Let’s face it — many of us are smack dab in the middle of the “Sandwich Generation.”  Oh, sure, we’re better known as aging Baby Boomers, but our booming days are long past.  We’re in the Land of In-Between enjoying our newly emptied nests and . . . either filling them back up with aging parents or managing their care from a distance.   We often find ourselves utterly frustrated, burdened and feeling guilty because, after all, we are grown-ups and this was NOT supposed to happen — but “they’re our parents!”  We want to be DONE with the responsibility of taking care of someone else!  THIS WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN!!  Or WAS it?

We Baby Boomers have new grandchildren.   We’re exploring activities and interests that were put on hold for 20 years while we raised our own kids.  We’re no longer sleep deprived from sitting up and pacing every Friday and Saturday night for our teenagers to return home (hopefully a few minutes beFORE curfew and sober!)  Exorbitant high school and college tuition payments are in the past and our nest eggs have been feathered quite nicely.  The embers in our marriages are smoldering with the same intensity as they were in the beginning, and generally, Life is good — but for the dog and Mom and Dad or just Mom or just Dad.

My 90-year-old mother’s advanced dementia and a fall in the middle of the night one year ago underscored her need for specialized placement, taking her out of my brother’s house into permanent skilled care.  Four months of required physical therapy for her broken vertebrae at a large skilled nursing facility saddened all of us.  We unaffectionately referred to it as “God’s Waiting Room.”  No one likes being stalled in a waiting room. Not the patients, not the families.  No one.   And being there for four months was excruciatingly depressing! As her therapy drew to an end, we focused on finding a place for Mom that we all liked and one that she would come to accept  . . . eventually, we hoped.

Three Oaks is perfect!  It houses 6 patients, all at least 90 years old with varying degrees of dementia,  in a 5-bedroom mid-century sprawling ranch-style house with 3 shifts of 3 full-time caregivers. Each resident has moved in with his or her own bedroom furniture, personalizing that special room in the house.   Paul’s son brought Paul’s grand piano!  It occupies a corner in the spacious living room, just to the right of a big, bay window!  All of the residents’ framed pictures line the mantle over the word-burning fireplace, just like family photos in many homes sit on end tables, bookshelves and other prominent spaces.   Cornelia’s china cabinet stands against a paneled wall in the family room.  Many of her favorite Lladro figurines stand guard over the days’ activities.  Madge’s mosts cherished memento is an 8″x 10″ framed photo of her with husband that she carries around lovingly clutching it against her heart — only NOW she thinks it’s a picture of her parents!

Visiting Mom in the early months following her move was nothing I looked forward to.  In fact, I dreaded it, but out of guilt and obligation, I forced myself to go.

“Ugh!” I thought, “I’d better go over there and sit for awhile!  Mom doesn’t even know who I am, but still, I’d better go!”

And she didn’t know who I was, nor does she now.  But a lot has changed since my early visits.  I have learned that there are two Lands of In-Between, just like there are two Dakotas, two Carolinas and two Americas!  My Land of In-Between is MUCH different than my mother’s.  Emotions as ominous as guilt, obligation, worry, responsibility, fear, resentment, anger and disappointment over past events and even some bitterness lurk in the dark shadows and corners of this Land.  They are the denizens of its haunted forests. Will, reason and intention govern the inhabitants.

Mom’s Land of In-Between is unrecognizably beautiful to those of us in MY Land.  There are no haunted forests.  Will, reason and intention have faded; confusion, vulnerability and a sort of innocence have emerged and taken a strong foothold.  There are no negative emotions — oh, don’t misunderstand!  There are MANY unintended outbursts of surliness, absolutely , but there is no intentional driving motivation of ill will or anger at all.  Mom, Cornelia, Jeanne, Madge, Paul and Mary Lou reside in their own private, individual worlds, but . . . they still interact with each other and with each other’s visitors.  Realizing the difference “languages” of the two Lands is  when the fun begins!

One day, hoping to break up the monotony of trying to make small talk with my mother, knowing that she can’t communicate clearly or rationally, I decided to bring my Springer Spaniel with me to The Oaks.  After all, Rusty might just prove to be an excellent therapy dog!

Our entrance that day was far from ordinary.  Rusty rushed through the front door, excited to be on a field trip, and even more excited to explore the inside of this new house he was in.  I leashed him and walked him from person to person so they could pet him.  After all introductions were made, Rusty laid at my feet while I sat on the couch next to my mother.

“What’s his name?” asked Cornelia.

“Rusty,” I answered.

“Dusty?” she asked, to confirm.

“No, RUSTY!” I answered a bit louder, realizing that all of them were most likely hearing impaired.

“Crusty?” asked a voice from another couch.

“No! RUSTY!” I said even louder still.

“Puss-ty!  What kind of name is that?” scolded Madge, “What a disgusting name!  I can’t believe anyone would name their dog Puss-ty!”

“You’re right!” I said, going along with her line of illogic, “Puss-ty IS a disgusting name!  What do you think I should call him?”

“How about Rusty?” she offered.

“PERFECT!” I exclaimed, “I’ll call him Rusty from now on!  How ’bout that?!”

And it was settled.  Rusty was now renamed “Rusty!”

Lunchtime is especially entertaining.  Mom, Paul, Madge and Cornelia each have their own place at the dining room table.  Jeanne and Mary Lou never sit with the others.  I’m not sure why, but then again, there are myriad things at Three Oaks that I don’t quite understand.  No one picks up a fork until Mom has led them in the Catholic version of Grace before meals.

“AHEM,” she begins, clearing her throat, a prayerful reverence overtaking her usual vacant demeanor.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” she says, enunciating each word as if she were an ordained priest offering Sunday Mass, but pronouncing ‘Father’ like ‘FAAHH-thaaah’  “. . . Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, FROM THY BOUNTY (which she strenuously emphasizes; why, I don’t know), through Christ, Our Lord, Amen.”

Before closing with a second Sign of the Cross, she peeks out at the others from her bowed head to confirm their participation.  When satisfied, she finishes . . .

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Ordinarily, no one would think much about this daily ritual; however, Paul only looks prayerful with head bowed and hands in his lap because he’s nodded off.  Cornelia folds her hands but never bows her head.  Instead, she looks at me, silently mouthing, “You’re so pretty!” during the entire prayer.  Madge, the only non-Catholic in the group, makes no attempt to bow her head OR fold her hands.  She picks up her fork, marches it around the perimeter of her plate as if it were a stainless steel soldier, then guides it through the air like an airplane, saying, “Look what I can do!” and then she winks at me, with a playful glimmer in her cloudy blue eyes!  Just as Mom ends Grace with the second Sign of the Cross, Madge stiffens like a Marine, stares straight ahead with her right hand to her forehead, makes a clicking sound, then salutes!

Conversation flows quite easily during lunch.  It seldom makes sense, but there is a constant exchange over what’s happening in everyone’s lives!  Madge visits her mother every afternoon.  It seems she’s been in some sort of horrific accident, resulting in either an amputated or broken right leg.  The extent of the injury just isn’t that clear to me yet.  Madge has unselfishly made herself available to take care of her mother every day, right after lunch!  One day, she even showed me a picture of her mother — the 8″ x 10″ photo of herself and her husband.

“See?” she explained, “There she is!”

“No way!  That’s your mother?” I exclaimed, “She looks JUST LIKE YOU!”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “that’s my mother!”

“My gosh!  You are her spitting image!  You are both SO beautiful!”

And with that, she smiled as she lovingly stroked the faces on the photo.

Madge knows she doesn’t have a car, so she relies on Gloria (one of the caregivers) for transportation.  God bless Gloria.  She walks Madge out the front door and down the driveway “to visit” Madge’s mother every afternoon following lunch.  Gloria may walk Madge down the driveway two or three times a day.  Patience and compassion are in abundance at The Oaks.

“It’s time to go see Mother!” Madge announces to Gloria after they’d just returned from one such visit.

“Oh, Madge!” explains Gloria, “Your Mom went to New York, remember?”

“Oh, yes! I DO remember!” agrees Madge, believing the deception.

“Yes, she went there for New Year’s.  She wanted to visit Time Square and go to a play on Broadway!  We’re supposed to pick her up at the airport later this afternoon!” Gloria continued, hoping for a respite in walking Madge down the driveway.

And it seemed to work.  As the visit continued, Gloria and I chatted about this and that.  I told her I was planning on going to the movie later that day.

“Oh!  Can I go too?” she asked.

“Um m m m m . . . well, I’d LOVE to have you come along, but . . . aren’t you supposed to go pick up Madge’s mom at LAX?” I joked.

“That’s right!” chimed in Madge, “Mother’s coming home today!”

With the mid-day meal eaten and cleared, my mother and I moved to the overstuffed couch in the family room.  Madge came with us, once again explaining that her mother’s leg had been badly injured and that she couldn’t wait to go help.  Only half-listening, my attention turned to Mary Lou, Paul and Jeanne whose attention was glued to the television.  The three of them sat in their usual places, throw blankets across their laps, raptly staring at the screen, hardly ever blinking . . . as if by blinking they’d miss the best part of the show.

“What are they watching so intently?” I asked James, another caregiver.

“Naked and Afraid on Discovery Channel.  It’s their favorite!” he answered, unaffected by how this sounded to a visitor such as I.

“WHAT!!!??” I exclaimed in utter shock and disbelief, “Naked and Afraid?  What in the world is THAT?”

From what I can tell, Naked and Afraid is a reality show testing the survival skills of two hippies, now in mid-Life, who’ve obviously dropped a few too many sugar cubes laced with acid.  The episode du jour spotlighted one such couple who had accepted a 21-day challenge in the rain forest of Guyana.  We at Three Oaks tuned in AFTER they’d arrived and set up camp at the river’s edge.  Why nakedness is mandatory escapes me; perhaps it intensifies the challenge.  Who knows?  Anyway . . . I, too, became mesmerized with the show.  I couldn’t beLIEVE the lunacy.

“Look at that guy!” I said to Gloria and James, “he’s SUCH a lazy bum!  He’s making his idiot girlfriend do EVERYTHING . . . and she’s so stupid, she’s actually DOING it!  He’s been trying to spear a stingray for 5 days now and the only thing he’s caught is a crab with a broken leg!  He even ate the whole thing without offering the girl even a tiny little crab’s leg!  And in the meantime, she’s up on the hill, covered head-to-toe with poison ivy, constructing a hut on higher ground for when the monsoons come!”

The three of us commented, criticized and chastised every move the social drop-outs made until something caught me off guard and hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Just look at the beautiful trees!” whispered Mary Lou, “Hummingbirds and lots of animals live in them!”

“<GASP!> They’re lovely,” added Cornelia.

“Uh huh,” agreed Paul.

And there it was — the clash between my rational world and the other Land of In-Between.  The three “sane” people were full of judgment and scorn; Mary Lou, Mom, Paul and the others were in awe over the beauty of the rain forest.  They didn’t even realize that the beatniks were stupid and naked.

What began as forced visits out of guilt and obligation have changed into hours of acceptance, appreciation, humor and most of all great love.  Those six dear, sweet people have brought home the fact that Life isn’t lived our way . . . it’s lived God’s way.

 

 

 

 

Some of you have asked how the drive to Yuma was. Well . . . I got here . . . safely, but as usual, all I have to say is, “It’s NOT easy being me!”

When will I learn to read the signs that Life puts in my path? I came very close to buying what I thought was a cute sweatshirt/tunic top at Farmer’s Daughter up at Bates’ Nut Farm on Wednesday but was told by the salesclerk that I “looked like crap!” Maybe that was the first sign, I don’t know. Maybe the second sign was the set of directions for a short cut over the mountains and through the Anza Borrego desert to Yuma that Heidi wrote on a cocktail napkin that night. And maybe the third sign was the fact that there had been a car-to-car shooting on Interstate 8 near El Cajon on Thursday morning causing a freeway closure “until further notice.”

Whatever the signs were, I failed to read them! While waiting for Interstate 8 to reopen, I drove up to have breakfast with Al & Rene.  I mentioned that the freeway was closed because of the shooting and that I REALLY wanted to get on the road to see my son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter in Yuma. I told them that Heidi had scribbled some directions on a cocktail napkin, outlining an “easy” route through Ocotillo Wells that would be a good alternative to the longer way to Yuma via Interstate 15 to Interstate 8.

“It’s easy!” they said, agreeing with Heidi’s notes, “Just head up past Lake Henshaw, turn left then turn right! You’ll hit Interstate 8 in no time.”

So . . . . I gobbled up by “Al McMuffin,” took a detour back up to Farmer’s Daughter to buy the top that made me “look like crap,” then headed up Hwy. 76 toward Lake Henshaw.

Easy, peasy! No traffic, beautiful scenery, clear signage and WAY ahead of schedule. Being the wise person that I am, I did not rely entirely on Heidi’s map on the cocktail napkin; I ALSO programmed my car’s GPS with my son’s physical address and selected “shortest route.” I had double coverage!!

I sang along to the radio, daydreamed and fantasized about this and that, thoroughly enjoying the drive. I passed through Ocotillo Wells, marvelling at the wide expanse of nothing but sand dunes, RVs and dune buggies; then slowly the RVs and dune buggies became fewer and fewer. The little town of Brawley came and went. But the sand dunes didn’t.

“In one-half mile, turn right at Ted Kopff Trail,” the voice on my car’s tracking system ordered.

“O.K.,” I thought, “I’m finally going to start heading South!”

But as I approached Ted Kopff Trail, fully prepared to turn right, my heart dropped with a THUD!

“I’m not turning there!” I said to myself, realizing that I may have missed a turn somewhere behind me. Ted Kopff Trail is a dirt road, heading due South through miles and miles and miles of nothing but sand dunes!

I pulled to the side of the road, grasping for the map on the cocktail napkin!

“UGH!!!!” I muttered, remembering that I’d used the napkin map to discard the gum I’d been chewing! Try as I may to unstick the gum from the map, I just succeeded in making napkin scraps!!

Several expletives later, I cautiously started back on the current road, past Ted Kopff Trail waiting for my car’s GPS to acknowledge me with the voice, “re-CAL-culating!”

“Phew!” It had recalculated! Now I just had 9.2 miles “on the current route” before I was supposed to turn right again.

With Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody blaring from the stereo system, “Beelzebub’s got a devil for . . . . ”

“SH#T!!!!!!” I screamed out loud to no one but myself, “WHAT IF MY NEXT RIGHT TURN IS ANOTHER DIRT TRAIL?

“OMG — AAA will never find me!!! What am I supposed to say, ‘Hello? Yes, this is Peggy West and I’m out here in the Anza Borrego desert on a freakin’ dirt road to nowhere! Can you come help me? Nearest cross-street? Are you kidding me? There ARE NO CROSS STREETS OUT HERE!!! I’m past the 227th sand dune southeast of Brawley!”

Now the Eagles were singing, ” . . . and I want to sleep with you in the desert tonight!”

Really? I’m not sleeping in this desert tonight! Not with You. Not with NOBODY! I’d better find a paved road soon!! The warmest thing I have with me is a vest and I will DIE if I have to spend the night out here in the desert . . . with or withOUT the Eagles!!

I had visions of sunbleached cow skulls; then I imagined my own sunbleached skull on the Coroner’s table waiting for James to come and identify his wife’s remains!! I thought maybe I should put on the sweatshirt that made me “look like crap,” just to make the body identification easier!!

My next right turn approached and to my delight, it WAS a paved road, but I was the only car on it — in both directions — for 20.2 miles. Introduced into the monotonous expanse of nothing but sand dunes were several areas marked off by large rocks. I assumed they delineated campgrounds or something. Whatever. I’d never want to camp out there! I didn’t even want to be driving out there!

I DID put in three voice mail messages to Heidi, telling her that D-roads were NO fun by yourself. I don’t really remember what I said in the other two, but I’ll be really lucky if she still wants to be my friend!!

20.2 miles passed and I saw a sign: “Interstate 8 — ahead!”

GLORY BE TO GOD!!!!! I’M SAVED!!!!!

My “shortcut” through Ocotillo Wells took 2 hours longer than it should have! I called James upon my arrival at Patrick’s house.

“Hey! Did you hit any traffic on the 15 and 8?” he asked innocently.

“Nope!” I said, “I had NO TRAFFIC at all!”

There is NO WAY I was going to tell him about my misadventure! What happens in Anza Borrego, STAYS in Anza Borrego!

I DID tell my son what happened, describing the desolation, the dirt roads, etc. His eyes widened and his face paled!

“Mom!!! It’s a good thing that WTI is finished! You were in the middle of the Marine’s target fields!”

WTI stands for “Weapons and Tactical Instruction.” He had just finished teaching a 9-week course on using the artillery on Huey helicopters. I drove through the area that is used for target practice!!! The areas marked off with rocks that I thought were campgrounds were aerial TARGETS!!!!

So . . . two things:
1) It’s just NOT EASY being me;
2) Never . . . but NEVER trust the directions scribbled on a cocktail napkin!!

 

 

For a long time now, my son, Jeff, has referred to our house in Pauma Valley as “Funny Farm.” Chevy Chase once played the role of a farmer in a movie with the same name where very strange things happened on his farm, but the antics that take place on Atosana Drive in Pauma Valley definitely deliver just as much a punch as the fictitious ones in the movie! Jeff was reminded of that movie on his first few visits to OUR funny farm; therefore, he dubbed it with the nickname. (I suppose that makes me the female version of Chevy Chase’s character!)

When James and I first bought the house, unusual things happened that caused us to scratch our heads in puzzlement. Since neither one of us knows which end of tools to use or even which tools to use, we throw ourselves at the mercy of skilled tradesmen for household maintenance projects. We consider terms such as rake, saw, hoe, screwdriver, shovel and other such words as vocabulary from a foreign language! Why bother learning them? We’re never gonna need them anyway!! Same goes for algebra, but THAT’s another story!!

A flower bed in front of the garage held several red, pink and white petunias that provided much needed color in contrast to the brown adobe bricks and dark wooden garage door. But it ALSO had one reed-type plant that was always in motion, swaying back and forth. Always. Even when there was no breeze, the reed kept dancing to and fro. There was no exhaust vent nearby that would cause it and a thorough examination of the ground on either side of the driveway confirmed the absence of gophers which could have possibly been nibbling on the reed’s roots. Our flower bed just had a very happy reed planted there that liked to sway! Rusty noticed it too! The first time the dancing reed caught his attention, he came racing through the side gate at lightening speed. He rounded the corner near the flower bed, saw the reed moving, then jumped back in fear! He crept toward the plant, very cautiously, gingerly placing one paw in front of the other, nose forward trying to get a scent on what he must have thought was an animal. He finally determined that there was no imminent danger presented by the reed, so he peed on it and continued on his merry way over to Doggie Club. Problem solved. If Rusty blessed it, it must be o.k.

Fruit bats adopted the roof of our covered patio as a pseudo-cave, but it took me awhile to even notice they were there! I’d open the sliding door every morning to a blanket of what I thought were rat and mouse droppings! Several trips up to Grangetto’s Agricultural Supply Store in Valley Center for rodent traps were in vain! The morning offering of pellets continued to cover the patio! No matter what bait I used in the traps, those pesky rodents were never tempted! In Elmer Fudd-type fashion, I screamed in frustration, head raised to emphasize my emotion, when, with my eyes wide open during mid-scream, I discovered the source of the pellet droppings!

“Aaaauuuuuugggghhh!!! Those Wascally Wats!” I cried, replacing the Rs with Ws, mimicking Elmer Fudd. But when I saw the number of bats hanging from the patio beams, my cry of lament turned into a shriek of horror!

“AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” All I could think of was Transylvania, vampires, Lon Chaney and Barnabas Collins from the old soap opera, Dark Shadows! I bolted back inside the house, slammed the sliding door shut, locked it and pulled the drapes shut, heart racing at a life-threatening rate!

Duane, up at Grangetto’s was more than happy to sell me a sonar device that emitted high-pitched tones only detectible by bats to mount in the corner of my patio cover. (“Stupid is as stupid does,” I guess, because I either had a swarm of deaf bats roosting in my patio or I was sold a worthless piece machinery!). The bats weren’t the least bit phased by my high-tech repellant!! I resorted to hanging several bags of moth balls and mylar strips from the beams. Don’t ask if that worked. I don’t want to admit that I’m still sweeping up vampire droppings!!

And so it goes. I’ve dealt with a nest of rats living in a box of my mother’s Beanie Babies that I’d been saving for MY grandchildren. I tenderly wrapped a blanket around the inside of the box, creating a soft, protective casing for the stuffed animals and placed the box on top of the refrigerator in the garage. I should have known that something was wrong when Rusty stopped, extended his head, nose pointed upward toward the box and whimpered —- every time he went through the garage. I ignored him, just like I always do! It wasn’t until I had to move the box that I discovered that the Beanie Babies had company! I pulled the box forward, attempting to lift it from the top of the refrigerator, but as soon as I did, the bottom fell out, exposing shreds of Beanie Babies plush fabric, loose Beanie Babies stuffing and at least 18 naked baby rats, eyes still closed! Mama Rat fell to the floor and scurried behind the big plastic tubs of Christmas decorations! I, too, fell to the floor but did not scurry anywhere! I was experiencing heart failure!

Remind me at some point to tell you about the skunk, the owl box that was rigged with fiber-optic cable so we could watch the birth of little baby owls and the rattle snake that slithered through the hedge by the pool. It’s always an adventure down here, proving once again that “It’s Just Not Easy Being ME!!!”

I will close this longer-than-intended email with just two more quips . . . about names of a couple of the skilled tradesmen whom I have called. My old PC was acting up, demanding more technical knowledge than I have, care to have or will EVER have! A friend referred a “computer geek” to me saying that he is a veritible wizard. I phoned the front gate to notify Security to allow him access into the neighborhood.

“Good Morning, Officer Burges. This is Peggy West on Atosana Drive. I’m just calling to let you know that I’ve got a computer guy coming this morning and I need you to let him in.”

“O.K., Mrs. West. No problem. What’s his name?” asked Tim Burges.

“Johnny Fu,” I answered.

“Could you spell that for me?” he asked.

“(pausing) . . . . um . . . . F – U,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t be offended by the innuendo.

“Oh. O.K. Got it!” he said, a sheepish smile evident in his response.

(I’m amused at that story every time I think of it!)

And . . . as long as we’re talking about names, my last little story happened to me just yesterday . . . with my plumber. I called my same friend who referred Johnny Fu, asking if she had a good plumber I could contact. She texted me a phone number. I called immediately as I had turned off all water coming into the house and I was desperate! Lucky for me, he was available and could rescue me!

“O.K., GREAT!” I confirmed, “give me your name and I’ll call the front gate!”

“Jose Cuervo,” he answered.

<“He’s GOT to be kidding, but . . . O.K.,” I thought. I’m more interested in fixing the shower today!>

Once again, I called Tim Burges, “Hey Tim,” I began, “this is Peggy West and I’ve got a plumber coming.”

“O.K., Mrs. West, what’s his name?” he asked, pencil in hand, ready to make a note.

“Ready?” I asked, “His name is Jose CUERVO!” I said, emphasizing the surname for effect.

“(silence). . . . Isn’t that a tequila?” he asked.

“Yes!” I answered with a giggle, “I don’t know if I should have a tequila sunrise or just wait for him!”

Jose arrived right on time and worked for most of the day . . . making me wonder if he were charging me by the minute or by the job! I didn’t really care, though. My showers were being repaired and I was getting a big kick out of texting my friends about the REAL Jose Cuervo in my house! Ole!!