TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

    In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Advice

The mail arrived with a check for the phone bill and a letter from Dad, a newsy note. The Brother had gone to pay them a surprise visit on Sunday. The surprise was on The Brother as the Weebles were not at home. Dad's friend had taken them for storm supplies on a three hour shopping expedition to Market Basket. Lord knows how they would make it through the one to three inches of snow without a case of Pastene canned tomatoes. Dad was sorry they missed The Brother's visit but was pleased with The Brother's phone call later that evening.

The end of the letter turned to Dad venting. Seems Ma was singing the "He's Stupid" song. No surprise there. I did chuckle at the last paragraph, some words of advice from father to daughter.

Growing up, Dad really didn't have much to say to The Brother and myself. When he did have something to say, he was like that old E. F. Hutton commercial. "When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen." 

"...It's wonderful to have a perfect wife, pure as can be. I keep telling her that perfection was made 2,000 years ago. And we ain't going to sing Ave Marie.

Love,

Dad

P. S. Don't you ever get to be like her.

I'm listening, Dad, I'm listening.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

    In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Friday, November 30, 2007

One Car Funeral - Parte Deux

After we dropped the Weebles off after the dress rehearsal for the funeral, Himself looked at me and said, "What did we learn from this?"

"Never to trust directions from Mapquest?"

"And?"

"Never to trust appointments made by the Weebles. If I don't personally make the appointment, I am to call and check the appointment with a person of authority, not a Weeble."

The morning of the funeral was a bit more hectic than the morning of the dress rehearsal. I wrote out a few more Christmas cards for my client, and then went to pull the Young One out of school. I couldn't ask Red to go pick the Young One up, so the girl had the afternoon off from school. She didn't seem too upset.

While the Young One had lunch, I made a phone call.

"Good morning, Sacred Heart Church, may I help you?"

"Yes, I would like to check the date and time for a funeral Mass for the Uncle?"

"Father Salducci will say the Mass today at 3 o'clock."

"Thank you."

The dress rehearsal certainly helped as Himself negotiated the streets without getting lost. The old woman must have been watching out for us because there was a parking space right in front of the church.

One eerie thing happened. We were introducing ourselves to Fr. Salducci so he would understand the Theory of Relativity. Ma introduced me as her sister, J, gone six years. I corrected the introduction.

The roof didn't fall in when I entered the church. Fr. Salducci said a beautiful service and was very attentive to Ma. She liked being treated like La Signora, The Lady.

After the funeral, we went back to Uncle Salvatore's for coffee and the old woman made sure we got a space right in front of the house. As we were removing coats, Ma told me when she looked at me when we were being introduced to the priest, she said she saw her sister instead of me. It didn't surprise me as Ma and her sister were very close. Ma seemed happy and comforted that her sister dropped by.

I performed a tech support service for Uncle Salvatore. The display on his phone was in Spanish. By pressing the menu button, I was able to select English for the display. Uncle was thrilled he could now read and understand the display on his phone. Maybe I've discovered a new career for myself. Weeble Tech Support. Could I handle the stress? Where's my Mahta-Cro?

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

   In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

One Car Funeral

Ma’s youngest brother and last of her siblings passed away. I knew as soon as the arrangements were made it would be up to me to see that Ma got to the funeral. The funeral would be in East Boston, and that posed a problem for me.

See, I’m petrified to drive in the city. Put me on a highway, let me go fast and straight and I’m happy as a clam. Get me in the city where I don’t know my way around, where all the streets are one way and I lose my cool. I also don’t do well making left turns without a light and I panic if I have to parallel park. That’s the only kind of parking in East Boston so right away I was having conniptions. I did the only thing I could think of. I begged Himself to take a personal day from school so he could drive. I owe him big time.

Ma called to give me the details of the funeral.

“The funeral is at Wednesday at three o’clock at the Sacred Heart Church. We don’t have to go to  Rapino’s (funeral parlor) and there won’t be a graveside service, but I don’t know how we are going to get to the church!”

I heard the unmistakable sound of Velcro loops locking together as she raised her wrist to her forehead. Part of me wanted to sing the song by Vanity Fair. “A thumb goes up, a car goes by Oh, won't somebody stop and help a guy? Hitchin' a ride, hitchin' a ride” Instead, I stifled the ‘Help me, Lord’ sigh and said, “Don’t worry, Ma, Himself and I will see that you get there.”

I called my friend, Red, to see if she could pick the Young One up at school. I owe Red big time.

I knew where the church was. It was down the street from Grandma’s house and around the block from Auntie’s. I had walked to confession and Mass a million times as a kid, but I had no clue how to drive there. Himself and I consulted Mapquest. Sacred Heart Church. 336 Saratoga Street.

Armed with our directions, the Weebles firmly buckled in the car, we headed to East Boston, near Logan Airport. It was pretty much a straight shot down the Pike from the Weebles. We drove through the new, pristine Ted Williams Tunnel and marveled how quickly the ride to the airport now was. The Weebles haven’t driven into Boston since the beginning of the Big Dig (1991) and they were amazed at the changes.

Ma mentioned her brother-in-law, Salvatore, had invited us back to his house for coffee after the Mass. I called Uncle from the car to tell him we were on the Pike. He said he would meet us at the church and reminded me we were to go back to his house for coffee.

We were zipping along splendidly, found the exit at the end of the Pike, made the left turn onto Bennington and then onto Neptune Road. According to Mapquest, a left at Neptune would put us onto Saratoga. Neptune Road ended and suddenly we were in the middle of the Circus Maximus.

Ben-Hur (3/10) Movie CLIP - The Chariot Race (1959) HD

All the streets were marked one way and none of them seemed to be in the direction we wanted to go in. Even though the Weebles grew up in the area, they weren’t helpful with directions.

“The church is around the corner from Guy’s.” Guy owned a small grocery store and surprise, the store is no longer there.

Himself patiently drove up and down streets, weaving through the maze of one way streets like a mouse searching for cheese. He turned down Morris St.

“This is the street Grandma used to live on!” I said. “Look, there’s the Sister’s school (Sacred Heart School). The church is down the next block.”

Sure enough, we found the church at the end of the street and could legally make a left turn onto Brooks Street. Himself pulled up to the curb where there was a handicap ramp. We offloaded the Weebles and Himself and I negotiated the maze of one way streets looking for a place to park. We ended up back on Morris St. and there was a parking space right in front of Grandma’s door. I liked to think the old lady was looking out for us. Himself parked the car and we walked to the church.

As I started to go up the steps of the church, I saw an old lady at the corner. The old lady was wearing a black coat with a fur collar. The old lady was pushing a walker.

What the hell? “Ma! Ma!” I yelled and ran up alongside of her. “What are you doing?”

“The church is locked. Your father went to find a way in.”

I saw Dad by some brick steps.

“The church is locked.”

I climbed the stairs and looked through the glass window of the door. I saw a doorbell and rang it. The door was opened by an older woman and I suddenly realized I was at the rectory.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, we’re here for the funeral for my uncle, but the church is locked.”

She looked at me as if I my horns were showing, and I worried that the lintel was going to collapse because I was standing on the hallowed threshold.

“The funeral isn’t today,” she said.

I looked at her as if she was speaking a foreign language.

My mouth opened and closed and I realized I must have looked like a codfish.

“Won’t you come in?” and she opened the door wide.

I stepped into the foyer and she lead me into the church office. She pulled out the church record. “The funeral is tomorrow at 3pm.”

“But the funeral for the Uncle is today!” I pleaded. The small voice in my head reminded me there was no hearse out front and a submarine klaxon began to blare.

She stepped across the hall and stuck her head into another office and asked about the date and time for the funeral. "Father..." I could hear her voice drop in volume to a respectful whisper.

“Father Salducci has the Uncle’s funeral at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” said the priest.

I wanted to scream. But we came today! We came from Worcester [Land of Here There Be Dragons]. We drove the Weebles. There damn well better be a #$$%&^%^ funeral today! If not the Uncle’s, somebody’s! Can’t the priest say the Mass today? We don’t really need the casket. It’s just a decoration anyway.

All hands! Rig for crash! We're headed to the bottom!

The woman gently ushered me out to the steps. “Who told you the funeral was today?”

I pointed at Ma at the bottom of the stairs. J’accuse! I wanted to throttle someone. Ma was the first choice, followed by the church secretary, the Pastor, and Dad for good measure.

I spent a good ten minutes trying to get through to Ma the date and time were incorrect. Both Ma and Dad were befuddled. I tried calling Uncle Salvatore’s house, but there was no answer. He must have been on his way to the church. I told Ma and Dad to stay in front of the rectory and Himself and I would bring the car around. We headed for Morris St.

As we rounded the corner in front of the church, there was Uncle Salvatore walking up and down the sidewalk.

“Uncle! Uncle!”

He smiled, shouted my name, and opened his arms to me in a big hug.

“Ma got the date wrong. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She and Dad are waiting out in front of the rectory.”

Uncle introduced Himself and I to his lady friend, Bee. We shook hands and she invited us back to the house.

Himself said he would bring the car around and I was to bring Uncle Salvatore and his friend to Ma and Dad.

It was quite cold and the wind had picked up. Ma was shivering and whining she was cold. Not much I could do because the church was locked! We stood like penguins and the old folks caught up with each other. The last time we had been together was three years earlier at Uncle Salvatore’s surprise 80th birthday. So we waited and waited for Himself to bring the car around.

Uncle Salvatore and Bee had walked to the church, and Bee decided she would walk back to put the coffee on.

I caught a glimpse of Himself coming around Neptune, but he missed the turn and disappeared. I ran to the front of the church hoping to flag him down as he came down Morris St. No such luck.

Uncle decided to go get his car so he could take Ma and Dad back to the house to get warmed up. I would wait for Himself. Uncle Salvatore gave me the directions to get back to his house.

Uncle brought his car around to the rectory and helped Ma and Dad to get in. I turned to walk to the front of the church and there was Himself parked in front of the church by the handicap ramp where we started nearly an hour before.

"Only my family can screw up a one car funeral! Can you believe the church is locked?"

"Sad, but the churches don't stay open like they used to."

"That sux! You can't claim sanctuary anymore!"

"Sanctuary!" - Charles Laughton as 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' (1939)

We negotiated the streets with Uncle Salvatore’s directions and pulled up in front of his house. There was an empty spot right in front of his door and Himself started the maneuver to parallel park the car.

“Wait! Don’t park here. This is probably Uncle Salvatore’s space. Go further down. If we don’t find a space we can take a right and park on Bremen St., behind Uncle’s house.”

Maybe the old lady was still watching out for us because there was a space about 3 or 4 houses down from Uncle Salvatore’s.

At Uncle Salvatore’s, Bee was bustling around the kitchen, setting the table with cups, plates and food. Italians always celebrate moments of great joy, sorrow, or the mundane with copious amounts of food. She poured coffee and tea, and brought out cheese and crackers, Scali bread, eggplant Parmigiana, a frittata, and calzone.

It felt strange sitting around the dining room table and Auntie (Ma's sister) not there. Auntie passed away 6 years earlier and her daughter, Dee (2 yrs older than me), passed away 8 months later. Bee was very gracious and I’m pleased Uncle Salvatore has a companion.

We spent the afternoon reminiscing and catching up on the doings of Uncle’s son, grandchildren, and great grandchild.

Bee thought I looked a lot like Cousin Dee’s friend Margaret.

“Oh, no,” Ma piped up. “Margaret is thin.”

“Want some ice for that burn?” Himself whispered.

The conversation turned to the improvements Uncle Salvatore made in the house.

“You know, Sal,” began Ma. “I need a good plumber, not you.”

I passed the ice pack to Uncle Salvatore.

Ma went on about the remodeling she wants to do in the bathroom when her millions come in.

Since Bee was a new audience Ma began telling her how I only go out to them once a month, if that, and I never visit. (Surprisingly, she didn’t sing the ‘He’s Stupid’ song. She must have realized she would be slam dunked with the ‘Who Effed Up the Date of the Funeral’ song.)

“Whoa, back up the Elder bus,” I said. “I take you to the foot doctor, the heart specialist, and the primary care doctor. When you broke your wrist, I took you to the emergency room. I took you to three follow up appointments with the orthopedist.”

“Well, you don’t come to visit,” she sniffed.

“I came to visit you one Sunday. You said ‘I fell, look at my wrist.’ I took you to the emergency room. I visited with you for four and a half hours in the emergency room. It wasn’t my fault, you fell and we had to spend our time in the emergency room.”

“Well, you don’t stay for lunch.”

“I planned on staying for lunch. It wasn’t my fault that your primary care doctor kept you waiting for your appointment for an hour and a half and I couldn’t stay for lunch because I had to get back to pick the Young One up from school. If I’m such an awful kid, see if my twin sister will do better by you!”

Ma furrowed her brow. “But you don’t have a twin.”

“Bingo! Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Sensing the conversation might deteriorate to blows, Himself mentioned how it was getting late and we had best get on the road.

Uncle invited us back to the house tomorrow after the funeral.

Uncle Salvatore gave us directions back to the Pike. We missed the turn and passed the gas tanks.

Ma started singing the “You’re going the wrong way song.”

“We know!” we shouted.

“Why don’t you go through Chelsea?”

As kids, when we were annoying, one of the adults would say “Here’s a quarter. Go play in the tunnel.(Either the Callahan or the Sumner)”. The tunnel fare has gone up and I was tempted to give Ma three dollars.

A right turn brought us out to 1A. Himself missed the turn to the Pike, so we ended up going around Logan Airport on the exit road. Fortunately, Ma had nodded off and we eventually made it to the Pike and the tunnel and Boston rush hour traffic. All we would see for miles was red tail lights strung out like Christmas lights.

Back at the Weebles, Ma sank wearily into her chair. “Oh, I don’t know what we are going to do tomorrow. If you can’t make it, don’t worry about us.”

I should have said, “Great! See ya.” Instead, I told her not to worry. We would see that she got to her brother’s funeral.

After all, we were in an effin movie. Tomorrow, it would be Groundhog’s Day all over again.

The same day, over and over" | GROUNDHOG DAY

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

    In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Herself's Fanabala*

Ma had been telling me about the latest shopping trip. A friend of Dad’s had taken them in the middle of a Nor’easter to Revere. I implored the heavens as I imagined the car careening around Revere Beach Boulevard in the snow with the waves crashing over the sea wall. I thought the expedition was a pretty dumbass idea, but as I long as I didn’t have to make the trip no skin off my nose. Ma wasn’t happy about going all the way to Revere. It was a long trip for her.

In the next breath, she excitedly told me that Roche Bros. opened up a “beautiful new store” in Westboro and after coming home from Revere they went there. Now, I’m not really sure if this trip was done all in one day. As I mentioned, this might have been one of the game show conversations, To Tell the Truth or The Price is Right. The stores are 100 miles away from each other. Ma gushed about the store and the manager’s specials.

I was just getting my jacket on when she said, “Will you be able to come back this week?”

My radar kicked in. “Not this week, why?”

“Well, paper towels are on sale for $9.99 and the Carapelli olive oil is a good price for the gallon. I have some paper towels downstairs, but we’re running out of oil.”

“If you have paper towels, why do you need more?”

“I have to lay stores in for winter!”

“What are you ants?”

“Well, I can’t get to the stores and if the weather turns bad...” She let out an ominous sigh.

“Ma, if the weather turns bad and you’re really desperate for items, I can put an order in with Peapod and have it delivered.” I whispered it several more times in the hope it would become a subliminal message.

“Oh no! Those prices are too high! I can’t afford to shop like that.”

Well, if you stopped sending money to Nostradumbass and the phony lotteries, you’d have enough money to shop Peapod. I bit back the thought. “Well, you wouldn’t do your whole shopping there, just what you needed to get through the storm.”

Her little trolley wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Can you pick up the paper towels and the oil?”

“But, you went to two stores. Why didn’t you buy those things there?”

“Because I could get them cheaper and save money.”

Yeah, you’d save money. Gas just hit $3.00 a gallon. This new store is a half an hour away from my house and then another half hour from Ma’s. I couldn’t see the savings.

“You don’t have to get them this week,” she said brightly. “The sale will run for two weeks.”

“I’ll see what I can do” and I ran out the door.

“Make sure you get the 15 roll Bounty, because those big rolls don’t fit on the holder,” she shouted after me as I burned rubber pulling out of the driveway.

When Himself came home, I whined about the problem.

“Price Chopper has the paper towels for the same price," he said calmly. Price Chopper is where Himself does our shopping.

“And the olive oil? It’s not the Phillipo Berrio that she usually buys. Some other brand that begins with a C.”

“I know the one.”

Himself went shopping, and picked up the items for Ma. The price tags were removed and on the way to school, Himself dropped the items off. Mission accomplished.

It was pouring buckets the day Himself dropped the items off. I called Ma to let her know the paper towels and olive oil were on the front stoop. She was less than happy.

“What’s the matter? I asked.

“You didn’t get these from Market Basket,” she fumed.

Busted by the Price Chopper bags. “Market Basket? I thought you told me they were on sale at the new Roche Bros.”

“No, I told you Market Basket.”

The game shows again. The items could have been on sale on the moon and I still wouldn’t have had Himself go to Market Basket to get two, lousy items. Look at the map of the Toonerville Trolley essay and you’ll understand.

“You didn’t get these!” she scolded.

“No, Himself went.”

“But I didn’t want them from Price Chopper.”

Now, I attended parochial school and I’ve lied to professionals, the nuns. I have no problem whatsoever lying to Ma. “What the hell difference does it matter what store they came from? They were the same price as what you saw in the flyer,” I said smoothly. I had no clue if they were the same price or not, and didn’t give a horse’s patoot if they were more. It would still be cheaper than driving around the countryside for two items.

“But I didn’t want him to go shopping.”

“Well, shopping ain’t my monkey so he picked them up for the same price at Price Chopper when he went to do our shopping.

“You shouldn’t have made him go.”

“I can't make him do anything he doesn’t want to,” I laughed.

“But I didn’t want HIM to go! Well, I can see I can’t ask you to do anything for me anymore.” I could see her raise her wrist to her forehead and strike a martyred pose.

Ah, the crux of the problem. Remember OPD is all about control.

“Fa nabala. Well, if you don’t want the paper towels or the olive oil. Throw them away. Or send Dad to the Senior Center with them. I’m sure one of the ladies would be more than happy to have those items.” My comment and the tone it was delivered was reminiscent of the starving children in China speech.

“No, I’ll use them.”

I thought so.

*The title comes from an Italian expression (in the dialect my parents speak). It’s a term used in exasperation such as dropping a pencil on the floor (well, I say $%#@%), and means “darn” or “for heaven’s sakes”. It literary means “Go to Naples” and can also mean "Go to Hell". I was just tickled with the fact that it was a pun on “fable.” I just slay me.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

      In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Another Appointment

Another doctor’s appointment. At least it beats going to Mahket Basket. I arrived at the Weebles a half hour before their appointment. I rang the bell, opened the door, and announced at the top of my lungs, “It’s me! I’m here!”

Ma screamed for Dad to answer the door.

I yelled “I’m here!”

Again, she screamed for him to answer the door.

We were in a live version of “Who’s on First?”

Dad came downstairs and told me to present myself to Ma.

She was in her room getting dressed.

“Oh, you’re here.” It sounded as if she was surprised. As if I would forget the appointment. Maybe she was hoping I’d forget the appointment just so she wouldn’t have to go.

I went back to the living room to sit and wait.

Dad groused because Ma wasn't ready and we'd be late.

I pointed out the doctor always kept them waiting so if we’re late, it was really no big deal. If need be, we make another appointment.

“That’s not fair to you,” he grumbled.

I shrugged, and began collecting the necessaries. I moved the walker into position. Grabbed Ma’s coat and pockabook from the closet.

Ma finally toddled out. She yelled at Dad. “You know I need help putting my shoes and socks on.”

“You should have asked.”

“Thank you very much! You know I need help putting my shoes and socks on.”

“You should have asked.

The conversation spiraled to a Burns and Schreiber routine.

“You know?”

“Yeah”

“You know?”

“Yeah?”

“You know?”

“Help.”

I tried not to laugh. I helped Ma into her coat and got  the two of them headed to the door. Got them in the car. Chug chug toot toot off we go. A half hour late for the appointment.

The parking lot was packed, and I sailed into the last handicap spot. The waiting room was filled with weebles. Dad checked them in, and Ma pushed her walker to the back where the technician would draw her blood. Dad came back and had his turn.

I settled in to wait, and Ma sat next to me.

The technician leaned out of her cubby.

“How are things today,” she asked.

“The same. How’s your mother?”

“She’s doing great. I just got off the phone with her.” She shrugged and gave the ‘Help me, Lord’ look.

“She sending you for more lotion?”

She laughed. “No not this time.”

Ma usually nodded off in her chair while waiting for the doctors, but she was very alert and was watching the two of us.

“So, Ma, you have your daughter with you,” smiled the tech. “She’s sitting there with valium in her back pocket.”

“No, I took it before I left the house.” We laughed and she ducked back into her cubby.

“Where do you know her mother from?”

“I don’t know her mother. Just from what she’s told me when we come here” Almost busted.

Ma was in a good mood. “Your father is so stupid. He called a plumber.”

Sometimes it’s hard for me to follow Ma’s conversation. She has forgotten that I haven’t lived under her roof in over 20 years. So she leaves out bits and pieces because she’s convinced I know the whole story. Sometimes, talking to Ma is like playing game shows. I never know whether it’s ‘To Tell the Truth, ‘What’s My Line’ or ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire’. I tried to put bits and pieces of her conversation together about Dad, a leak in the basement, and the cost of the repair. Ma’s pricing system skidded to a halt during the Depression.

Her eyes were round as saucers when I told her a plumber and his helper got $100 an hour.

She told me she wanted to remodel the bathroom, but only if the contractor will do things her way. She wanted to have the tub removed and a shower installed, but she doesn’t want to replace the tile. Sounded like she asked the plumber about her idea and wasn’t happy with him. Course the remodel would have to wait until her money came in.

“All that work, and I’ll probably not live long enough to see it.”

Sad when their thoughts turned this way. “Ma, you’ll outlive all of us.”

She huddled in her chair with her own thoughts.

I turned my attention to Dad. He was having a conversation with an elderly gentleman. They were talking about the Red Sox winning the World Series. Then the conversation turned to the good old days of baseball.

“They don’t have pitchers like they used to.”

“No, they sure don’t.”

“I remember a pair of brothers. I think they pitched for St. Louis.”

“What were their names?”

“The Dean brothers,” I supplied.

“You know, the brothers,” Dad said to me.

“Yeah, Dizzy and Daffy Dean.”

“Well, I don’t remember their names, but one brother would pitch one game on Sunday. The whole game, and his brother would pitch the second of the double header.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. What was their name?”

“Dean. Dizzy and Daffy Dean.”

“Yes, Dean!” The other gentleman smiled at me.

I smiled back. Third base!

Dad told the other gentleman how he used to go down to watch the Boston Braves play when he was a kid. He used to watch the game through a break in the fence.

“Course it’s not Braves Field anymore.”

“That’s right! What’s there now?”

“It’s part of BU. Nickerson Field,” I supplied.

“BU owns it now.”

“Nickerson Field.”

“Yes, Nickerson Field!” The other gentleman smiled at me.

I smiled back. Third base!

Finally after waiting an hour, one of the office workers called out Dad’s first name. Dad and a gentleman further up the waiting room both got up and went to the young woman. That should teach her to use full names. The appointment wasn’t for Dad. He returned to his chair.

After an hour and a half, the Weebles were called into the examination room. A short time later they emerged. I got Ma’s coat and helped her into it while Dad waited at the reception desk to make the next appointment. The receptionist didn’t set aside her work to make Dad’s appointment. I gave the girl the evil eye.

On the counter was a pencil holder containing pens left by the drug reps. Ma and Dad each grabbed a pen. They took a pen each and every time we visit. It must be the grown up version of lollipops or the Treasure Chest at the dentist.

“Take a pen!” Ma urged me.

“No, I’ll try to keep medical expenses down.” It must cost a small fortune for the drug rep to replace the pens each month. If the drug companies didn’t have to spend so much money on advertising, drug costs wouldn’t be so high.

“Oh!” Ma exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked

“We forgot to ask the doctor about the shoes.”

The receptionist looked up. “What shoes?”

“The shoes,” Ma explained.

I’m able to translate. “She needs a form signed by the doctor so the podiatrist can send it to the insurance company so she can get orthopedic shoes.”

“Oh, just have the podiatrist send us the form.”

“Nay, nay, nay! We went through this last year,” I said. “The podiatrist’s office sent the form. Twice. The doctor never signed it and sent it back. I made 3 trips all the way from Worcester. I’m not doing that again.” Now I sounded like the martyr weeble.

“Tell them to mark it to the attention of Kath. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

She made the appointment for the next visit and I entered it into my PDA. Dad also needed an appointment for an echocardiogram. The test is only done on Saturday. She had an early morning appointment.

“Oh, you don’t have to take me,” Dad said. “I can walk.”

“You sure?” I had a feeling Caesar was refusing the crown three times.

“I can manage.”

“Great!”

“Oh!” Ma exclaimed again.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. I can’t believe they were in with the doctor for a half an hour and now she has questions for the doctor.

“We forgot to ask about the walker.”

The receptionist looked up. “The Walker?”

“She needs a form signed by the doctor for a walker so she can submit it to the insurance company for payment.”

The receptionist looked over the divider and looked at Ma standing there with her walker. Her walker had wheels on the front and whiffle balls on the back to provide traction.

“She wants a walker that has handbrakes and a seat so she can sit when she gets tired.”

“What brand?”

What brand? How the hell should I know what brand! Get her a Raleigh. Make it pink. Raleigh has handbrakes. The Schwin she’s pushing now doesn’t, and she has a hard time back pedaling to stop it. I tried not to give the receptionist the ‘Help me, Lord’ look.

The doctor came out of the examination room and was giving instructions to another patient.

“I’ll have to ask the doctor about this.”

“You do that. In the mean time can you make a note to ask the doctor so we don’t have to stand here for another half an hour. You can give Dad the information when he comes for the EKG.”

With that settled, two and a half hours later, I herd the Weebles home. They are disappointed I can’t stay for lunch as I have to head back home to be in time to pick The Young One up from school.

“I’m afraid the doctor used up all my visiting time,” I said with I hope the right amount of sadness. It’s not that I don’t like visiting the Weebles. Sometimes it can be quite entertaining. I don’t like visiting at meal times. Dad’s culinary skills are not that polished and I didn’t have any Pepto Bismol with me.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

    In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Forse Domani

It was close to lunch time when I got the Weebles home from the orthopedist. Usually I off load them and head home to do errands or to decompress before I go on the daily shuttle run to pick the Young One up from school. I was about to say, “Well, kids, it was fun, but I have to run…”

“You’re staying for lunch,” said Ma. It was a statement, not a question. “You can have your choice, tuna salad, crabmeat salad, or peppers and eggs.”

Mayonnaise was never a staple in our Italian household. In the old days, Ma bought tuna (tonno) imported from Italy and packed in olive oil. No need for mayo. If she had to use mayo, it was never real mayonnaise but that imitation whipped salad dressing. Lord knows how long the jar would be sitting in the fridge, so I opted for peppers and eggs. It seemed the harmless alternative.

The Weebles were happy I was staying for lunch. I was a welcome break from the tedium of SSDD. Same er…stuff, different day. Dad was bustling about the kitchen preparing lunch.

When I was a kid, The Brother and I used to beg Ma to cook for us if she had to go to a union meeting. (Ma was a seamstress and a card carrying member of ILGW. International Lady Garment Workers. You remember their jingle? Look for the union label when you are buying that coat, dress or blouse. Remember somewhere our union's sewing, our wages going to feed the kids, and run the house. We work hard, but who's complaining? Thanks to the I.L.G. we're paying our way! So always look for the union label, it says we're able to make it in the U.S.A.! Sorry, got carried away. )

Anyway for a time Ma was the shop steward at her factory and she would have to go to meetings. We would be left in the care of Dad. Dad who was Patron. Head of the house. First born in his family and thus Crown Prince. Growing up, his Ma did everything for him. Cooked, washed, cleaned and sewed. When he married Ma, she took over and did everything for him. He could not boil water without burning it.

“Would you like me to make the peppers and eggs?” I asked hopefully.

“No, I can handle it.”

Ma took my arm. “Can you put up the curtains for me in my bedroom?”

Twice a year as far back as I can remember, Spring and Fall, Ma thoroughly cleaned the house, washed windows, polished wood floors and changed curtains. She was still keeping up with the curtain tradition.

“HE was supposed to do it, but he never does anything!” The old song and soft shoe. She had two panels of dark purple sheers which she handed me. The rods were on her bed as if ready and waiting for me.

The windows are a corner arrangement in Ma’s bedroom, my old room. There’s a wooden valence with knick knacks to hide the rods. Ma’s desk is pushed into the corner under the windows. Not the easiest arrangement to hang curtains. The desk is piled and littered with papers, envelopes and all manner of junk mail, charity and sweepstake contests. $2 million coming this week! In order to get to the windows, I had to move the desk. No mean feat without causing a ticker tape parade. I got the step ladder from the hallway, threaded the panel on the rod, stood on the step ladder, ducked under the valence being careful not to bang my head and slipped the rod into the moorings. Pretty easy! Wonderbars.

Ma had the second panel ready and this one turned out to be a witchy kitty. In order to put this rod up, I had to stand on the sh…stuff on her desk. The rod kept slipping and wouldn’t go into the moorings. On the fifth try, after speaking in tongues, the rod held. I thought I was done when Ma brought out pinch pleated drapes.

“I’ll put the pins in and you can hang the panels.” She lifted the first panel and was puzzled. The second panel seemed to have disappeared. We looked in her room. I looked in the master bedroom. She held up the panel and I noticed a center seam.

“Ma, this looks like two panels have been sewn together?”

“Now who would have done that?”

“Duh, Ma! You’re the only one that knows how to use a sewing machine.”

She took the panel and ripped apart the seam. Broken wrist and all and no splint.

She began putting pins in one panel and I started on the other.

“Like this! Half way!”

“I’m doing it just like you. See?”

She watched and then her eyes grew big as saucers.

“What?”

“You’re lefthanded!”

“I have been for 52 years. Where have you been?”

“Well, I knew you wrote lefthanded. I didn’t think you did anything else lefthanded.”

“God knows you and the nuns tried to break me of the habit, but you failed.”

The panels were a lot harder to put into the travois rod tabs. Even with my new glasses and my head under the valence I couldn’t see the little holes. I muttered more words in tongues and finally got the panels up. Ma was very happy.

“See? Ten minutes. That’s all it took” (More like a half an hour) “HE wouldn’t do it. Kept saying ‘tomorrow’, ‘tomorrow’, but tomorrow never comes.”

By now lunch was ready. Dad had set the table and the pan with the peppers and eggs took center stage on the table. They were swimming in oil. Dad had toasted bread. I took 2 slices and began making Ma a sandwich.

“I got the end piece!” She frowned.

I took the end slice which was on top and flipped it over. “There. Now you won’t know the difference.”

She looked at me and I laughed. “It’s what I used to do when the girls were little. No one wants to eat the heel of the bread, but if you flip it over, no one knows the difference.”

She laughed. We had a pleasant lunch and I complimented the chef even if the eggs were not as tight as I like them. He beamed.

Just as I was leaving Ma produced another set of drapes for the master bedroom.

“Do you want me to hang those up too?”

I could tell she wanted me to, but she frowned.

“No, they have to be pressed. Your father can hang them up for me.”

Forse domani. Maybe tomorrow.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

   In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

The Orthopedist Visit

After the eighth circuit around the parking lot, I headed to the main lot and then to the far employee lot, both were full. The hospital must have been running a sale. I went back to the medical office parking lot and spotted a man walking to what I hoped was his car. I slowly followed behind with my directional happily blinking to others, I had found a space.

On the way to the orthopedist’s office, I wondered if the Weebles had found the office alright. If they would remember the office was on the first floor. After all, we visit this building every other month to see the foot doctor on the third floor. I had a moment of panic when I entered the empty office. I hadn’t been trolling the parking lot that long. The last time we visited this doctor, his waiting room was wall to wall with patients and the line spilled out into the main lobby where there were several more chairs outside his door. As I approached the receptionist, she looked up.

“They are in the examination room. Would you like to go in with them?”

“God, no!” I said forcefully. “I just wanted to make sure they found the office ok. I’ll just wait over here.” I took a seat in the corner and flipped through a very la-di-dah architectural magazine. The kind of magazine that showcases “Homes Better Than Yours”. I could hear some of the conversation between Ma and the doctor. Complaint. Explanation. Complaint. Explanation.

“That’s because you are leaning on the walker instead of using a cane,” he patiently explained. “Well, everything is looking fine. I want to see you in another month for an x-ray. I’ll escort you to the waiting area.” He caught sight of me and added, “Your daughter is here.” He emphasized daughter and I wasn’t sure if I was elevated to a high status or if he was relieved to turn the weebles over to someone else. He then asked Ma if he could fill me in on how she was doing.

Now, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s not my monkey. Somehow he must think I’m the primary care giver, and I need this information. Ma takes care of herself very nicely and no thanks to anyone. So I put on my best intelligent look and listened as he explained Ma’s wrist is healing nicely. The pain she feels is because of the pressure as she leans on the walker. She had complained of shoulder pain, but he thought that was mostly due to the way people using a walker hunch their shoulders when they walk. I nodded. Very interesting.

Ma interrupted at this point to ask about the visiting nurse. I thought she was going to ask him if the visiting nurse could do the housework or take her to Market Basket.

“Ma, he has nothing to do with the visiting nurse.”

“Yes, he does. She wants me to have physical therapy.”

“I told you the therapy isn’t necessary,” he said to her. “Her hand is very arthritic,” he began to me.

“I don’t feel like I have Ahtha Ritis” That’s how a Bostonian pronounces, arthritis, just like it’s a man’s name. Arthur Ritis.

“Well, you do. You don’t have much range of movement in your thumb. Therapy isn’t going to change that. No therapy.”

Ma was put out. “The nurse isn’t going to like you.”

I’m thinking he outranks the nurse and good for him for not prescribing services that won’t be a benefit except to make money for the insurance company.

At this point, the doctor noticed Dad was carrying Ma’s splint.

“Why does he have that? Why isn’t she wearing it?” he asked me as if I were the primary care giver.

“She doesn’t wear it. She hasn’t worn it in a few weeks.” He was about to ask another question and I shook my head. He has an Italian last name and I was tempted to ask Parli italiano? You ask why? She’s a cetriolo. A cucumber. I knew Ma would selectively hear this remark. Not good for me. He wouldn’t understand that she wouldn’t wear the splint because she had to sign those checks so she could win the two million dollars that was coming this week. I shook my head. “I’m just the chauffeur.” On duty is tattooed on my butt cheeks.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

   In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

The Man Who Never Returned

Today, we had a trip to the orthopedist. The parking lot at the medical center was filled, but there were a dozen handicap slots open. That is the plus side to hauling weeble butts around, being able to park in the handicap spots. I pulled into one very close to the building. Ma would have no difficulty pushing her walker to the entrance. I asked Dad for her handicap parking placard. He was rummaging in the pockabook, but couldn’t find it. Ma was halfway out of the car and across the parking lot. I told Dad not to worry, but to get out of the car and to see Ma got to the appointment. She had dillydallied so she was a half an hour late for the appointment. I pulled out of the handicap slot and started trolling the parking lot. After the sixth circuit, I felt like an Indy driver. On the seventh circuit, I started humming a line from an oldies tune changing “he” to “she” and taking poetic license with the lyrics. “Did she ever return? No, she never returned and her fate is still unlearned. She may ride forever round the hospital parking lot. She’s the gal who never returned.”

The song I was thinking about is the story of “Charlie on the MTA” by the Kingston Trio. You can crank up the Kingston Trio Jukebox to listen to it. Background for those of you too young to remember the song and/or those of you who live in The Land of Here There Be Dragons and have no clue what I’m talking about. The song commemorates an election campaign of a Boston candidate and his protest of the fare increase on the subway imposed by the MTA, The Massachusetts Transportation Authority. The fare is raised from 10 cents to 15 cents. The extra nickel was to be paid as an exit fare. As the song goes, poor Charlie doesn’t have the extra nickel so the conductor wouldn’t let Charlie off the trolley. Charlie is forever known as “the man who never returned.” As I’m singing along, it occurs to me Charlie isn’t just caught without exact change, but he’s caught in the middle of OPD.

Charlie's wife goes down to the Scollay Square station

Every day at quarter past two

And through the open window

She hands Charlie a sandwich

As the train comes rumblin' through.

Every day, Charlie’s faithful wife goes down to the Scollay Square (pronounced Sculley Skwayuh) station. It used to be the burlesque area of Boston and is now Government Center. Anyway, she’s handing Charlie a sandwich, right? Why the hell doesn’t she hand Charlie a nickel so he could get off the train? OPD! She controls the purse strings! Standing on the subway platform before “the train comes rumblin’ through”; she can tell her captive audience crowd what a stupid ass her husband is. He didn’t pay attention to her reading the notice of the fare increase in the paper, and now she has to come down to the station every blessed day to make sure Charlie got something to eat. Woe is her! She has to leave her children every day so her husband can have a sandwich!

Of course, OPD is a double-edged blade, and it cuts both ways. What about Charlie? To some extent, we might be able to extend the benefit of doubt to poor ol’ Charlie. Just about the time the song came out, the city of Boston had a building boom and make over. The seedy Scollay Square got a make over when the mayor’s office and a pedestrian plaza were built along with other government buildings. Scollay Square was renamed Government Center. Charlie could look out of the subway window, but wouldn’t know where he was because that wouldn’t be a stop he was familiar with. Why didn’t he ask someone about the new station and where he was? Why didn’t Charlie bum a nickel from a fellow rider? Maybe Charlie didn’t want to get off the train! He wouldn’t have to listen to the “He’s Stupid” song. He could be a good time Charlie and regale other captive passengers with stories from his youth and war service, over and over and over again. His wife was there with a sandwich every afternoon, and the roar of the train would drown out her yelling, “You stoooopid assssssssss!” Yup, Charlie just didn’t want to get off of that train.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Monday, October 15, 2007

The Will

While chatting on the phone with Ma, I played Scrabble Blast on the computer with the sound turned off. I made sure to un huh, and yeah in the right places. Ma was riding the gravy train again, how she was going to win $2 million this week. It's always this week. Un huh.

I used to try to reason with her, to tell her people didn't gift you with huge sums of money. Her little trolley wouldn't slip the track, and I ended up with that familiar, pulsing pain behind my left eye. The Brother, ever the brilliant tactician, gave me a way to cope and to save me a pain blinding run to the Excedrin bottle. He said when she starts in on something (no one does anything for me, no one helps, I'm winning $2 million) just say "Oh, wow." Simply elegant.

She was saying Nostradumbass (she consulted with a psychic) told her she was born under a lucky star. Oh, wow. Didn't PT Barnum of circus fame say there was a sucker born every minute? The conversation took a turn onto the no one does anything for me spur. I tuned Ma out concentrating instead on how to make a word with 4 eeees.

"You do things for your father, but you won't do them for me." She was still sore that I wouldn't take her pile of sweepstakes entries to the post office.

"You know that's not true. You didn't push your walker to the emergency room when you fell and broke your wrist. In fact, I was a God send that day because I almost decided not to visit, but I got a feeling something was wrong so I showed up." She likes the supernatural and it's a handy hole card so I played it.

There was some grumbling. "When I get my $2 million, I'm going to go to a lawyer. I'm gonna have a will made. All I'm leaving your father is $1, so you better make up your mind."

"About what?"

"Whether it's him or me. You jump when your father asks you to do something, but you never do anything for me. So you better make up your mind!"

"I'll take the dollar."

Disclaimer: This blog is not a legally binding written document. 😘

TBT Reprint from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Let The Sun Shine

This little tidbit is about my weeble neighbor, Prissy, and the arrangement we have with regards to trash pick up. Rather than spend the amount of money the town wanted us to pay for a permit plus special bags to haul our own trash, we decided to contract with a waste management company. Since Prissy has such a teensy bag of trash, I told her she might as well put hers with ours. Every Sunday night or Monday morning, I would go over have a fast cup of tea and collect her trash. When she has some do ri me, she kindly kicks some our way towards the bill. Two weeks ago, our trash pick up day was changed from Monday afternoon to early Thursday morning. We had Prissy put her trash on her front stoop Wednesday night and when Himself got home from karate and T'ai Chi classes, he would go over to pick up the garbage.

Prissy called me to go over for tea this afternoon. It was a dreary, rainy day and I figured she wanted a little bit of company. We chatted as she set the tea things out. Bits of this and that. After an hour, I got up to leave.

"Oh, wait before you go." She brought out a plate of muffins. "I baked these for Himself. He's been so kind coming to get my trash." She held the offering and beamed.

Hello! Who picked up your trash for over a year on Sunday nights or Monday mornings? Through rain or snow and dark of night, weaving and dodging the peeping eyes of the Leaf Lady, I was ever faithful and stayed my rounds. Prissy never baked muffins for me! What is it with mothers and sons, even if they are adopted? Weebles, you can't win for losing. Well, Himself and I had a good laugh and enjoyed the muffins. When Himself bent to retrieve a muffin liner that fell on the floor, the sun came out.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

Just Say No

Usually children pit one parent against the other. If the child wants something and one parent says "no", the child goes to the other parent to try to get his way. At odd times while dealing with my weebles, I have become the parent.

Ma had a stack of letters to be mailed. There must have been a dozen or more. All were being sent to some sort of contest, psychic, or bogus charity. No doubt each envelope contained a check for a small amount, $5 or $10. A dozen letters and this was just one days' mailing.

She asked me to stop at the post office downtown on the way to the doctor's office. I said no. If these were bills to the electric company or property taxes, I would have stopped. (Well, in all honesty, not without a bit of whining. I hate driving downtown.) I thought "no" would be the end of it, but I should have known better.

A short time later, Dad approached me.

"Mother has some letters she needs to mail. She needs you to stop at the post office on the way to the doctor's office."

"Mother" when he's in the "I'm the Father you will do as I say" mode.

I would have used a very common, Bostonian expression, but it isn't politically correct, not that it ever was. I will substitute. What are you on, crack? She just asked me, and I said 'no'. I'm not going to enable her. She's only sending out things to the scammers. She can put the letters in the mailbox for your letter carrier to pick up. Though you should take them, tear them up, and throw them away." End of discussion, though I should have known better.

"She says you always do things for me and not for her." There was a note of glee in Dad's voice.

"Well, you can abuse of her of that notion. I just shot you down too. You can also remind her, she did not push her walker the two miles to the emergency room, or the eleven miles to Market Basket, the twenty doctor's appointments or the million other shuttle runs where my Toonerville Trolley takes her."

Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother. Easier carved in stone than done. Help me, Lord, I'm trying. There should be a corollary to that rule. Except when they are doing something stupid like flushing their income down the commode. Than thou shalt just say 'no'

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

The Amazing Carnac

Tea. A calming ritual. No matter how hectic or frazzled a day, the fragrance and heat of tea drains the tension. I don’t know how many cups of tea I’ve shared with Ma around the kitchen table. We’ve sipped tea since I was a teen. Himself’s mother used to be a part of the klatsch. We would laugh, gossip, share recipes, and the older women would impart bits of wisdom to me. Thou shalt do it this way.

With cups of tea in front of us, Ma always seems to be more like her old self. Opinionated, but good natured. We were having a cup of tea after the visit to the orthopedist. I took a sip from my favorite blue cup.

“Oh, we could have used you yesterday,” she said.

“What was yesterday?”

“Roche Brothers had Pastene tomatoes on sale for 77 cents.”

I could hear the good nature of the statement. Seventy seven cents must be a good price for a can of tomatoes. And behind the statement, the opinion that I had neglected my filial duty. I tried not to roll my eyes and looked in the bottom of my tea cup. Sadly, we use tea bags, there were no tea leaves to read. “Kreskin might be able to bend spoons with his mind, but I haven’t perfected mind reading just like you haven’t perfected mind control. Thank, God,” I thought and I bit back the sarcasm. So I pictured the Amazing Carnac holding the envelope to his forehead.

“Oh, wow,” I said.

And the question is, what do you say when you hear you should have called your mother the day before?

Heigh-oh!

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

The Silent Meeting

The waiting room was long and narrow with a row of chairs along each wall. It reminded me of a subway car only there were no advertisements above the heads of the passengers to allow you to discreetly observe fellow travelers. A young man sat across from me. He was thoroughly absorbed in one of the dozen of sports magazines in the doctor’s waiting room. Next to him sat an elderly women with her arm supported in a sling. A woman roughly my age was sitting next to the elderly woman. We smiled politely to each other.

Ma started grousing about the wait.

I tried to count the impressions on the dentil molding and not to eavesdrop on the elderly woman and her companion. The elderly woman was complaining about the wait too.

I smiled politely to the companion. She inclined her chin towards Ma and Dad and then pointed her chin my way.

I nodded with a sheepish smile. Yup, they’re my folks.

She tipped her head towards the elderly woman sitting next to her and then rolled her eyes. This is my Ma.

We both hid our smiles. We had made a connection like Masons and the secret handshake.

Ma was called into the examination room. Dad trailed after her dragging the pockabook behind. Several minutes passed and then Ma could be heard complaining about the wait. She had to use the ladies’ room and it would serve the doctor right if she went right then and there.

I shook my head at my sympathetic companion and rolled my eyes. Help me, Lord!

She shrugged. What can you do?

A short time later, Ma’s examination was done and she pushed her walker down the hallway. More complaints about the wait. At least she seemed happy she didn’t have to wear the sling any longer.

I got up and opened the door to the lobby. I was standing next to the woman with the elderly mother. Sotto vocce, I hummed the theme to Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighbor…

The woman patted my hand. You are not alone.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

The Solution

The following day after Dad's phone bill arrived, I called Dad to tell him the amount on the phone bill. He had the same reaction I did. Pissed He asked me to call the phone company to see if they would remove the charge from the bill.

"Like they did for the past two months?"

"Uh, yeah, and see if they can block the number so Ma can't call.

"I'll try."

Kelly at the phone company was very sympathetic and understanding. "I'm not allowed to credit calls to Jamaica anymore", she said. "However, I will give him a credit as if he had the International dialing plan on his service. That would bring the call to Jamaica down to 38 cents per minute instead of $4.96 per minute. That call would be $8.74 plus tax."

I thanked her and then asked if there was anyway that could prevent Ma from placing international calls. She suggested having the international plan of $4.00 per month added to the bill. As she pointed out, Ma isn't going to stop calling these scam numbers and at least the phone call would be a reasonable amount to pay instead of the $100 calls. She had a point, but I wanted to find a better solution. I asked to be connected to the fraud department to see if they could help out.

After spending the day on the phone talking to the phone company representatives, I was sharing a large glass of whine with a friend. "Other than the international calling plan, the only other thing they could suggest would be to prevent the Weebles from placing any calls where they have to dial a one before the number. Only that wouldn't be good because then if they needed me, they couldn't call me."

"I'm not seeing the downside to the problem," she said.

Himself had the same reaction.

While pacing from the kitchen to the livingroom, I came up with a solution. "I know what to do."

"Yeah, what?" Himself asked.

"I'll give Tony Soprano a call.

TBT Reprint from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by. 

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Weebles Wobble

If I plan to visit the Weebles for the sake of a visit and not a trip to Market Basket or a ride on the Tunerville Trolley, I keep them on a need to know basis. If I decide not to go or something comes up, dealing with their disappointment is like dealing with toddlers. There’s a lot of whining. It’s easier to call them last minute to ask if they want some company.

I was planning such a visit one Sunday. I thought I’d drop in for tea, run some diagnostics on Dad’s computer, and have a nice visit. That Sunday morning I debated. Would they behave? I wasn’t sure I was up to watching another round in the Weeble Weight Division. Still it wouldn’t hurt to score some brownie points. I’d take the Young One along and she’d be the favorite grandchild du jour. So after lunch, I made the phone call.

“Hello?”

“How would you like some company this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I think you’d better come.” Dad’s voice sounded strained.

“What’s the matter?”

“Ma fell.”

“Ok, I’ll be there in an hour.”

I grabbed the Young One. We stopped for gas and a box of donuts. I wasn’t worried that Ma fell. She falls at least a couple of times a month. It’s like that little jingle. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.

When we got to the Weeble’s house, Ma was sitting at the kitchen table. She was still wearing her housecoat, and Dad was wearing his usual hang dog expression.

“How are you?” I put the box of donuts on the counter.

“I fell. See?”

The ball of her thumb was swollen to the size of a softball.

“I can’t move my shoulder.”

“That’s not normal. Let’s get you dressed, and take a trip to the emergency room.”

There was no protest. None of the usual hemming or hawing. I helped Ma get dressed. We found the “pockabook”, went on the treasure hunt for the checkbook, and made sure the insurance cards were in the zippered section of her wallet. Off we went to the hospital.

I pulled up to the emergency circle and stopped the car. Dad was halfway to the ER entrance. “Hey!” I yelled. “Get a wheelchair for her.”

It must have looked like a Three Stooges routine getting Ma into the wheelchair.

“Move the leg rest out of the way.”

“Put your feet on the metal plates.”

“Her legs are too short, she can’t reach the metal plates. They have to be adjusted.”

After much pushing and pulling levers, Ma was in the chair. Dad was halfway to the ER entrance. “Hey!” I yelled. “Take her with you!” He looked at me with a puzzled expression. “I can’t leave the car in the emergency circle. I have to move it. Take her in and get her registered.”

With Ma’s handicap placard, I was able to get a handicap space a few steps away from the emergency circle. A nice perc. When I got to registration, Ma was still going through the process. It seems a new system was installed and the receptionist wasn’t familiar with the procedure. After fifteen minutes, Ma was registered and we sat in the lobby waiting for her to be called. Fortunately, or so it seemed, the ER was quiet. After a few minutes of waiting, the triage nurse took Ma to an examination room.

“How did you fall, dear?”

“He went to church, and I had to prepare the meal…” and then Ma launched into the “He’s Stupid” song. “No one does anything for me.”

“You didn’t walk to the emergency room.” I think I said that aloud.

After an hour, the attending physician ordered an x-ray. Ma was wheeled away and Dad and I were told to wait in the lobby. Where we waited and waited.

“So, Dad, when did she fall?”

“Oh, this morning.”

“And if I didn’t show up what were you going to do?”

He just looked at me.

“Next time, you call 9-1-1.”

“But she’s fallen before. Like the time I found her on her hands and knees in the closet…”

“Yes, and you should have called 9-1-1 then. She could have had a diabetic episode or another stroke.”

“I was able to get her up.”

Some days it just doesn’t pay to chew through the straps.

The emergency room started filling up, and as the Young One observed, people who came in after Grandma were going home. Dad had found an old crony whose wife was also in the emergency room so they kept each other company. I went to find out what was taking so long.

One of the nurses directed me to the examination room. Ma had her x-ray and had been brought back. Her arm was propped on a pillow. She was wearing a sling and had an ice pack. A blanket was draped around her shoulders and she had nodded off. I waited a while longer and then went back to the ER desk to talk to the attending. She was busy dictating charts. Gave me a wait a minute sign. It was more like ten minutes.

“I have your mother’s x-ray.”

“Good may I see them?”

We went to a light box and the image of Ma’s hand floated on the screen.

“She’s fractured her wrist. We’ll put her in a splint.” As she said this, another nurse wheeled Ma into a room on the other side of the ER desk. I followed along and watched as Ma’s hand was wrapped in a temporary cast and aced bandaged. Ma was wheeled back to the examination room to wait to be discharged. By now the emergency room was hopping. Some poor soul was put in the room across from Ma’s. He was either on drugs or intoxicated or both. He was yelling and screaming. A security guard was sitting outside the door. Dad wandered over to the security guard for some male company and a chat.

“God bless you,” I mouthed to the security guard.

“Aw, he’s cute.”

“You can have him on a BOGO.”

He laughed.

After more waiting, I went in search of the attending.

“What’s going on here? We’ve been waiting four and a half hours for a broken wrist. Are you finished with her?”

The attending became quite indignant. “I’ve been busy. I want to evaluate your mother. I don’t think she should go home. She’s not steady on her feet and the cast will throw her off balance.”

“Then evaluate her!”

I swear sometime physicians see the old people, figure they have nothing better to do and so they are kept waiting.

The attending didn’t care for my attitude. I didn’t care for hers.

As I knew, Ma was going to have no part of spending a day or two in the hospital. The doctor had a cane sent up and Ma showed her she could manage quite well without assistance because no one does anything for her thank you very much.

Now, the attending might have convinced Ma to stay if Dad hadn’t been drumming into her each time she fell that she would be put into a nursing home.

Finally, the discharge papers were printed, Dad signed Ma out while I brought the car around the front.

And the real reason Ma wouldn’t stay overnight?

“I’m getting $2M and I have to sign the check and get it in the mail.”