Please read the humor piece by Amy Ozols in the May 8, 2009 New Yorker:

http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2009/05/11/090511sh_shouts_ozols

And now this:

Will you be my friend?

Hello, pretty woman sitting next to me.
This is my first time on an airplane, and boy am I excited!
My name is JJ, and I’m a child. Maybe you don’t have a lot of experience with children, or maybe you didn’t have a very memorable childhood, but let me explain what “child” means. I’m smaller and not as knowledgeable as you, but my mind is expanding at an amazing rate—I can learn a foreign language just by walking through the room! I haven’t yet learned how to suppress my emotions, and I think the world is amazing!
The woman sitting next to me is my mommy. She’s the center of my universe. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, I can sing her song all day. Although she’s not very happy today. She was telling me that Grandpa Ted has gone to sleep forever and we have to go say goodbye. Daddy can’t go, ‘cause he has to work. Daddy works all the time and Mommy used to work, and I used to have to go to preschool. But preschool closed and now she stays home with me! I love that. I’d rather be with Mommy all the time.
I saw Mommy gazing wistfully at your stairmastered thighs in those dry clean only pants. Mommy never wears pants like that. Or shoes or jewelry like that, either. But Mommy is so soft and warm in her fuzzy sweater. I love to bury my face in Mommy’s shoulder, and she always lets me, even when I have just vomited.
I see you are trying to sleep, and I don’t see how you can! This airplane is so amazing! All the juice you want to drink! Mommy got me some special treats for the plane too. She got me this doll that talks! That’s amazing! But not as amazing as this airplane. And all the people on the airplane are amazing. I want to get up and run all up and down this airplane, it’s so amazing! I want to meet everyone and see what they are doing, and do it too! Mommy says I need to stay in my seat, but I want to GO!
You keep closing your eyes, but I can see you are not asleep! Mommy does that sometimes too. I can always tell. Even if she is in the other room. Right now Mommy’s eyes are leaking water again and her mouth has gone all funny and crimpy. She’s picked up the in-flight magazine but I’m not going to let her read that! She has to pay attention only to me!
Uh oh, I got so excited I forgot that I had to go poo-poo. Now Mommy has to wrestle me and the diaper bag into that tiny bathroom to change my pants. This plane sure is bumpy. Seems like everyone is frowning at Mommy ‘cause we don’t fit through the aisle. What is Mommy saying? Oh, she’s saying, “it’s easy for people to criticize—harder for people to help.”

Snap out of it!

You are having dessert at the annual Family Thanksgiving Dinner. Sitting next to you is your elderly uncle, Ted. Suddenly Ted falls out of his chair, grasping his left arm and gasping for air. "Looks like a heart attack," you think. So based on what you have learned about heart attacks, you lean over Ted's face and yell, "snap out of it!"

In reality, we would call 911. Paramedics would come. Doctors would hook up the EKG, give the medications, CPR, hospitalization, all that stuff. Even if Ted didn't have any insurance, the hospital is bound by law to treat his immediate condition.

But what if Ted has dementia? Or what if Ted is bi-polar? What if Ted started to pull down his pants and urinate on the table? What would be your response? I know what my reaction would be. In our culture we see mental handicap as either idiocy, or a personal failing. We tell the shaggy, rambling homeless person to get a job. Hospitals cut the ribbon on state-of-the-art cancer centers while antiquated state mental hospitals are shut down. Alzheimer's patients are segregated from their homes in locked memory care facilities. NAMI (http://www.nami.org/) gets only TV actor endorsements.

I believe our culture has difficulty separating brain function and mind function. The body from the soul. Fanini may occasionally mistake the table for the toilet, it's just that her brain has lost the pathways that tell her what to do when she gets the urge. Likewise, living with the boys has taught me that babies are not just screaming lumps of flesh. Ganini cries because he hasn't yet formed the pathways that enable him to speak the words to tell me he's tired. Fanini is proof that just because you are crazy doesn't mean you are stupid. Both Fanini and Ganini don't have the voice to make others understand.

AIDS transitioned from the scarlet letter of sexual depravity to a star-studded cause-celebre because of powerful marketing. AIDS sufferers were still able to advocate for themselves via the media and the legal system. At the risk of sounding saintly, I think part of my life mission is to change how I treat those who cannot treat for themselves. I'm changing how I perceive and respond to Fanini and Ganini. I'm seeing them as humans, humans who have lost or not yet learned my level of brain-powered skills. And I'm spreading the news. I'm hoping what I do will ripple out into the wider world. I'm thinking I can change the world, one blog at a time.

Housecoat, Part II, The Love Affair

What is it called? Creative visualization? Self-fulfilling prophecy? A few weeks ago I wrote that I wanted a housecoat; then, like magic, one appeared. It happened when I was down on N. Mississippi Avenue, visiting a very cool vintage shop called Bella Norte. It was there that I heard the housecoat call my name. In an old oak armoire, nestled amongst the silk peignoirs and skinny sheath dresses, was a full-on frumpy chenille housecoat. "Take me home. . ." the housecoat called, "I wuv you!" Seduced by its ribs of terrycloth, fussy flowers and zipper front, I held it in my arms, petted it and called it my precious. "We will always be together," I murmured in its armhole, "I will wear you as you have never been worn before." We went home together, vowing never to part.
Now I'm living in a cozy tent of pale blue love. My boys think it's very swell. They want to be zipped up with me inside the housecoat. They tell me I'm soft and warm. Momma. My husband has tactfully refrained from commenting. Or maybe he's just jealous.

Five Warning Signs Quiz

There are many books out there that will tell you what to do IF your parents become demented. But really, do you need to fork out the $29.99 for a self-help book if you don't even know if you will need it? Do I buy the book, or not?

Here's a quick quiz to determine your odds of becoming a Panini.

I. My parents are:
a. Really great. They're 80 years old, and have done all their estate planning and are cheerfully ensconced in their retirement community.
b. Really pretty ok. They're 65 years old, and have done some wills and medical forms, but they are still living in that funky house.
c. Really not too bad. They are 75 years old and are only now becoming aware of their impending demise.
d. Really a mess. They are 80 years old and I haven't spoken to my dad ever since he was convicted.

II. My siblings and I:
a. Get along great! I'd have no hesitation about taking a walking trip across Nepal with all of them, and their spouses, too!
b. Sometimes have our differences, but we always work them out.
c. Do o.k. as long as we don't have to spend too much time together.
d. Left home at 18 and only occasionally exchange Christmas cards.

III. My parents (family) possessions:
a. Mean nothing to me, just stuff.
b. There are a few things I'd like to have, but mostly I don't care.
c. I think it should all be divided up evenly.
d. Are all exquistely imbued with deep emotional meaning, and my siblings would steal them all if they could!

IV. My children and my husband:
a. Are united together as a loving group, through thick and thin.
b. Have our ups and downs, but we all love each other and work hard together to work it out.
c. Are mostly a burden, but this is the path we're on for the present.
d. If that asshole doesn't get up off that sofa and take these little brats out of here I swear I will start screaming!

V. I find it stressful:
a. I never find it stressful, I am serene and relaxed all the time.
b. When things get super busy, but I am good about handling my self-care.
c. When things get too busy for me, and I get stressed if I don't get it all done.
d. See quiz IV, answer (d).

If you answered mostly (a) you will probably never be a Panini, or if you are you will sail through it with Martha Stewart like aplomb. Don't bother spending the 29.99.

If you answered mostly (b) you have a greater chance of becoming a Panini, but it probably won't bother you greatly. If you see a good eldercare book on sale, you might buy it for informational purposes.

If you answered mostly (c) you will definitely be a Panini, so go to amazon.com, order 3 books and devote a weekend to reading them and taking notes.

If you answered mostly (d) you already are a Panini, skip the books and go directly to the Alheimer's Hotline for help.

Thanks for taking this quiz. One final word of caution: Very few people die instantly of a heart attack while doing kickboxing class on the Lido deck of a Caribbean cruiseship. It's probably not prudent to plan your end of life around that scenario.

That's A Housecoat!

This evening as I splayed my exhausted body on the sofa, blearily eyeing my two boys' creative re-working the Playmobil Firestation, my mind wandered over the change in my career status. I am now a "householder." A friend alerted me to this newest term in family member definition, formerly known as "housewife." It's an omni-sexual term for the member of the partnership that steps away from their job/career/passion to raise the family and maintain the home fires. I like this term. It makes me think of a Medieval chatelaine, capably bringing in the castle's wheat harvest, not a hair out of golden fillet, while the lord of the manor is off quelling the Scots. Terribly romantic.

As I splay there, the belt on my fashionably low-cut jeans digging uncomfortably into my lumbar area, my second thought is: What should I wear in my new position? It needs to be something that is comfortable and flexible to move in. It must be easy-care, with a patterned cloth to hide the stains. It needs to camouflage the lumps and bumps of the 20 extra pounds I'm carrying. Then it hit me! I am pretty much describing the muumuu-style housecoat my mother wore in my youth!

My mother was quite an attractive woman. Fanini was tall and curvy, with dark hair and a strong face. She dressed to suit her shape, in tailored skirts and dresses; fashionable, with an eye to subtle details. At least she did in all the photos I've seen of her. When I first knew her, she mostly wore a short sleeved, vaguely Hawaiian, dark blue and green housedress. In fact, in all my Kindergarten portraits of her, she is wearing that dress.

So looking back and doing the math, my mother would have been 44 years old. She would have been out of her career for 5 years. She would have had 4 children and a non-participating husband to care for. She would have canned, cooked, shopped, nursed, drove, and cleaned for all of us in our huge, unreconstructed victorian house. No more career to pursue--out went the Pendleton wool suits. No more evenings at the swank nightspots--out went the low-cut petal pink silk cocktail dress with black edging. It was during this muumuu time that I recall her butt getting pretty wide. I don't recall her ever complaining about it.

So here we go again. Things are both better and different forty years later. My husband is extremely considerate, and really wants to be a good father and supportive husband. I have a small easy-care house. I have lots of conveniences and entertainments to ease my daily drudgery. So what does it mean, this contemplation of the housecoat ? Is it merely because I am middle aged and have finally accepted that now I am, no longer, hot? That I cannot identify 75% of the stars in People magazine? And I don't care? Do I finally realize that this is not going to be just another in a string of personal adventures? That I'm probably going to be doing this until I die? Never again will I attend a New Year's Eve party in my famous black to silver strapless mini-dress. I guess it is time to send it on to the thrift store. Maybe some other fabulous babe will get some mileage out of it. I hope she can appreciate it.

Short Order Kitchen

If you have small children, you know that feeding them can be a challenge. One child doesn't like cheese. The other child wants her sandwiches cut diagonally, and without crusts. Neither child will eat seafood. Some days I feel like a short order cook in my own kitchen. Now Fanini is beginning a strange new stage of AZ, the not eating phase. On a scientific level, watching Fanini's brain disassemble is fascinating. I can watch sections of memory and function stop working in real time. Not eating is part of the whole sensory input section of the brain. Physical stimulation becomes harder and harder to process for Fanini. Like a tiny infant, she cannot understand what to do with that physical sensation. Suddenly food flavors and textures "do not compute." Anything spicy, sour, crunchy, or otherwise distinctive to the taste buds is left on the plate. But, like a child, she always will eat sweets. Sanini tells me that this is an evolutionary remnant--sweet foods are not likely to be poisonous.

So now I am left with a diminishing repertoire of recipes. A cursory search of the AZ websites recommends feeding the foods of their youth, those deepest in memory. I talked with Fanini's doctor about this, and she basically said, "if she'll eat ice cream, give her ice cream with nutritional additives." We're not talkin' healthy building blocks here. So what I need need is the 'End of Life' cookbook. Just imagine the recipes! 50 Ways To Sneak In Protein Powder! Steak Shakes! Lasagne A La Mode!

So I'm at yet another bizarre intersection in great chart of human life progression. My children need foods that are tasty and supportive for growing bodies, since I'm shaping their future food preferences and physical health. Fanini's food needs are more akin to hospice care. The Trader Joe's last sacrament chocolate truffle. I suppose there are worse ways to end your days.

Twofer

Today we had a Twofer. 1. My boy got pottytrained. 2. Fanini got her own bathroom.
My 2 1/2 year old, Ganini has been flirting with the potty for months, and finally today used it on his own initiative for the whole day. I never really minded the diapers, and baby-poo is less disgusting than adult-poo, but it does get tiresome.
When Fanini first moved in with us, I bought a pottychair to put in Fanini's room, because she often felt uncomfortable walking through the house to the bathroom. So I've been emptying chamberpots for the last 6 months. I don't know if you've ever had to empty chamberpots, but it is not nice. Consequently adding on to our (tiny) 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom house was pretty much a requirement. Now, $80,000 later, we have a swell bedroom/bathroom addition for Fran.
I checked a book out of the library, "how to alzheimer's proof your home" or something. If you want the title, ask me and I'll look it up. I got a lot of good ideas from looking at other assisted living buildings, in addition to research on the web. I took all that information and incorporated into the plan the bits that I thought would be most helpful to Fran and her caregivers. Speakers in the ceiling pipe Fanini-friendly muzak into her room. The bathroom floor is a very groovy cork mosaic tile that is warm to the touch and soft on the foot. The bedroom has radiant floor heat so there are no heaters to worry about. A french door exits to the backyard so we could later add a wheelchair accessible entrance. The toilet has a warmed bidet toilet seat. A towel warmer pre-heats towels and PJs, very important for the AZ patient's comfort. It is all very posh.
All day Fanini has been very happily sitting in her room, looking through her possessions and listening to the muzak. This evening when I heard the new toilet flush, I smiled and considered a future with less poop and more elbowroom. It looks better.