for the local newspaper. 

On our dates, he would have his ears tuned to his scanner radio. If there was a fire or anything exciting that involved the police, off he’d go. Sometimes he would take me home, but often I sat in the car while he took photos of the fire or crime scene. Then it was back to his photo lab where he developed and printed the photos. Before he said goodnight, he would drop them off at the newspaper office for publication the next day.  

 

After we were married, we moved to Texas and then Alabama, where he continued his flight training to become a UH-1 Huey helicopter pilot. Then, as a 1^st Lieutenant, he was off to Vietnam for a year.  When he returned home, he worked for the Delaware State Police flying helicopters.

 

Bill retired early from the State Police because of an on-the-job injury, so he decided to go back to college where he graduated Magnum Cum Laude with a master’s degree in Photojournalism. His photos were published in many periodicals including the Saturday Evening Post.

 

During these years, we had also become active in children’s ministry. Bill built stages, dressed up as a clown who did magic, and even performed puppet shows all over the eastern part of the U.S.

 

After grad school, Bill went to work at Teen Challenge, a drug rehab ministry in Pennsylvania, where he taught job skills to recovering addicts and felons. Three years later, we settled in Oklahoma where Bill worked twenty years for a large church doing photography, graphic design, and computer work. In his spare time, he took photos for fun and rode in the MS150.

 

He may not remember, but Bill is definitely a man of many talents. . . 

The Beginning: Eye Troubles

Where did this all begin? It’s a question I’ve asked myself countless times when people inquire about how long Bill has been battling dementia. To be honest, I can’t pinpoint an exact starting point. Looking back now, I suspect it began much earlier than I realized. Many odd behaviors that I chalked up to his vision problems could have been early signs of dementia.

In 2008, his vision troubles began. One day his vision was fine; the next day, he said he couldn’t see out of his left eye. His eye doctor couldn’t explain what happened; thus began the seemingly endless medical visits we made to specialists all over the country.

Less than a year later, the other eye became affected. Now he had central vision loss in both eyes. Each specialist we saw began with a diagnosis of Macular Degeneration, but after extensive testing, they all agreed it was not. What it was, however, they could not diagnose. 

In 2011, I made Bill an appointment at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland, to see one of the top eye specialists in the world. He interviewed us and told us to come back in a month. We flew out several more times over the next two years for extensive testing and treatment for Macular Degeneration. But, again, we were given no conclusive diagnosis other than it was definitely not Macular.

Finally, the eye specialist told us to accept that Bill was legally blind and adopt to his new reality. So, that was what we did. The next few years were filled with visits to the VA low vision specialists in Tulsa. They did an excellent job and even sent him to Tucson, Arizona, for specialized training. There, Bill learned how to use a cane, how to cross a street, and how to use the many devices he was given to navigate his new, dark world. 

Bill and Oreo- 2017

During these years, we joined a local support group for the visually impaired, Bill continued his involvement in ham radio, and he volunteered at the Broken Arrow police. He could no longer drive because of his visual impairment, so I had to drive him everywhere he wanted to go. But, at least he was getting out.

Looking back now, I recognize the subtle signs of dementia emerging as early as 2013. Bill, who was once a master of electronics, began struggling with his tv remote, iPhone, computer, and ham radio. He began misplacing his things and showing signs of hoarding. Over time, he became impatient and self-absorbed, sometimes exhibiting behaviors more akin to a child than the capable adult I had known. I assumed this was because he couldn't see very well.

Meanwhile, I was becoming frustrated, angry, and resentful. I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t do the things I asked him to do around the house. Why couldn’t he remember what I told him ten minutes ago? I felt smothered because he wouldn’t let me out of his sight, and I was exhausted from being a caregiver.  

It wasn’t until almost a decade later that we learned the truth. I often wish I had known sooner; perhaps I would have been kinder and more understanding. But when I'm honest with myself, I have to admit that that is not true. Even after knowing he had dementia, there were many times when I was not kind and understanding. The fact is, dementia reshaped our lives in ways we never imagined. It's a horrible disease and it's difficult for both of us. But we are facing it together, one day at a time.