Previously: Frank is diagnosed with Achilles heel tendonitis. A surgical implant doesn’t stop the pain of walking. Physically he weakens from lack of exercise.  As the year progresses I also note emotional changes. He’s always been impatient with inefficient store clerks or dawdling customers, often making rude remarks. Now, his behavior escalates to the use of cuss words and vulgar gestures. 

Chapter 91 ends:

Standing in line at the CVS pharmacy, he yelled at a lady who used the prescription counter to check out shelf items. “Go to the front of the store,” he shouted.
She gathered her packages and headed toward him. “You don’t need to be rude.”
“Get your fat ass out of here.”  He gave her the finger.
Frank had always been assertive, but never this aggressive. Something was very wrong.

I had no specific reason to make a doctor’s appointment or go to urgent care.  His medications hadn’t changed, so it couldn’t be side effects.  Two years ago he had gone to a neurologist for carpal tunnel syndrome and possible sleep apnea since insomnia was also a big problem. Nothing of a serious nature appeared. 

I didn’t think hubby’s daily “recital” of his youth and Air Force days were symptoms of an illness.  Annoying? Yes, but maybe I could put an end to it. How? Write about his struggles to get away from home, his success as a cryptographer, his marriage to me.

Frank was delighted to be the subject of my first self-published book.  His copy is dog-eared, the cover torn in one corner.  Taking Control: Leaps of Faith rests on a hamper, an easy reach from his toilet seat.  Constipated reading, I call it.  The short biography needed a better title (my input) and introduction (daughter’s critique). Chris thought it great. Frank found a mistake. He's reminded me at least twice a month.

“Hey, I wrote what you told me. Don’t go changing the facts.” I defend myself. The book didn't stop his stories. But now when he asks "How many times did we move?"  I answer, "I don't remember. Go back and read what you told me."

In spite of foot pain and constant fatigue, when his biannual checkup was due, Frank told the doctor, “I’m good.”

I didn't let him get away with that and gave the doctor my version. "He's  cold all the time and irritable with others."

“I am not!” Frank huffed. “My only problem is a heel that hurts.” He started to recite for the umpteenth time the story of his botched surgery. I interrupted twice to correct facts. The third time he yelled at me, “Stay out of this!” I shrank back in my seat. Dr. Shah frowned. He had never seen this side of hubby.

“Let’s do a quick mental exercise,” he suggested. “I’m going to name three common items. I want you to remember them.”

“I can do that,” Frank agreed.

The doctor held up his pen. “Pen.”   Then, knocking on his desk, “Desk.”  His eyes perused the room and landed on my shoe. “Shoe.”

My hubby nodded. “I got it.”

“For the next exercise I want you to spell “earth.”

“E-A-R-T-H”

“Good. Now spell it backwards.”

Uh, oh.  I knew Frank would fail this.

“T-H-R-E-A”

“Try again,” the doctor urged.

“Um. H-T-A-R-E? Doc, it’s all I can do to spell, let alone backward,” Frank whined.

"Okay. Forget the spelling bee. Do you remember the three words I gave you earlier?”

Hubby groaned. “No.”

The doctor addressed both of us. “We may be dealing with the start of dementia. Is there any history in your family, Frank?”

I answered for him. Bad habit of mine.  “His mom had Alzheimer’s.”

“All the more reason to see a neurologist. If you do have cognitive impairment, Frank, he can prescribe Aricept to slow down the progress.”

“It’s nothing but old age,” hubby scoffed. “After all, I’m seventy-five. When you reach that age, you’ll forget things too.” 

“I’m sure.” The doctor smiled. “It could be something else."

"Thyroid?" I suggested. "I know how miserable I was when overactive."

"We'll test and see, Dr. La May." He grinned at me. I was always coming up with a diagnosis. "But just to get another opinion, I’d like our patient to see Dr. Rubin.”

Back home, I researched the internet and queried my neighbor, a retired nurse who had worked with Alzheimer’s patients. She gave me worst case scenario: “There is no cure.”

FACT: There is no single test that proves a person has Alzheimer's. A diagnosis is made through a complete assessment that considers all possible causes.

Two weeks later, Dr. Rubin’s P.A. (Physician’s Assistant) took down Frank’s medical and genetic history. Jan, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman with untamed blonde hair, put us at ease with her casualness and laugh. She administered the mini-mental state exam (three words to remember and a word to spell backward) and the mini-cog test. The latter included drawing a clock, putting in numbers and hands pointing to a specified time (3:30 in this case). Hubby penciled the semblance of a circle, put in ant-size letters (he always wrote small) and managed to get the time almost right. What’s an hour or two among friends?        

Next, Jan handed him two sheets of paper. One was blank. The other, a drawing of squares, triangles, and rectangles both apart and intersecting.
“Copy this as you see it."

Her honey tones and friendly ways gave no clue this was a trap.

His drawing revealed a miscalculation of space.  At least that’s what I saw. Or maybe his reproduction was correct and my perceptions were off.  Truthfully, neither of us could draw a straight line.

The chubby chick gathered all the drawings and completed a form on her desk. “Right now,” she clucked, “your score indicates mild impairment. We’ll put you on Aricept and see you again in three months.”

“What IS his score?”  I was irritated she didn’t volunteer the information.

The assistant turned to me. “The maximum score is 30 points. A score of 20 to 24 suggests mild dementia, 13 to 20 suggests moderate dementia, and less than 12 indicates severe dementia. Frank’s score is 23.”

I found out the score of a person with Alzheimer's declines two to four points each year. That was the case with hubby.  A year later, his score was twenty-one. Two CT scans a year apart showed “mild/moderated generalized cerebral atrophy consistent with the patient’s age” and some “prominent vascular channels.”  The P.A. insisted he had Alzheimer. Dr. Shah, our primary physician, said Frank had vascular dementia. That didn’t make sense. He never had a stroke, the cause of blood vessel damage, or a severe fall. Maybe it was the frying pan I aimed at his head when he was late for a date forty-six years ago?  Fortunately, an iron skillet was too heavy to throw.

Dementia or Alzheimer’s, it’s all the same. Beginning stages are imperceptible except to those who live with the victim. I e-mailed the news to both children. My nurse friend said, "They need to be prepared." Chris didn’t believe it but Nichole wasn't surprised. “He repeated himself several times when you visited last year. I’m so sorry, Mom. This will be tough on you. I wish I were closer and could help.”

“It’s no problem now and may not be for a few years. I’ve read what to expect and how to react. I wish it had been his thyroid gland. That's an easy fix."  
 
Aricept was a joke. So were the visits to a neurologist. We stopped both after a year and a half.  For the first time, I blessed the pain in Frank's heel. At least, I didn’t have to worry he’d take a walk and get lost. He still was a good driver, the reason I married him. Well, one of them. For the next two years we continued to drive every two months to visit my sister’s son in Tampa. Seeing Bobby's immobile forty-year-old body made me realize there could be worse things to lose than one’s mind. 
 
To be continued.
 

Author Notes

Bobby had a neurological problem that put him in a wheelchair at twenty. By the time he reached forty, he could only move his head and lower arms. Thanks to Barking Dog (Ellen) for promoting this today. Thanks to Giraffemag for the banner ad and for promoting this for another day. Thanks to Phyllis Stewart for her generous offer to fill my coffers if need me. I'm overwhelmed by the angels on FS.

Previously: The doctor picks up on Frank’s changed behavior and suggests it could be a sign of dementia. A neurologist tests him further. The diagnosis is the start of an incurable disease. It’s July 2012, and I now realize his memory lapses and aggressive behavior over the past two years can’t be blamed on old age. Frank will turn seventy-five in December.

Chapter 92 ends:

Aricept was a joke. So were the visits to a neurologist. We stopped both. For the first time, I blessed the pain in his heel. At least, I didn’t have to worry he’d take a walk and get lost. Hel was still a good driver, the reason I married him. Well, one of them. For the next two years we continued to drive every two months to visit my sister’s son in Tampa. Seeing his forty-three year-old body in paralyzed condition made me realize there could be worse things to lose than one’s mind.

Every time we saw Bobby now, I asked, "Have you heard from your mother? Lights flickering? Crooked pictures straightened?"  My sister had passed away three years ago following an unexpected discovery of stage four cancer. She said goodbye to Frank after her death. He saw her ghost or spirit in our kitchen five days after her memorial service. She had already sent a message to me while in a coma, but that’s a story I’ve told in a prior chapter.

Bobby would grin every time I questioned him. "Nothing, Aunt Shari. Anyway, I don’t believe in that sort of thing."

"Well, be assured, she’s watching over you."

"I hope not." He snorted. "I loved Mom, but her death meant one less parent I have to please. Dad and I get along fine. My stepmother even tolerates me now that Mother’s not around."

I never told my nephew about Frank’s diagnosis. He didn’t need to be burdened with the health problems of others. His support group of friends, a caretaker at night, a cleaning lady one day a week and a big supply of pain pills kept him comfortable. Every year he did our taxes. His accounting degree enabled him to take on clients. Financially, he was set, thanks to his Mother’s will. For all that security, he needed a loving touch.  I always gave him a gentle hug and kissed him on the cheek before we left. He would say, "Thank you. That means a lot."
 

In spite of the Aricept, Frank’s mind continued to slip. His body followed suit. No longer did he have the military bearing but walked with slumped shoulders and a shuffling gait. "I walk slowly because I have a heel spur in my toe," he told our doctor who went along with the story.

One morning, hubby went out to get the paper, lost his balance and fell on his right side, agitating the infamous heel. I didn’t hear him calling my name until he literally crawled through the open front door. Helping him get up wasn’t easy. Stubborn man insisted he didn’t need to go to the doctor. From that incident on, he forgot about the botched surgery. Every physical ailment in his legs and feet were now the result of "The Fall." See? Everything happens for a reason. Now I could refer to events as B.F. (before fall) and A.F. (after fall).

As the year moved into 2013, I started to chart mishaps. One night, instead of pouring powdered cocoa for a cup of hot chocolate, he opened an instant oatmeal packet. "This tastes funny." He shoved the mug toward me. I laughed. Yes, early signs were harmless and humorous. The Super Bowl was played in Russia. Cheese went into the freezer. "How does the thermostat work again?" he asked every day.  He punched a button on the remote. His show zoomed in. "How do I get this back to normal, Shari?"  Panic is his voice. He still marvels at my technical ability. The remote and I are on intimate terms these days. If I fondled him as much as I do this gadget, he'd be using Viagra.

The situation became more serious over time. Some days he couldn’t remember how to take his sugar count. I’d walk into the bathroom. He’d have a syringe in his hand ready to prick a finger. Another time I found him staring at the cell phone thinking it was his glucose meter. Thus began my habit of overseeing his medication for fear he might forget a shot or overdose.

What really panicked me was the morning he asked, "Are you Shari?’

At first, I thought he was joking and laughed. "Yes, I’m Shari, your wife for the past forty-seven years."

"Oh!" He stayed serious. "For a minute I thought you were my mother."

I joked. "Well, I’ve always heard men marry a woman like their mother."

"No way!" His mind returned. "I didn’t get along with her at all."

Later, I figured out what had happened. He’d been on the throne, reading my self-published book about adventures in college. Across the front cover and underneath the title, he  puzzled at the author’s name.

He’s losing it, I thought. How much longer before he forgets the names of our children?  I called Nichole. "You need to fly out here for a visit. Two years have gone by. It’s important to see Dad while he still remembers who you are."

To be continued.

Chapter 94
Las Vegas? Maybe.

By Spitfire

Previously: Frank continues to deteriorate physically and mentally. Then one morning, he mistakes me for his mother, if only for a moment. I finally begin to panic.

Chapter 93 ends:

He’s losing it, I thought. How much longer before he forgets the names of our children? I called Nichole. "You need to fly out here for a visit. Two years have gone by. It’s important you see Dad while he still remembers your name."

She laughed. "C’mon, Mom. It was just one time. He’ll be okay. A lot of his memory problems are due to old age. You know I hate going to Florida. It’s not just my fear of flying."

Angry? You bet. My neighbor, the nurse, said I should make it an order. No ifs, ands or buts. I couldn’t do that.  She needed to come of her own volition. Resentment would make the visit intolerable. At the time, I had no idea the disease moved as slow as Frank's snail walk. Another year went by before he forgot the name of his son. Again, it lasted less than a minute.

Now, fearful that his dementia would take a nose dive overnight, I contemplated our making another trip to California but not stay in her condo. I wanted to rent a cottage near the ocean, same as we did in 2010.  I loved being outdoors, walking in the sand and watching waves headed toward shore.  No trips to tourist attractions, just scenic drives into mountains coupled with wine-tasting at vineyards. Frank could stay in the car or try to walk. I suggested it to Nichole.

"But you’ve seen all that. Don’t you want to do something new? How about meeting us in Las Vegas? It’s an eight hour drive from here."

"We don’t care about gambling." Her suggestion annoyed me.

"I don’t either, but some great shows are coming up. Remember Terry Fator who won America’s Got Talent?  He did impersonations of famous people with puppet look-alikes.  I could get tickets for that."

"That would be fun," I agreed. "Dad would enjoy his show."

"And the hotels, Mom. You walk into one and think you're in Paris. Another is a replica of Broadway. You don't have to spend. You can just look."

Years ago, I would have jumped at the chance to see luxury hotels in Las Vegas, each with a different theme. But cruises and trips to Europe had spoiled me for "fakery". Nichole had never been abroad, or she might have been spoiled too.

There would be too much walking involved," I argued.

"Not really. The airport provides buses to all hotels. Jeff and I would meet you at a drop off point. We can rent a wheelchair for Dad."

I knew his pride would never put up with that.

Suppressing a sigh, I promised to look into it. Was it doable?

Frank said he could make the trip if I wanted to go. But he didn’t care to see Vegas either. Still, Nichole picked a date. I looked up air fares from Tampa. To my chagrin, every flight meant a transfer to another airport. A risky business with having to worry twice about luggage, long waits, maybe even missing the second plane.

"It’s too much hassle at our age," I told Nichole. "Dad doesn't have the strength anymore to make the effort."

"That’s okay. I understand. I didn’t expect you to make it." No rancor. No bitterness. She did get it, I hoped. Sometimes a little tact would have helped us feel more wanted. I mean, she could have said, "I’m sorry because I looked forward to showing you what we love about Vegas."

In retrospect, maybe she planned continual entertainment as a way to a put a wall between us. No chances to get her alone and share confidences. For some time, Frank and I both felt we were losing our daughter. Acting classes had taught her to wear a mask. The grandiose Halloween wedding thirteen years ago should have warned me to expect a big change.

Three a half years went by before we saw our daughter again. Still with Jeff.

To be continued.

Chapter 95
Reunions

By Spitfire

Previously: I urge my daughter to visit us again since her father is showing more signs of memory loss, and he’s having trouble walking. Since she hates Florida and flying, she suggests we meet in Las Vegas where there are fresh sights and things to do. After lengthy consideration, I decide it’s too much for Frank. Nichole understands.

Chapter 94 ends:
In retrospect, with planned tours and entertainment at our last visit, Nichole put a wall between us. Slim chances to get her alone and talk about old times. We felt we were losing our daughter. Acting classes had taught her how to wear a mask. The grandiose Halloween wedding thirteen years ago foreshadowed that.

Another three a half years went by before we saw our daughter again.
 

In the meantime, my favorite cousin Jill decided a family reunion should be planned. She had lost her brother fourteen years ago. I had lost my sister in 2009. In both cases, we weren't really close to our siblings. Jill didn't get along with her mother either and publicly disowned her, but reconciled when Aunt Dee ended up in a nursing home. 

My parents had passed. Still, between Anne and her brood (four sons, six grandchildren) plus Cousin Edward and Cousin Judy  (my mother's brother's children) and their three children, we had enough for a party.  Did I mention Jill had two daughters and two grandchildren as well? Three divorces to her name left her now single and yes, happy.  I figured nephews, nieces and cousins numbered around twenty. In order to include my sister’s handicapped son Bobby, the gathering would be in Tampa, Florida, the summer of 2013.

For the past thirty years, I had connected with my relatives for the most part at Christmas time: family photos from the grandchildren in Sacramento, California; two-page single-spaced newsletters from Anne in South Dakota, and her oldest son in Simi Valley, California;  generic cards from blood relations in Oregon and Tennessee; then photo cards again from two nephews, also in California and one in Wyoming. My sister Barb also kept in touch by card on the holiday when she was alive. The location would differ according to her latest promotion. 

I congratulated myself on marrying a man who had no brothers or sisters to entertain. His identical twin had died at birth. His mother never married. Her four brothers, his uncles, treated him unkindly. Frank wanted nothing to do with his family. To this day, he can only guess from two photos the identity of his father, a man who dated his mother for years, but died of pneumonia before ever seeing his son.

"Do you want to go the reunion?" he asked.

"Not really. I have nothing in common with my relatives except for Cousin Jill and Bobby, of course. Anne’s sons are cool, but only one can make it."

Looking back, I wish we had gone. After all, family is family. But Frank had fallen a month before, when he bent over to get the newspaper. Nothing broken. Still it affected his bad heel and weakening legs.

Chris and his family had no interest in meeting strangers. I didn’t expect Nichole and Jeff to board a plane either. Our family tree wavered as each generation turned to new pursuits. Anne was last of the Jesses (Mom’s maiden name) to follow the ministry. No more teachers either. Cousins, uncles, nephews and nieces (even my son) all worked in cubicles with new technology. How boring, I thought.

Okay, a little sideline here. When Chris talks techie, his wife falls asleep. (He told me that. She denies it.) Sorry son, I turn off too. It’s a dull language that generates geek passion only.

Frank didn't want to go because he still held a grievance against my half-sister. He couldn’t get past her unchristian behavior at Mom’s memorial service and the wake that followed.

"She accused you of trying to steal Peggy’s jewelry," he stormed.

"You don’t have the facts right." I said. "She said I accused her of stealing, and it wasn’t jewelry. I just asked what happened to Mom’s boom box."

"I don’t remember it that way," he grumbled. Thirteen years had passed since the incident. Recently, I came across a statistic that dementia starts in the brain 30 to 50 years before symptoms appear. Could this be the anger and paranoia I’d been dealing with off and on through the years?

Anne was still blood. She had her faults. No use arguing with her. She knew everything. Still, I admired her courage to leave home and follow her dream late in life.  Both she and Lynn had been active in the Methodist church for years and sponsored tours to the Holy Land. After years of study, she earned a degree in theology and found the Lutheran teachings more to her liking. Thus did she follow in the footsteps of her great grandparents and their son, Carl Jesse, my mother's father.

Returning to her mid-west roots, Anne found a church in Groton, South Dakota, that served several small towns. That was in 1985. Her hubby stayed in California, refusing to grant her  a divorce. "We don't do that in my family," he stormed. Fourteen years later, he retired and joined her. By then, she had bought a Bed and Breakfast business near a lake and served only as a substitute pastor when needed.

Okay, so this doesn’t sound like a big deal, but Anne had severe sight issues. She was diagnosed with macular degeneration in her late fifties. She went through painful surgeries and eventually lost an eye. In her mid-sixties, she also lost her left leg from the knee down. A big fan of horseback riding, she mounted a steed at a nearby ranch and joined others. Somewhere along the trail, a noise spooked her horse. He bucked and threw her. With presence of mind, she saw him rear and lose his balance. With a quick roll of her body she escaped a massive crush. But the horse’s rear flank landed on her left leg. The poor animal had to be shot, much to Anne's distress.

She didn’t let her prosthetic limb keep her from riding again, although she listened now to the owner who had warned her the first time,   "He's not as  tame as the others. A little skittish at times."

"Don't worry. I can handle him,"  Anne assured him.  I imagined the smugness and superior attitude of her voice.

Both leg and eye handicap put her on my pedestal in spite of her know-it-all attitude. But what I admired most about my half-sister was her laugh. Huge and musical and sincere. Along with the art of whistling and rolling my R’s, I could never master even a giggle, let along a guffaw without a snort.

Getting back to the subject of reunions, talk about astral thought.  As I finished this chapter, I heard from Jill for the first time in six years. She sent an e-mail:                             
                                      I plan to be in Miami come August. My high school
                                     reunion. Can we get together? I am thinking of having
                                     another Reunion,  this time in Tennessee. That's
                                     because Judy Jesse (Horn) lives there, and her
                                     husband has difficulty walking. I expect to plan it
                                     for early August 2017.

Oh, if only Frank felt up to going, but he’d want to drive. No way!  Who knows what shape he’ll be in a year from now.

To be continued.

Author Notes

Astral thought--the vibrations of our thinking travel through air and connect with the mind of others on our grid. How many times have you been thinking of someone only to have the telephone ring. Guess who is on the end of the line?

Chapter 96
Time to Let Go of the Old

By Spitfire

Previously: My favorite cousin, Jill, plans a reunion for the summer of 2013. Since I haven’t kept in touch with my relatives except at Christmas, I feel we have nothing in common. Still blood is blood. I feel some regret. As I wrote the chapter, I get an e-mail from Jill, the first time I’ve heard from her in six years.

Chapter 95 ends:
[Jill writes] I am thinking of having another Reunion, this time in Tennessee. That's because Judy Jesse (Horn) lives there and her husband has some difficulty walking. I expect to plan it for early August 2017.

Oh, if only Frank felt up to going, but he’d want to drive. No way! Who knows what shape he’ll be in a year from now.
 

The next time we visited Bobby, he shared group pictures of the reunion. Everyone looked so old! I decided it was better to remember them as occasional visitors to our summer cottage when we were all in our teens.

That year was the second time I didn’t get a Christmas newsletter from Anne. Given her health issues, I took no offense. Yes, I’m one of few who enjoy hearing about the different paths family members are  taking. Their successes and awards are mine too. I like a chance to brag about me and my kids too. In 2013 I wrote about my writing successes and the recent purchase of an expensive new house by Chris and Joanne. Nichole had just bought a pricy new condo too.

 ~~~

I called Anne on her eighty-second birthday in February.

"Hi, Shari." She recognized my voice.  "What a surprise. I was just thinking of calling you."

There it was. Astral thought again. Or both of us being spiritually aware of our connection.

"I miss your Christmas letters," I said.

"I miss writing them. It’s harder and harder for me to see. Constant surgeries to save my eyes aren’t working. Thank goodness, Lynn is here to help. I’ve fallen several times."

So their marriage seemed back on track. Much as he loved California, as soon as he retired, her husband sold their home of sixty years and traveled to South Dakota to join his wife. The separation had lasted almost twenty years. Together, they bought another house in Wyoming where they moved to be close to Lee.

We talked for an hour, never brought up the past, discussed anyone’s bad behavior at Mom’s memorial service or the suddenness of Barbara’s death. We each had our own mortality and flaws to work on now. I did mention Frank’s increasing memory loss. (Maybe that old sibling competition to see who is worse off? Or an effort to let her know things could be worse than being almost blind.) As expected, Anne passed the news along to her sons and to Cousin Jill. The two had stayed close and made the trip to California where both needed to reconcile with Aunt Dee, now living her last days in a nursing home.

In spite of his dementia, Frank remembered the bad stuff long after I let it go. He hung on to anger at the drama club in our community.  Newcomer Grace Levine had walked in one day and claimed she would raise the bar. Insulted, he battled vocally with her in front of fifty some faithful members, most cheering for Frank. I cringed. He won that first fight back in 2007.  But she prevailed. In 2009, Frank walked out in the middle of his term as president.  To anyone who asked why he quit, he answered with bitterness, "They threw me out."  It wasn't true. He left of his own free will, frustrated by  Nancy's efforts to sabotage his last production. But that's a story I've already written..

My husband had only two interests in his retirement year: mentoring teens with issues and directing plays in our amateur group. When he left the theater, his social world began to crumble, although he won't admit it.  I often wonder if the real-life drama hastened his loss of memory.

To be continued.







 

Chapter 97
A Strange Accident

By Spitfire

Previously: After skipping the family union in August of 2013, I fail to get a newsletter from my half-sister Anne for the second Christmas in a row. Knowing she has health issues, I take no offense. But on her 82nd birthday I phone her. We exchange pleasantries, all past hostilities out of the picture now. I tell her about Frank’s memory lapses. She sympathizes. I found out later she passed the information along to other relatives. Anne always wanted to keep family together.

Next Chapter:

After Frank recuperated from his fall, we continued to make the ninety-minute trip every seven weeks to visit Bobby. We would stay and chat for three hours and then head back home. Since Frank liked to be in control, he did all the driving. Our regular naptime went on the back burner. Neil Diamond or Abba or Celine Dion kept him awake on the traffic-filled interstate.

Bobby didn’t go to doctors anymore as long as they continued to refill his pain pills. His nightly caretakers could check his vitals and keep his oxygen pump working.

"They didn’t expect me to live past forty." Bobby shrugged. "I’m now forty-six, shocking them all."

But my nephew did have to give up driving his specially equipped van. His hands and fingers didn’t have strength anymore to move special levers. Maneuvering around corners or into handicapped parking spaces drained what little energy he had left.

"I’m putting in a regular driver’s side with the usual brakes and accelerator. The front passenger seat will be removed so I can go up the ramp on my scooter and sit beside the driver. That way my friends and Dad can drive when we go to hockey and baseball games."

We ended every visit with a promise to be back in a month or so. "But if you need us for anything before that, don’t hesitate to call. We’re a lot closer than your dad." His father still lived in Maryland and flew in four times a year to spend a couple of weeks with his son.

In May of 2014 I planted a kiss on his cheek. To date, I had just given a light hug and a kiss on his forehead. His luminous brown eyes looked up at me. "Thank you, Aunt Shari that meant a lot." Frank and I mentioned a handicapped-equipped villa in our community, but my nephew had built a social life in Tampa. Frank called him every Sunday. The two men talked politics and sports for an hour or until Bobby tired.

In the middle of June, my son called late afternoon. "Hey, Mom," he greeted me in a somber voice. "How are you doing? I still can't believe Bobby’s dead."

"What?!" I cried.

"Oh my God, you didn’t know?" Chris blurted.

"Bobbie’s dead." I repeated.

"I feel awful."  Chris continued. "Bobby had an accident. His dad called this morning. He’s at Bobby’s place right now."

An accident? How could he have an accident when his body couldn't move, and he didn't drive anymore. Was he in his van as a passenger?

I dialed my nephew’s number. John's deep voice answered.

"It’s Shari. Chris told me what happened." I started crying.

John waited. Then, "I called Chris because my son always talked about him and how much it meant to be Best Man at his wedding. I figured he would pass the news on to you and Nichole."

I suspected my sister's  'ex' hesitated to get in touch, fearing I might be hostile. Barbara never got over the disaster of her first marriage.

"Chris said he had an accident."

"Two nights ago, he turned his motorized scooter too fast. It tipped over.

I gasped. Who would have thought such a thing could happen?

"His caretaker heard a thud and rushed into the computer room. My son had fallen and hit his head on the floor. He felt no pain, of course, and asked Walt to put him back in the seat and get him ready for bed. But Walt made him phone me first.  Bobby said he was fine and promised to call again in the morning. Five hours later, Walt called and said that Bobby woke up in terrific pain in spite of the pills he took. An ambulance took him to the hospital. Turns out he had broken his hip. The doctors were talking surgery. I caught a flight right away but arrived at the hospital five minutes after he passed." John’s voice cracked.

"Oh, John, the same thing happened with my mother. I missed her last breath by just a few minutes." That wasn't important right now, but I wanted to give him a minute to pull together.  "I’m sure the doctor at least helped him handle the pain."

"Morphine injections," John spoke in a more controlled voice. "He fell asleep. Eventually his heart stopped. His doctor said surgery would have been out of the question. Bobby’s body wasn’t strong enough to survive the trauma."

"What can I do to help, John?"

"Can you be here for the memorial service? He’s being cremated. I’m taking his ashes back with me."

I cried again after hanging up, but couldn't help feeling thankful my nephew no longer had to suffer.  On June 21st, Chris and his wife traveled with us to Tampa for the last time. I searched for John. Would I recognize him after so many years? Almost forty. It wouldn’t be hard. His son looked so much like him.

We arrived fifteen minutes early. No one in sight. Oh no, I thought, what if there’s only the four of us, his dad and Walt. My personal fear at one time. I’d be dead and no one would care.

To be continued.

Chapter 98
Bobby's Treasures

By Spitfire

Previously:  Frank and I continue to visit my sister’s handicapped son on a regular basis. Born with a neurological disease, Bobby has beaten the statistics. Doctors predicted he would not live past forty. Although my nephew continues to weaken, he dies at forty-six as the result of a freak accident. I call his father for details. We make plans to attend his memorial service along with my son and his wife Joanne.

Chapter 97 ends:

We arrived fifteen minutes early. No one in sight. Oh no, I thought, what if there’s only the four of us, his dad and Walt (his caregiver). My personal fear at one time: I’d be dead and no one would care.

The four of us entered the chapel of the funeral home. Empty. No one sitting on the folding red velvet chairs. How embarrassing, I thought.  Then an outstanding floral arrangement changed my focus.

Next to the podium a four-foot pyramid of white roses set on a low table took my breath away. I thought at first it belonged to the funeral home.  But why the wide deep blue satin ribbon with white script draped over the top and across the flowers?  A large bow at the end sported an imitation gold medal. Getting closer, I gasped. Surprise? Shock? Delight? All of them. The bouquet had been sent by Tampa Bay Lightning, an ice hockey team. Bobby never missed a game. The players noticed his loyal presence in the handicapped area and invited him to their celebration after winning the Stanley Cup. He took a proffered drink from the coveted trophy. How thrilled he was to share the team’s victories. I'll bet his soul beamed to know they cared enough to grieve for him.

Small floral arrangements had been placed around two framed white bulletin boards, one on the right and one on the left. Photographs of Bobby traced his life as he grew through the years. Those pictures brought back wonderful memories. As we chatted about them, people began to arrive. John recognized Chris and me. We hugged and shook hands. He looked better than he did when my sister married him.

"I’ve been sorting out Robert’s things." John addressed me. (I was the only one who called him by his childhood name.) "If you have time, I filled a box with papers and pictures you might want to take back."

"We all have a habit of hoarding," I joked.

He laughed and then left to greet other arrivals.

Since Bobby had never connected with a church or minister, the Reverend’s sermon lacked personal relevance. He never asked if anyone wanted to get up and say a few words about my nephew. Something John didn’t think to add to the service.

Chris on my right. Frank on my left. Both sniffing tears and blowing noses. Same with Joanne and John. But I, the writer, the observer, couldn’t cry. At our last visit five weeks ago, I remembered a sentence, Bobby left unfinished. We were talking about his new wheel scooter, one with a high back, to make sitting up straight easier. Now, it stood in a corner.

"It makes my neck ache," Bobby said. "And eating is more difficult. Sometimes I wish—" He stopped and changed to a discussion of politics with Frank.

Did he wish for it all to end? I wonder. He told Mom when he was in his twenties: "I wake up some mornings and think it’s all a bad dream. I’m going to get up today and be able to run."

I couldn’t mourn for a man whom I knew was now racing, legs pumping knee high in a new dimension. My sister and parents would help his transition to the other side.  Sometimes, an accident is meant to happen.

Fifty or more attended the service. John, knowing what his son would have liked for the reception arranged for a closed buffet at his Bobby's favorite sports bar. Buffalo wings, small turkey, ham, or tuna sandwiches plus an assortment of veggies and cheese made up the fare.

On the wall near the entrance, friends and neighbors admired Bobby’s large collection of political and sports bobble head dolls. John had set up a long table displaying over thirty dolls as well as his son’s collection of action packed DVD’s and CD’s, all hard rock or heavy metal. His mother had cringed at his tastes. A poster taped on the wall read: Feel free to take what you like.

"My son would want you to have a reminder of him. Help yourselves," John announced after all were seated with food.

"Wonder what he’s going to do with that sixty-inch TV?" Frank muttered to me. "I’d like to have it."

"Well, you're not going to ask, " I huffed. "We already have three."

"But Bobby's is twice as large as any of them," he whined.

"Forget it." I hissed.

Men always want BIG when it comes to electronics.

Women want BIG when it comes to…. Never mind.

To be continued.

Chapter 99
Putting Puzzle Pieces Together

By Spitfire

Previously: Over forty neighbors and friends attend Bobby’s funeral. At the reception his father set out a table of his son’s bobble head dolls, CD’s and DVD’s. He invites people to help themselves to these treasures.

Chapter 98 ends:

"Wonder what he’s going to do with that sixty inch TV?" Frank muttered to me. "I’d like to have it."

"Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea to ask," I huffed. "Anyway, we already have three."
 

John ended up mailing a box full of my father’s memorabilia that Bobby had kept for years. His son always felt closer to my parents than to his own mom and dad. I picked out what might be antiques today: a pair of cowboy spurs, an odd shaped tool and a tintype picture of Dad. Many of the photos, I already had. Some newspaper articles about Dad’s ancestors helped me put a heritage book together. Dad was a hoarder just like my husband. A lot of yellowed musty maps went into the recycle bin.

With Bobby gone, Frank withdrew  into a shell. He had no interest in going anywhere because his foot still hurt. He missed Saturday chats on the phone with his nephew. His world now revolved exclusively around me, Nichole, and Chris. Nobody else mattered.

Let me backtrack here. Our first years in the community, we both joined the Drama Club and another group of entertainers called Rhythm and Notes. Frank had experience as a director and a stage manager. Me? I loved to perform on stage. They used us, performing two of my plays and several small skits.  Frank managed to stay out of ego conflicts for three years. Then temper got the best of him in each case. Beware anyone who dares to tell Frank he's not the boss. He made a dramatic exit out of both groups. I stayed. 

To fill the gap, he joined Chess Club, but left when a member wanted to teach him. Frank had been playing the game for over forty years. Insulted? Yes.

He joined the Rifle Club too. After the first meeting, he quit. "Boring," he said.

For a year and a half he played pool Sunday nights with a good friend and neighbor. But then Ted died of cancer, and Frank lost interest.

Do you see a pattern here?  I've read that people can have Dementia and Alzheimer’s for years before it's recognized. Was this the case here? Short attention span was a new symptom though, although he could sit for hours watching forgotten reruns of Criminal Minds.  But, forget reading a book or even playing computer games for more than ten minutes.

By 2014, his lack of interest in social activities was complete.  At first, I read it as depression. What alarmed me most was the tremble of emotion in his voice when he reminisced about  Air Force days in Germany, his travels to Italy and Turkey.  I thought he would break down in tears. I decided to mention his behavior to the doctor.

"How are you doing, Frank?" Dr. Shah greeted him.

"I’m fine." Hubby gave him a fist pump and grinned.

"Your cholesterol and triglyceride counts are still high. Too bad you had a reaction to statins. The Gemfibrozil doesn’t seem to help." The doctor went over the blood work with both of us. He already knew Frank had a memory problem.

After a standard exam, Shah wrote a refill for blood pressure medicine. I spoke up. "I think Frank is depressed. Can you give him Celexa?"

Shah handed the BP script to me, got up and headed for the door. "I don’t think he needs that."

"Nothing is wrong except my foot still hurts, and I can’t walk without pain." Frank whined. But the doctor caught the tremor, a forewarning of crying.  He did an about face, sat back down, and wrote another script, this time for ten grams of Citalopram, a generic name for an anti-depressant. Ten is mild. I take forty a day because of a seritonin imbalance.

Although the pills helped hubby get a grip on his emotions, he still didn't want to leave the house. Since walking was difficult, I didn’t have to worry about leaving him alone for two hours to run errands. My neighbor, the nurse, suggested  his slow-growing dementia might make him uncomfortable or confused by new surroundings. Hence his lack of involvement in the community.

Chris hadn’t taken me too seriously when I mentioned a couple of years ago that his father had cognitive problems. He found out the hard way at Bobby’s reception after the funeral. A month after Bobby's death, Chris drew me aside when we visited and told me this story:  "At the reception Dad was in line for food and turned around to face me. He introduced himself, Mom!  He offered his hand and said, ‘I’m Frank La May, Bobby’s uncle.’ I took his hand, but turned away, fighting tears."

I hugged my sensitive son who had to control his feelings again as he relived the moment. Still, it was good he recognized the situation. His wife assured me that if something happened to me, they would take care of Frank.

I shared Chris's experience with Nichole, hoping she’d see the importance of coming to Florida soon. Three years had passed since our visit to California. Travel was out of the question for us. My neighbor told me to give her no option. I couldn't do that. I was not going to lay a guilt trip on my daughter by forcing her to plan a trip now. All I could do was keep her updated on his condition as she requested. A visit had to be her decision.

To be continued.'

Chapter 100
Testotorone Therapy

By Spitfire

Previously: After Bobby’s death, Frank becomes more reclusive. My neighbor who once worked with Alzheimer patients said this is another symptom. When the doctor sees hubby’s losing a grip on his emotions, he takes my advice and orders an anti-depressant. The pill helps. My son takes his father’s dementia seriously after an episode where Frank doesn’t recognize him.

Chapter 99 ends:

I passed the story onto Nichole, hoping she’d see the importance of coming to Florida soon. Three years had passed since our visit to California. Travel was out of the question for us. No matter what my neighbor’s advice, I was not going to lay a guilt trip on my daughter by insisting she plan a trip now. All I could do was to keep her updated on his condition. A visit had to be her decision.

Research confirms that withdrawing from social activities is an early stage symptom of Alzheimer's or dementia. Victims become passive and sit in front of TV for hours, sleep more than usual. Frank would be in bed by nine-thirty and sleep until ten or later. An hour after being up, he’d say, "I’m ready to go back to bed." Instead, he would turn on television. (My son says, "That’s the same thing as sleeping.")

What bothered me most were hubby's  two-hour afternoon naps when he hadn’t done anything but watch the FBI profile team track down serial killers. At first, I thought of a thyroid problem, but a blood test ruled out that. In October of 2014, I noticed a red rash covering half his chest. The discoloration brought my attention to his breast area. "You’re getting tits!" I laughed.

Man boobs is the proper name. It’s common among older men when there is a decrease in testosterone. I asked his doctor to include a test to show if this might be a problem.  The results stunned him. Normal male testosterone level for someone aged 76 would be a count of at least 260. Frank's testotorone level read 78.

To me, that explained a lot. Lesser known symptoms of low testosterone that described hubby included:

• Fatigue and poor energy level
• Decreased muscle mass
• Difficulty concentrating
• Depression
• Irritability

Convinced that hormone therapy would be the solution to most of his problems, I set up an appointment a month later with an Endocrinologist. A blood test was taken again. The results were down to sixty.

"I think you’re a good candidate for injections," Dr. Banda told Frank. "You could put testosterone gel on your chest, but if your wife gets close, she’ll be growing hair on her hands or face."

Gee, my hair is thinning. I wondered if I could rest the back of my head on his tits and get my glorious mane back.

I kept this thought to myself as Doc explained the best choice. "Fill this prescription. Then come in every two weeks and the nurse will inject the testosterone directly into the muscles. No co-payment every time. Only when I see you in six months for evaluation "

"Isn’t there a pill he can take?" I asked, dreading the waste of an hour’s travel time.

"Yes, but some experts believe it can affect the liver. Of course, there are side effects with injections too. More chance of a heart attack or stroke."

Terrific. We get to play Russian Roulette. Still, I wanted something to help Frank get his old energy back.

I checked the price at the pharmacy. Since hubby was in the insurance gap, we would have to pay $150.  I decided to hold off for three months when a new year kicked in. Had the doctor told me one bottle would give twelve shots, I would have paid the price. But I thought each shot would cost and we'd be paying $300 per month. 

The doctor failed to mention a few other things. Thus began the Hormone Nightmare in 2015.

To be continued.

Author Notes

The rash was diagnosed as a fungus by our dermatologist. A cream took care of that.

Chapter 101
Co-payment, Please

By Spitfire

Previously:

Frank’s energy level continues to decline. I suggest his thyroid be tested. Also, I notice he’s growing man boobs. Could low testosterone be part of the problem? Blood work shows normal thyroid count, but a score well below average for testosterone. We consult an Endocrinologist and discover the treatment  for hormone therapy is expensive.

Chapter 100 ends:

I checked the price at the pharmacy. Since hubby was in the insurance gap, he would have to pay $150.  I decided to hold off for three months when a new year kicked in. Had the doctor told me one bottle would give five shots, I would have paid the price. But I thought each one would cost that amount. We'd be paying $300 a month.

The doctor failed to mention a few other things. Thus began the Hormone Nightmare in 2015.
 

In January, we started from scratch: a second visit with the specialist. 

GIRL AT THE FRONT DESK:  I need your co-payment first. Twenty-five dollars.
 
After a five minute wait, a slender young dark-skinned girl shows us to the doctor's office.  Turns out she's his assistant and nurse.  A middle-aged stout man, face the color of cinnamon, walks in and greets us. 

ME:  Frank is ready to start hormone therapy.

DR. BANDA (to Frank): I thought you had started the shots three months ago.

ME: We decided to wait until insurance covered the price.

DR. BANDA: Then Frank has to take another blood test 
                       to see if his levels are still dropping. The
                      girl at the desk will give you the form for 
                      Quest  Diagnostics. As soon as you get it done,
                      make an appointment.

At our second meeting and another co-payment, the doctor showed us the latest results. In three months’ time, hubby’s ‘T’ level had dropped from 78 to 60.

DOC: You're definitely a good candidate for injections.
          (writes  a prescription)  You can get this filled at 
          our pharmacy. Come back any time next week  
          for the first shot. Then every two weeks. 

ME: Every two weeks!  Can’t I give it to him?

FRANK:  No way!

BANDA: It’s an intramuscular shot. Not easy.  But the nurse could teach you.

Frank shakes his head so hard, I fear for his neck.

ME: Never mind. We’ll make the forty-minute round trip.

 Hubby breathes his relief.

BANDA: Bring your medication each time. There’s no co-payment.
              Just walk in, get the shot, you’re done.  

For the next seven days, Frank worries about how much it will hurt. I just want to get his therapy started.
 
 Shot #1.
A week later, we return to the office.  Frank takes a seat. I sign in. The blonde at the desk looks at the sheet and checks her computer.

ME: Frank’s here to get his shot.

SHE: Does he have an appointment? I don't see his name.

ME:  The doctor said he could come in anytime.

SHE: He needs an appointment.

ME: (raising my voice) Dr. Banda said he could come in anytime. He just needs to get a shot. It takes five minutes.

SHE: Our nurse is busy with other patients. These foreign doctors don't always communicate well. You have to make an appointment.

ME: She can’t just take him into a room and jab his butt?

SHE: No, she has to fit it into her schedule.

ME: (almost losing it) Fine! We’ll make an appointment for tomorrow.

SHE: (coolly consulting her calendar) I have an opening at ten-thirty.

ME: We’ll be here. (turning to Frank) We have to come back tomorrow.

He took the news better than I did. That’s a switch.

When we arrived home, I decided to call the billing department and double-check as to co-payment. Having to make an appointment threw me off balance. Who to trust?

"No charge unless you see the doctor," a friendly voice chirped.

Next day, I approach the receptionist with confidence  on my side.

ME: Frank’s here for his shot.

SHE: Your twenty-five dollar co-payment, please.

ME: (smugly) Excuse me, I called the billing department. They assured me no money was due.

Giving me a disgruntled look, she dials a number and finds out I’m right. The one and only nurse ushers us into a closet size room. I hand her the unopened bottle of liquid. She does complicated things with the syringe. Then with her thumb and first finger she puckers up a lump of Frank’s flesh between his hip and buttocks and plunges a long needle deep into the muscular level. Frank winces, but says it wasn’t that painful. Five minutes later, we’re out of there. But not before I make the next appointment.

Shot #2

We get home and I check my calendar. Frank is scheduled for a breath test in two weeks in another part of the medical building. Why not kill two birds with one stone? It occurs to me he can get his shot with any nurse. I talked the technician into administering the second treatment. Dr. Banda’s dim-witted receptionist was not a happy camper when I canceled and made the next appointment.  

Shot #3.

Again, we travel the distance. I sign in at the front desk. The same brainless girl confronts me.

SHE: You have a twenty-five dollar co-payment.

ME: No, I don't!  Dr. Banda said there’s no payment for each shot. I thought the billing department made that clear last time.

She gives me a put-upon look, but checks with the doctor. I'm right, of course. With no apology, she signals the nurse to call us in.

Shot #4

I sign Frank in and then leave to check out a phoned-in prescription. Big mistake. When I return, Frank has disappeared. I don't ask permission to enter,  but open the door to the patient area and find the closet. Frank is waiting.

ME: You didn’t give the girl at the front desk any money, I hope.

HE:  Yes. She said I had a twenty-five dollar co-payment.

Steaming mad, I march from the closet to the sign-out section. Clueless Blondie looks up from her efforts to appear busy.

ME: You charged my husband twenty-five dollars. I want my money back!

SHE: Every time the doctor signs off on something, you have a co-payment.

ME: No, every time we see him, we pay. Check the billing department.

She dials, gets the answer I expected. Here’s her end of the conversation. Check it out:

SHE: Well, how do I give him his money back?
             (Duh. He paid cash.)

She gets instructions, opens a drawer, hands me a twenty and a five. Returning to the phone she continues.

SHE: How do I fix it in the account books?

Has this lady never heard of white-out?

Poor Frank. I let him have it. Not really his fault since he has dementia, but the incompetency tried my patience. At least the shots were lowering his sugar count and his legs were getting stronger.  But could I survive this lopsided merry-go-round for another three months?

The next visit, I lost it.

To be continued.

Chapter 102
Saving My Mind

By Spitfire

Previously: I sign Frank up for testosterone therapy, hoping that will help his weak muscles. The Endocrinologist assures him there will be no co-payment for each shot. Yet, every time he comes in, the desk girl tries to charge me. We argue. But when Frank comes in without me, he pays the money. I demand she give it back.

Chapter 101 ends:

Poor Frank. I let him have it. Not really his fault since he has dementia, but the incompetency tried my patience. At least, the shots were lowering his sugar count and his legs were getting stronger. But could I survive this lopsided merry-go-round for another three months?

The next visit, I lost it.
 

Upon entering the waiting room, I noticed one other person. She was filling out the fifteen page form for new patients. Frank took a seat. I checked in and noted our competition had signed in at 12:45 although her  appointment was for 1:15. Frank was scheduled for one. It was now two minutes after.

ME: Frank’s here for his shot.

SHE: Take a seat.

I must be in the wrong office. Bimbo didn’t ask for a co-payment.  Where is she going?

Bimbo left her desk, opened the inner door and called in the early arrival.

What the f**k!

When she returned, I fumed. Tired of simmering, I boiled over.

ME: Our appointment is before hers!

SHE: But she’s been waiting longer.

ME: So now Frank has to WAIT fifteen minutes
        while the nurse checks that woman in?

SHE: It won’t be long.

ME: Doesn’t matter. Our appointment is for ONE O'CLOCK. 
      It’s now TEN after.

With that, I banged my fist on the counter and burned her face with my eyes.

ME (continued): I’ve just about HAD it with this office. First,
      the CO-PAYMENTS and now this. I’m SICK and TIRED
      of it. This is Frank’s time. A lousy five minutes.

Good timing. From the corner of my eye, I saw the nurse walking toward the doctor’s office. She must have done an about face after hearing my temper tantrum. Next thing I knew she opened the door and called Frank into her closet. I followed.

Once inside, he laughed at my furious face. "Wow! You did me proud." 

Here, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Up until the last ten years of our marriage, hubby has been the assertive one. I shied away from confrontations. Now, our roles have switched. I stole his testosterone.

The nurse filled the syringe. "That’s the last of this bottle. You can renew it without a referral," she told us.

"No way." I snapped. "We’re outta here. Not coming back—EVER!"

With Frank shuffling behind, I ignored La Stupida at the front desk and marched out the door, holding it open for hubby to catch up.

I’d like to say that was the end of it, but a month later Frank received an invoice billing him fifty dollars for two co-payments to Dr. Banda (our first two consultations with him). Without skipping a beat, I called to complain. Judging from her voice, another dumb girl answered the phone.

ME: This doesn’t make sense. You can’t even get in to see the doctor without
         paying first.

SHE: It’s easy to fix. Send us proof that you paid. A receipt or a check number or
          credit card billing.

ME: We paid cash. I have no idea if I got a receipt. If I did, I probably tossed it.

SHE: I can’t do anything then.

ME: You can be logical. The receptionist demands a co-payment
        first, or you can’t get in.

SHE: I can’t delete it without proof.

I hung up.

FRANK: Pay it. It’s not worth the hassle.

Umm, that would have been my attitude ten years ago.

ME: No way will I fork over that money. I’m calling every day until
      I get results. 

 First thing the following morning, I picked up the phone.

WOMAN: How can I help you?

I knew I hit gold. This was a mature voice. After explaining why the bill made no sense, she responded, "You’re right. I’ll take care of it, Mrs. La May."

Victory!

Five shots and hubby’s blood test brought his testosterone up to normal for his age. But would it drop if he stopped the shots? At this point I didn’t care. It was survival of the fittest. Stress would kill me, and I had to make a choice. Frank was happy to drop the shots.

Three months later, we found out that lack of this hormone wasn’t the cause of his weakness and fatigue after all, but not before we got the surprise of our life.  

To be continued.

Chapter 103
A Surprise Diagnosis

By Spitfire

Previously: Frank starts testosterone therapy because I suspect his low hormonal count could be the cause of his fatigue and weakness. Since the doctor’s receptionist had the brains of an amoeba, she tried to charge a co-payment for every shot. That’s not how it works, I told her each time. The hassle left me stressed.

Chapter 102 ends:

Five shots and hubby’s blood test brought his testosterone up to normal for his age. But would it drop if he stopped the shots? At this point I didn’t care. It was survival of the fittest. Stress would kill me, and I had to make a choice. Frank was happy to end the therapy.

Three months later, we found out lack of this hormone wasn’t the problem after all, but not before we got the surprise of our life.

My half-sister, Anne, passed away March 4, 2015. The intuitive part of me said to phone her in February, the first time in a year just to say hello.

"I was just thinking of calling you." Anne sounded happy. No hint of disease or fragileness in her voice. Although she had lost one eye and half of her left leg, she held her own at eighty-three. She filled in for vacationing Lutheran pastors. She flew to California to see her sons and grandchildren. But four years ago, when we visited my daughter again, her Son Number Three showed me a photo of his once overweight mother, now in a wheelchair, looking too thin and fragile.

"The doctors say she has Parkinson’s," he said. "Movement problems too, unsteady walking, falls. Dad made her give up the cane and go for the stroller."

Since no one sent Christmas letters any more, I didn’t know Anne had a number of symptoms that confused doctors. She sounded a little at loose ends on the phone. Still, I was shocked when my uncle called a month later. His voice told the story.

"Lynn, you don’t sound good. What’s wrong?"

"It’s bad news, Shari. Anne passed away yesterday."

I gasped. "What happened?" I was thinking heart attack or just a quiet goodbye.

"She had Lewy Body Dementia."

Shocked? You bet. Two dementia victims in the family tree now and one had Mom’s genes.

"What? How?" I stammered.

"She’s been having hallucinations," my uncle added.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but his voice was breaking up. So I went for facts. When would the funeral be? Were his four sons with him now?"

"We’re all here now. The boys are a big comfort."

I often thought that death is the time when it’s good to have a big stable family.

After hanging up, I did my research. Having a family member with Lewy body dementia or Parkinson's disease does increase my risk. Not what I wanted to read. Depression is also associated with LBD. Yeap, I take anxiety pills. Severe dementia and aggressive behavior are also signs, but I leave those symptoms to Frank.

Increased risk of falling and injury. Trust me, after two traumatizing falls and cataclysmic consequences, I tread carefully.

According to the Mayo Clinic, death occurs about eight years after symptoms start.

Word is out now that Lewy Body Dementia, not Parkinson’s disease, was behind the suicide of actor Robin Williams. Why did it take so long to find this out?

LBD symptoms can closely resemble Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. Hence this brain attack is commonly misdiagnosed. Known as a multisystem disease that varies from person to person, it can take more than a year or two for enough symptoms to develop for proper diagnosis and early treatment.

According to the Mayo Clinic, hallucinations may be one of the first symptoms and often recur. The victim may see shapes, animals or people that aren't there. Sound, smell or touch hallucinations are also possible. Lynn made it sound as if Anne’s visual images were recent. Unless I see him or his sons in person again, I won’t know the whole story.

After a memorial service for my half-sister in Wyoming, her ashes were brought to California where she had lived for forty years. Nichole and Jeff attended the second service in her honor.

"How is Lynn handling it?" I asked my daughter in our weekly phone chat.

"He was a mess. A total wreck," she reported. "But the boys took it in stride and corralled me after the service, insisting I find time to visit."

Did the loss of another blood relative have any effect on Nichole? She knew Dad had big health issues. My pleas to visit us before he lost all his memory had no effect. Yet, a few months after my second sister’s death, she called.

"I found a reasonable air fare to Florida. Jeff has always wanted to visit Key West. I’ve never been there either. So we’re planning a trip. We’ve rented an apartment on the water in the Keys and will stay there for three days. Then we’ll head back and visit Chris and his family for a day, drive to your house and spend two and half days with you and Dad. Be thinking of things we can do."

I was ecstatic. Didn’t matter that Key West was the reason for her visit. Didn’t matter that the stay would be short. Didn’t matter that she wanted us to plan entertainment. What was important to me? She would see her brother for the first time in nine years. She would see her father and me for the first time in four and a half years. I pasted three gold stars on my calendar for May first, second and third, 2016.

"Aren’t you excited?" I asked hubby.

"I would be if she could come alone and not bring Jeff."

Some memories never die.

To be continued.

Author Notes

The photo was taken at the funeral service. Anne's husbands and her four boys.

Chapter 104
Planning Entertainment

By Spitfire

Previously: My half-sister, Anne, died from Lewy Body Dementia, a disease not easy to diagnose until the final stages. Now, I am the only Townsend left. Nichole formed a close link to her four male cousins and my uncle when she first moved to California in 1990. I felt better about her being three thousand miles away, knowing she had blood relatives in the area.

Background: (For those who missed earlier chapters.) When my daughter moved to California, hoping to be discovered, her first visit back home had a purpose as always. Four years had gone by. No hopes of stardom in sight. She came hand in hand with a lanky man who looked ten years her senior. (Turned out Jeff was a year and a half younger.) We knew she was in love, but this guy didn’t fit in with our family values. No desire for higher education, no job skills, no sensitivity to the feelings of others. He loved to draw caricatures and to imitate people, exaggerating their flaws.

Nichole loved musicals, The Wizard of Oz being her favorite. He made fun of her tastes, preferring horror and gangster films and Jackass movies. She liked funky vintage clothes. He dressed Gothic style. They did share one thing. Both prefer animals to people.

Knowing our feelings toward Jeff, she married him regardless, thus creating a rift that’s never quite mended. We almost ruined her wedding day.
She came home two years later to attend her brother’s wedding ceremony.  Then when we moved she flew out to see our new home. We  traveled to Los Angeles to visit our ‘lost’ daughter several times in twenty-six years.  Her phobia of airplanes kept her grounded.

When Frank showed signs of dementia, I hinted to Nichole she should come while he still remembered her name. Hating to fly was her excuse. In truth, my daughter has a fear of being bored. She’s always on the move with her six-figure desk job, one that supports Jeff’s free-lance ‘play’: radio spots, voice-overs, cartoon drawings, and screenplay writing.

Chapter 103 ends with Nichole calling to say she has tickets for Orlando at the end of April and will stop for a short visit after staying in Key West for three days and visiting her brother, Chris, for a half day. "Think of interesting places we can go," she added before hanging up.
 

How can you show long-time residents of L.A. anything new? Their last visit ten years ago, we drove from end to end of our senior community and bragged about the fitness center, three pools, four tennis courts, and the theater club that had performed my first play. We treated them to the weekly fare at the Kitchen Club. The food is good and cheap. But an outsider would see all those gray heads at the long cafeteria tables and think Nursing Home—Yikes! Who could blame her for not wanting to come back?

What to do? What to do? Let’s see. Old Mc Donald’s Farm was ten miles away. A Drag Strip Museum, tucked somewhere on the outskirts of town, would bore me. Nichole nixed Ocala’s Canyon Zip Line because of her fear of flying. Shopping malls are all alike. Out of options, I queried my neighbor. She had just visited EARS, forty miles north of Ocala in a small town called Citrus. The price? Eighteen dollars and dead chicken pieces or bleach. (That’s optional, however.)

When I first read about EARS two years ago, I wanted to go, but as usual with Frank’s growing dementia, he had no interest. I figured Nichole and Jeff would enjoy a guided tour of the Endangered Animal Rescue Sanctuary, the final resting place of wild animals now injured, abandoned or abused to such an extent they couldn’t be reintroduced to the wild. Something different, I was sure. Then I checked the L.A. Zoo. Wouldn’t you know? The big tourist attraction had a special area for endangered animals too. Nichole had even done volunteer work too.

"It’s still new," my daughter enthused. "I researched EARS, and they have a liger. I’m excited. "

"A liger?"

"Yes." She read from the internet. "‘A liger is the result of breeding a male lion to a tigress. A tigon is the result of breeding a male tiger…Ligers are the world's biggest cats, larger than their parents, with the strength of a lion and speed of a tiger combined. An average male liger stands almost twelve feet tall on its hind legs and weighs up to half a ton, twice the weight of a wild lion or tiger… Today there are believed to be a handful of ligers around the world and a similar number of tigons, the product of a tiger father and lion mother. Tigons are smaller than ligers and take on more physical characteristics of the tiger."

Yea! Entertainment for one day. I made reservations. Tours were limited to fifteen people. "A lot of walking," the lady in charge told me, "but we have a golf cart for anyone handicapped."

The second full day of their visit, they planned to leave around five for Orlando to catch an early flight home the next day. Again, what to do? Thank goodness for The Villages, a senior community, twelve miles away with a new section modeled to resemble an old western town. That could be interesting. At least, we could find a good restaurant.

Prior experience had taught us that Nichole stuck to Jeff whenever we went anywhere. She let him dominate the conversation. "Wouldn’t it be nice," I voiced to hubby, "if just the four of us get together for dinner when she arrives? Just you and me and Chris and Nichole. No one else. Do you think she  would buy that? Leaving Jeff alone for a few hours? And would Joanne be offended it we didn’t include her and the grandchildren?"

"One way to find out."  Frank reached for the phone. "Call Chris first. See what he thinks because he’d have to drive her to a restaurant where we would meet and then later then drive back to Apopka."

To be continued.

Author Notes

The big guy in the picture is a liger. In the wild, a tiger and lion would never mate. But kept in a cage together, anything can happen. Of course, this crossbreeding is done by unscrupulous people.

Chapter 105
Preparing to Dazzle

By Spitfire

Previously: I hadn’t seen my daughter for five years. Her fear of flying and dislike of Florida kept her away. It was up to the old folks to travel. Two years ago she suggested Las Vegas as a place to meet. Frank’s health made it out of the question. His legs and feet always hurt. And he refused to use a wheel chair.

In March of 2016, I get a call. Nichole's planning to see us at the end of April. She and Jeff want to see Key West. Her plan is to stay there for four days, then drive to Apopka, spend a few hours visiting her brother (for the first time in ten years). Next, the couple will drive toward Summerfield to spend  two and a half days with us. She tells me to plan places to go. I decide on a zoo that houses endangered animals.

Chapter 104 ends:

"Wouldn’t it be nice," I voiced to hubby, "if just the four of us could get together for dinner the afternoon she arrives. You and me and Chris and Nichole. No spouses or kids. Do you think she would buy that? Leaving Jeff alone for a few hours? And would Joanne be offended it we didn’t include her and the grandchildren?"

"One way to find out." Frank reached for the phone. "Call Chris. See what he thinks. He’d have to drive her to a restaurant where we would meet and then later have to drive back to Apopka."

As usual, I didn’t take his advice, but followed my instincts. Over the past two years, Nichole had started using evenings and weekends to get back to her first love—the stage. She signed up for acting and improvisation classes. Same with tap dancing. A musical theater with the latest Broadway productions opened up not far from where she worked. She bought a season ticket for just herself since Jeff hated that sort of thing. Every six weeks or so, she’d finish work, stay uptown, dine alone (with a good book), then head to the theater. She’d end up back home around twelve. Her growing independence from him pleased me.

My daughter e-mailed their itinerary. They planned to stay at a hotel in Ocala, twenty-five miles from us.

"That’s so far," I exclaimed on the phone.

"The prices are too high in decent hotels near you. Forty dollars more per night."

Back to research. I found a new hotel within walking distance of downtown Spanish Springs, a section of The Villages ten miles from us. Since Nichole and Jeff have allergies to cats, a long stay at our house was out of the question. One of the hotel rooms, a mini-suite, featured a bedroom separated from a sitting area with a couch, coffee table, a refrigerator and two arm chairs. I had the money and booked her there, paying the extra dollars. She checked it out online first and was delighted.

After that, how could she possibly say ‘no’ to my suggestion of leaving Jeff to his own devices while she joined us for a family reunion?  I told my ego to shut up and took the plunge. "Since we probably won’t see you again for a while, I thought about having a reunion with just you and Chris. Maybe meet for dinner at some quiet place." I held my breath.

"Sure," she answered right away. "That’s a great idea."

Wow! She hadn’t even conferred with Jeff first.

When I called Chris, I discovered he had been thinking the same thing. "Mom, let’s face it. More than likely this will be the last time we’re all together."

My son and my daughter connected by phone to arrange time and place. Sunday at five, we would meet at the Nancy Lopez Country Club Restaurant. Fine dining and high prices. This wasn’t the time to go cheap.

I splurged and let my hairdresser color my hair a darker shade of red and add streaks of blonde throughout. She made one streak so wide in the front, I looked in the mirror and could only think "skunk".  Not a look for me.

"You better like what I did to my hair," I warned Nichole. Like my sister Barbara, my daughter never complimented my wardrobe or writing ability or anything else.  That Sunday I dressed in patterned black and white mid-length slacks and a sheer frilly long sleeved white and black blouse.  I bought the two pieces separately, but my friends and strangers loved the look. Would Nichole comment? Well, you can’t change all the spots on a leopard. At least, she would hopefully remember to notice my hair. 

To be continued.

Chapter 106
Just Like Old Times

By Spitfire

Previously: My two children, both now in their early forties, agree to ditch their spouses for one evening and meet us at an upscale restaurant. It will be the first time in ten years that we’ve been together as a family. I splurge on a streaked hairdo and wear a fashionable outfit hoping that Nichole will give me one of her rare compliments. I haven’t seen her in five years.

Frank and I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. We sat on the veranda and waited—and waited. I kept jumping up to walk to the corner and survey the parking lot. What, for God’s sake was taking them so long?

At ten after five, I spotted my son’s car turning into a parking space.

"They’re here!" I hollered. Frank's arthritic bones made it out of the cushioned seat. He turtle walked while I watched first Chris, then Nichole, emerge from the car doors.

Déjà vu. It was as if no time had gone by. Both siblings still looked mid-twenties to me.

With Frank shuffling behind, I climbed down three steps and then picked up my pace. Nichole grinned and waved. Then she was in my arms, a fierce embrace. Chris spoke, "She’s still an albino chick."

"And you’re still a maggot." She broke free and stuck out her tongue at him before hugging Frank. Yeah, nothing had changed.

Chris gave both of us a bear hug before we all headed to the restaurant.

The waiter led us to a corner table away from the wide open noisy dining area. A wine steward offered his menu. Chris and Frank weren’t interested. Nichole and I agreed to split a bottle. I let her do the ordering since she had become an expert at tasting tours in the mountains of California. The waiter returned with a Merlot and poured a bit into her glass. She took the offered sip and let the red liquid linger on her taste buds before swallowing. After nodding her approval, the waiter filled our goblets half full.

When I lifted my glass to my lips, Nichole stopped me. "Before you take a drink, swish the wine around to release the different flavors." She gently swirled her glass to illustrate. Yikes! If I tried that maneuver, half would end up on the white linen tablecloth.

When did my daughter become so sophisticated? (By the way, she was right about the different and better taste.)

"I like your hair," she said next.

I laughed. "You remembered. I see you have streaks too."

That was the only compliment I received. I admired her shoes, open toed zip-up ankle length black boots, but not her sleeveless black dress. As had become her habit the past ten years, she didn’t wear jewelry anymore. A real turnaround from her Madonna days in high school.

After a waiter had taken our orders, I started the conversation with our views of Key West. Nichole had to admit that her dad was right. Not a whole lot to see or do.

"How did you like Chris’s house?" Frank asked.

"It’s impressive. Something like that in California would cost in the millions."

"Location." Chris shrugged. "If we had bought the same house close to Orlando, we would have paid three hundred thousand more."

"Your children are awesome." Nichole changed the subject. "They sat quietly and took in our conversation, asking intelligent questions now and then. All our friends have kids who act like they hate their parents. They can’t wait to get away from them. Jeff calls Anna and Alex the Velcro children." It was true. They clung to their Mom and Dad. Grandparents were incidental.

Bubbles of happiness floated around me as I saw brother and sister bonding. This was the reunion I had hoped for. Nichole kept the praises going. "I can’t get over how much Joanne is like me. Everything from kitchen to closets is so organized. She plans their trips down to the minute, same as I do."

I nudged my son. "I said it, didn’t I? You married your sister."

He made a face. "Yuck."

"She’s big on health food too." Nichole enjoyed another jab.

I wanted to say, "I wish you had married someone like your brother who doesn’t make fun of people or tell crude jokes." Heck, Chris doesn’t even cuss. I have to watch my language even if the children aren’t around. Nichole had a sailor’s mouth even when she’s with us.

Brother and sister sat opposite each other and bantered back and forth. We enjoyed just listening.

"So, Maggot, tell me about your job. Do you have an office of your own?"

"Yes I do, Albino Chick."

"Do you have a big desk?"

"Large enough for my computer."

"Do you have a window?"

"Yes."

Nichole cleared her throat and assumed the role of a reporter or investigator. "Let’s get into the personal stuff. What irritates you most about your job?" She put out the flat of her hand and pretended to have a pen in the other.

"Nothing." Chris answered in monotone and concentrated on his filet mignon.

"Nothing?" His sister’s voice rose up an octave. "No one single person you can’t stand?" Reported pretense gone. She couldn’t believe it.

"Nope."

"Oh come on. There must be somebody who’s a pain in the butt. Your boss? A secretary?"

"Nope."

Incredulous at his passivity, she couldn’t let go. "You get along with everyone?"

"Nichole." He put his fork down and smiled. "We’re all computer geeks. We work for the government. Everything’s top secret. We don’t socialize."

Chris’s nonchalant attitude impressed Nichole. She let the rudeness of co-workers get to her.

After two and a half hours, we had a group hug (Chris’s trademark goodbye) and went our separate ways. My son would drive back to Apopka after dropping Nichole off at the hotel where Jeff was waiting. Before she left, I talked about a plan for the next day. "It will take an hour to drive to Citrus. We’ll find a place to have lunch. The wildlife tour starts at two. What time do you want to come get us? Twelve maybe?"

"Oh no, that’s not giving you much time to visit with Jeff before we leave. How about ten-thirty?"

Ten-thirty! That’s when I get up.

"Okay." I grit my teeth. "We’ll see you both tomorrow." The less time with Jeff the better, I had figured.

To be continued.

Author Notes

The waiter took this photo of us.

Chapter 107
A Surprise Opinion

By Spitfire

Previously: We share a delightful two and a half hour dinner with just our children. No spouses. Nichole seemed more like the teenager I remembered. She and her brother bantered as if no time had elapsed since we shared family meals thirty years ago. Before parting, Nichole and I set up plans for the next day. With her husband on the scene, would Nichole ignore us?

Jeff had put on weight since I last saw him five years ago. She stayed lean cuisine. He turned into bulky beef.

"Hey, I want to thank you guys for finding the perfect room for us. We overlook the pool." He shook hands with Frank and hugged me. One thing I liked about Jeff was his enthusiasm. Nichole kept her emotions cool. His boisterous voice contrasted with her quiet demeanor.

"What did you do when we kidnapped your wife?" I joked.

"I walked around the town, went into the shops, listened to a live band on the square. Got something to eat. I enjoyed myself. I’m glad Frannie (his nickname for her) had this chance to be with family."

"When I got back," Nichole added, "we went swimming and then into the spa. No one else was out. The night belonged to us."

Jeff went on to rave about our grandchildren and how much fun they all had together. "If we lived closer, we would totally hang out with Chris and Joanne." (I never asked Chris or his wife if they felt the same. It didn’t matter since Joanne hated California as much as Nichole hated Florida.)

We spent time going over photo albums, and then took off for the Wildlife Sanctuary in Citrus. Although I had asked Nichole to sit with me in back, she claimed motion sickness unless in front. Besides, Jeff needed her to be his navigator. Like you can’t just turn up the volume of your GPS and let Liza or Susie or Harry tell you when to turn?

A golf cart awaited our arrival. Jeff jumped into the driver’s seat to Frank’s dismay. I thought hubby would be glad to just sit and enjoy the ride. This might have been the case if Jeff had known the mechanics of how to reverse and start forward. The road was bumpy enough. Whenever Jeff hopped off to see the animals up close, Frank would glide over to take the wheel.

"No, no, Frank. Let me drive. I’m lovin’ it." Jeff took back his new toy.

Except for the variety of monkeys who banged sticks on pots and pans to keep our attention, the rest of the animals lay on the ground, comatose from age and the heat of the day. But feeding a couple of large bears tested our courage. "Don’t let their lethargy fool you," the guide told us. "Stick a hand through those bars and you might lose it. Hold the snacks with your fingertips." We all tried it,  except for Frank.  Gee, a bear's lips and tongue brushed my fingers. I'll never wash them again.

Two hours later, we were back on the road with Nichole searching her Ipad for points of interest. Nothing. Watching oranges grow was no one’s idea of excitement. "We’ll get a pizza and go back to the hotel," Nichole announced.

Ha, that was my plan when I booked the room. I had asked Jeff to bring a video that featured his voiceover as the Mantis in The Kung Fu Panda series on TV. Okay, so that took up twenty minutes plus ten of compliments and questions. What now? Oh, we cemented plans for the next day. The Villages had built a shopping area to look like the old West. Another thing on my bucket list.

"I had a good time today. How about you?" I asked Frank on the way home.

"Except for his horrible driving at the zoo, I thought Jeff behaved himself much better than in the past. I liked him better than Nichole."

"What are you saying!" Further proof that hubby was losing his marbles?

"She’s snooty. All that fancy business at the restaurant."

"I didn’t see it that way," I retorted. Later on, I phoned Chris to get his take on it.

To be continued.

Author Notes

Photo: Guess which one is Jeff? Which one is my son, Chris?

Chapter 108
The Interview

By Spitfire

Chapter 108

Previously: Much to our surprise, we had a good time with Jeff as well as Nichole on the first day of their visit. Frank went so far as to comment later that he liked him better than his own daughter.

Chapter 108 ends:

"What are you saying!" Further proof that hubby was losing his marbles.

"I think she’s snooty. All that fancy business at the restaurant.

"I didn’t see it that way," I retorted. Later on, I phoned Chris to get his take on it.

After our company left, I called my son at work on his lunch hour.

"Yo, Parental Unit, how’d it go with Albino Chick?" my son's voice boomed over the wire.

I heard someone laugh.

"It went well as far as I was concerned. What did you think of your big sister?"

"Why?" Suspicious. Then, "What does it matter?"

"Your dad thought she had turned into a snob. I didn’t get that impression."

"Mom, he’s remembering his sixteen-year-old daughter. She’s very sophisticated now. Nichole would easily fit into a place like New York City. Dad has a picture in his mind of my sister years ago. I didn’t get the impression she was stuck up."

When did my son get so wise? He realized Frank’s dementia kept him more in the past than in the present.

Nichole called at ten the next morning. "We’ve had breakfast and are leaving the hotel now. Just wanted to make sure you were up."

Frank moaned after I hung up. "I’m still exhausted from yesterday. My legs are too weak to go anywhere. Would you mind if I stay home, Shari?"

I wasn’t surprised. His constant fatigue was an issue the doctors couldn’t fix since Frank refused to help himself through exercise. At least, that's my theory. Hubby blamed old age.

The two "youngsters" arrived, breathing enthusiasm into the stale air of our lives. Nichole, wearing white capris and a black shirt, held a good-sized camera in her hand. I, too, wore black again, a fancy short sleeved shirt with a silver design embedded into the front. One of my favorites, but no comments did I get.

"Before we head out," Nichole announced, "Jeff wants to tape an interview with you two. Is there a place where the cat dander might not be too bad?"
(I might add here that Jeff's a video freak. He's made several independent movies that never went anywhere.)

"Don’t worry. Rosie hides in the master closet whenever we have company. She doesn’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen/dining area. She likes to be around me, and I avoid cooking as much as I can. Hooray for frozen dinners."

"Oh, Honey." Jeff turned toward his wife "You should have gotten that on tape." He sat down on one side of the rectangular table and repositioned two chairs on the opposite side. "Frank, you sit next to Shari."

Nichole remained standing and aimed the lens at us.

The questions were innocuous at the start.

JEFF: So what do you guys do for fun?

FRANK: Watch Criminal Minds.

ME: Work on the computer.

JEFF: Franny (I hated when he calls my daughter by her middle name--Frances) tells me you’re writing about life with your mother and aunt and sister and then meeting me. I’d like to read it when you’re finished.

ME: Sure. After I’m dead.

JEFF: So, Frank, you used to work with troubled teenagers. Do you miss it?

FRANK: I’m thinking of going back.

ME: Yes, dear. Over my dead body.

The questions continued. Then to my first shock of the morning, an impending thunderstorm. Jeff dared to ask hubby: "Do you know that you’ve told me the same thing three times?"

I shot my daughter a look. She ignored it. Jeff knew darn well he had memory loss. Then again, maybe he had forgotten.

I thought it cruel, but hubby took no offense. Chances are he didn’t process it. Jeff turned to me and changed the subject. "So, Ma, do you think I’ve ruined your daughter?"

My second shock—now a Tsunami. That’s exactly what I thought, but I couldn’t say it. Later, I thought of a witty response: "Let me count the ways." Had I been on my toes, I would have turned it into a joke.

Instead a long pause ensued, my brain a blank. Was he that much of a narcissist, he didn’t realize how close to my truth he came? Finally, I found my voice.

ME: Not any more than another man would have. Good one, Shari. I patted myself on the back.

Jeff’s response surprised me. "Actually, Nichole has changed me. I’m turning into an introvert."

ME: I’ve noticed you’re more laid back. (More socially acceptable, I wanted to say.)

Nichole piped up, "I’ve been working on that." She grinned, knowing what I really meant. Several years ago, she mentioned that when her boss gave private parties,  she picked a table with people who would not be offended by Jeff’s buffoon behavior. He really hit it off with comedienne Phyllis Diller, the CEO’s neighbor.

This reunion was turning out to be spectacular. Nichole had come to grips with her husband’s shortcomings and instead of saying "It is what it is," she had thought "It is what you make it."

Five minutes later, I brought up the first time we met Jeff. Big mistake. Nichole still can’t forgive Frank and me for something we did over twenty years ago.

To be continued.

Author Notes

Photo: the Nichole that Frank remembers.

Chapter 109
Time to Forget the Past

By Spitfire

Previously: Before heading to the Villages version of a western town,  Jeff sits us down for a video interview. Making movies of their travels is a hobby. In the course of our conversation, I noted he had changed, become more subdued. Nichole took credit: "I’m working on that." Our son-in-law reveals that living with my daughter is turning him into an introvert.

Chapter 108 ends:

This reunion was turning out to be spectacular. Nichole had come to grips with her husband’s shortcomings and instead of saying "It is what it is," she had thought "It is what you make it."

Five minutes later, I brought up the first time we met Jeff. Big mistake. Nichole still can’t forgive Frank and me for something we did over twenty years ago.

To go back in time, Nichole left for California a year after graduating from college. Once settled in San Fernando Valley as a welcome guest in my sister Anne’s large house, she sought out a job as a waitress. This kind of work gave flexible hours and tips to take home. But after several months of constant rejection for a movie role, she was miserable and homesick. Audition after audition, directors dismissed her. Since she had taken the Barbizon modeling course, she tried her luck there.

"You’re too short for runway work, but if you invested in breast implants, you could do magazine ads perhaps." The company told her.

No way. Nichole was terrified of hospitals, even though she had never undergone surgery.

While she broke down on the phone on our monthly call, I encouraged her not to give up. After all, she had free room and board plus four male college age cousins who spoiled her—the only female blood relative.

I hoped she would find a boyfriend, someone who loved her as much as I did. That would give her self-confidence as well as a shoulder to lean on. Three years passed before she met Jeff, a wannabe actor who worked as a waiter too. He lived in L.A. with his grandmother rather than move to Florida where his mom and stepdad relocated. It thrilled me to hear happiness in her voice. Two years passed. She wanted to bring him home to meet us.

"We’re flying into Tampa and will spend three days with you guys. Then we’re hoping you’ll loan us a car so we can drive to Miami to see his parents."

This was definitely serious. But it didn’t set too well to let a stranger drive either one of our cars across the state. "Let Jeff take a bus. You stay with us," I wanted to say. We hadn’t seen our daughter for five years. I wanted ‘alone’ time with her.

My first impression of Jeff as the two walked hand in hand toward us after disembarking: He’s too old for her! I’m talking a ten-year difference. Imagine my shock when she told me he was a year and a half younger.

The size of his head shocked me too. Jeff had to special order hats. Since he’s a Leo, my aunt, the astrologer, said a large head often marked this sign. Not true of my son or grandson, both born in late July. But then, men have two heads, so who knows where size comes into the picture. Maybe, my daughter had a double whammy.

One thing we told our daughter beforehand: "While staying with us, you’ll sleep in separate rooms." She didn’t argue.

Alone time? Forget it. She clung to Jeff like Saran Wrap. And vice versa.

"He doesn’t look like what I pictured for you," I told her in private.

"I know," Nichole answered flippantly. "I wouldn’t bring home a looker because I know you would flirt with him." I admit it. She was right.

During their short stay, Nichole kept niggling us to let them use Frank’s two-year-old Ford. "Your Toyota is eight years old, Mom," she whined.

"And I’ve never had a problem with it, Nichole. It’s good for another three years, I should think."

The exact details escape me, but my ‘ancient’ car broke down on Alligator Alley, a long (over two hundred miles) two-lane highway (back then) through the Everglades that connected the east and west coast. Poorly constructed, the Alley didn’t get much traffic. "We waited over two hours before someone drove by and offered to stop at the first place he could find a garage with a tow truck," Nichole yelled at me when they returned home. "We waited another hour for the truck to pick us up and then an hour and a half for them to fix it." 

Thank goodness, we have cell phones now.

Now, as we finished up the interview, Nichole brought up the incident. "I know you gave us that old car on purpose." She shut off the camera and glared at me, bitterness clear in her voice. "You knew what could happen."

Horrified and stunned by her accusation, I could only say the first thing that came to mind. "You really think that?" Later, I remembered she phoned after getting back to California, still angry. "Thanks to you, Mom, Jeff almost broke up with me. On the flight back home, he got so sick; we went straight to the hospital for three days. When he stresses out, his allergies get so bad, he can’t breathe." That explained why the incident locked into her mind.

My spiritual studies, begun in earnest the past two years, have taught me that getting rid of baggage that angers is part of the journey, a lesson she has yet to learn. Now, she answered, "I don’t think it, I know it."

Throughout this, Frank and Jeff stayed quiet.

"Well, it’s not true," I said. "I’m sorry it happened."

"Interview’s over," Jeff interjected with a laugh. "I’m getting hungry. Let’s go to the ranch and get some chow."

"Sounds good." Nichole packed the camera away as if nothing had happened. "Are you sure you can’t go, Dad?"

"Sorry, honey, I’m too tired. Yesterday did me in. How long do you think you’ll be gone?"

"We should be back by four to say goodbyes. Our luggage is in the car. We have reservations for a hotel near the airport since our flight leaves early in the morning."

Nichole’s sudden outburst preyed on my mind but not for long. Maybe having expressed her feelings would help my daughter deal with them and mend the gap that had grown between us. Had I argued old issues, the gap might have widened further.

To be continued.

Author Notes

Thought I could wrap this up, but one more chapter should bring us to present day.

Chapter 110
The Red Purse

By Spitfire

Previously: During the interview, my daughter accuses me of trying to sabotage her relationship with Jeff. The car I loaned them broke down on a deserted road. The stress made Jeff’s allergies erupt. He ended up in the hospital and almost split up with her. Nichole really believed I did it on purpose. However, to argue the point would spoil our otherwise pleasant reunion. I kept my mouth shut.

Chapter 109 ends:

Nichole’s sudden outburst preyed on my mind, but not for long. Maybe having expressed her feelings would help my daughter deal with them and mend the gap that had grown between us.

En route to Brownwood, I enjoyed sitting alone in the back seat, knowing hubby was wrapped up in Criminal Minds. Most of the time when Jeff drove, Frank tuned out or didn’t hear ongoing conversations. I wondered if such had been the case yesterday when Jeff swiveled his head a quarter turn and addressed me. "Say, Ma, you know how you call Nichole every Sunday? I was thinking maybe every other Sunday might be better, and let her talk to Frank first. She’s seems kind of, I don’t know, worn out—" His voice trailed off. Nichole stayed quiet. I didn’t take offense.

A long time ago my daughter told me Jeff envied those chats. His parents rarely kept in touch, yet they flew from Kansas to Texas every two months to see his half-sister, now married with a baby named after her father. Abandonment may be a big issue with him.

"Every other Sunday is fine," I answered. In truth, I’d been thinking the same thing. Nichole never had much to say. I carried the conversation which went pretty much like this:

"Hi, Sweetie. How are you?"

"Fine." Her voice a deadpan.

"Any special plans for the day?"

"Nope, just catching up on chores."

"What’s happening at work?"

"Same old, same old."

"Seen any good movies?"

"Not really."

You get the idea.

Rather than sign off, I start rambling about a must see Netflix or a book she might enjoy. I ask about her two pugs and Jeff in that order. I share any news about Chris and the grandchildren. Ask the right questions and I get lucky. She remembers something exciting. Her enthusiasm rises a notch. (From zero to two is not a long way to go.) "Oh, I did do a fun thing Thursday night. A new musical is playing at the theatre where I have season tickets. I saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch."

"Ohmigod," I screamed with delight. "I loved that movie. Bet it was a knock out play."

"You’ve seen it?"

"Back in 2001. Dad didn’t watch it though."

"He wouldn’t like it. He’s not as open-minded as you."

Once she opened up, I could keep a forty-minute conversation going. Frank would mouth, "Let her go." Okay, so maybe I did wear her out. Time to be honest.

Two weeks after their visit, I put it to her: "Jeff brought up the idea of calling less often. Is that okay with you?"

"It’s fine, Mom, but feel free to call me anytime you want."

Another hurdle I handled.

______________

Brownville turned out to be almost deserted. We parked in the Town Square and walked a block. Jeff approached the only person in sight, a man in his seventies. "Can you recommend a good restaurant?"

"Sure. Go straight for two blocks. It’s called World of Beer. Great sandwiches as well as drinks."

"Nice fellow," Jeff commented, as we followed directions. The Jeff I remembered would have mocked the old man’s gait and New England accent. He WAS changing.

We sat outdoors and perused the menu. Jeff and Nichole were more interested in the variety of beers. So many flavors including peanut butter and jelly, banana bread, raspberry tart, and mango. They each ordered five different tastes in half pint glasses and graciously offered me a sip of anything I wanted. Out of curiosity, I did try the pb&j. The brew picked up the flavor, but beer of any kind never appealed to me. I ordered water and split a veggie and humus wrap with Nichole. Jeff went for the calorific Guinness Bratwurst on a hoagie roll.

The Town Square sported a wooden floor for dancing. Stadium type seating surrounded three sides. The entertainment of the day or night would perform on the fourth ‘wall’. Only a few shops were open on the main street. Nichole was aghast. "Rick (her boss) would never open a mall until all shops were ready for business."

Jeff sat on a bench when his wife spotted a pricy boutique. I dashed toward a pair of jeans, white with sparkles and five silver framed oval-shaped openings parading down the outside of each leg. Price tag: $150. At one time, Nichole would have gone gaga over this, but flashy wasn’t her style anymore. I loved 'showy' now, but not the price. A few minutes later, I discovered she watched her pennies too.

A rack of purses greeted customers when they headed in or left the store. Among the black, brown, and tan handbags with fancy gold locks, a lone red leather one stopped her short. Neither too big nor too small, its simplicity spelled class. She picked it up and spent at least three minutes admiring it.

"Nichole, that’s perfect for you. It will set off your black and white wardrobe."

"I DO love it." She examined the silk-lined interior of the ‘Sweetheart Shoulder Tote Handbag’. Then she turned over the price tag. "Fifty dollars." She groaned. "I can’t buy it. We’ve spent too much money already."

"I’ll go halves on it," I said.

"Thanks, Mom. That’s tempting." She put the purse back on the rack. "Still, I set myself a budget."

I freed the red purse from its hook and held it to her waist. "You would get so many compliments."

She fondled it again, sighed and put it back. "I can’t."

I thought of the thousands I had in my savings. I thought of the jeans and other hot fashion clothes I could afford, but turned down now because who cared anymore? Thirteen years ago, students always commented on my wardrobe. Girls wanted to have me take their mothers shopping.  Boys noted my arms and asked if I worked out (which I did three times a week.) My well-matched outfits still attracted the attention of other seniors in my community, but my ego didn't need it.  Besides, who knew what expenses the future would bring.

As my daughter started for the door, I lifted the purse and headed for the glass counter. "I’ll take this," I handed the lady my credit card. Transaction done, I gave the bagged gift to my daughter.

Once outside, she hugged me. "Do you know what a purse like this would cost me in L.A.?" At least two hundred and fifty dollars."

Happy to have buried my tightwad self, I knew I had taken another important step in getting back to square one with my first born. Every time she carries that purse, she’ll feel my energy and love for her, I hope.

Back home, Frank still sat in front of the TV, but he got up to hug Nichole good-bye and shake hands with Jeff. I walked, arm around her, to their car, hugged her and started to break down.

My long-lost daughter hugged me fiercely. In a shaky voice, she pleaded, "Please, don’t you cry, Mom, or I will too."

That simple sentiment told me what I needed to know. Our path was on the way to recovery.

Next:  Epilogue. Is the elephant still in the room?

Author Notes

''Hedwig and the Angry Inch" is a rock musical about a fictional rock and roll band fronted by a genderqueer East German singer, Hedwig Robinson.

Chapter 111
Epilogue: Closure at Last

By Spitfire

The body count of this memoir totals six: my mother, my two sisters, my aunt, her son and finally, my disabled nephew, Barbara’s child, Bobbie. He lived six more years than predicted and outlived his mother, who died of cancer at sixty-five. For those of you who believe our loved ones make efforts to send us messages from the other side, I have heard from Mom, Barbara, Bobby, and Anne, each ‘voice’ reflecting the owner's personality. More on this this when I write on my psychic-medium spiritual classes.

Still alive, healthy, and part of my blood line are son, Chris and daughter, Nichole. As for me, like anyone who has been a caretaker for at least five years, I get stressed. The effort to make beds, wash clothes, shop for groceries, keep up with bills and cook dinner while all the time answering the same questions from Frank is taking its toll. He freaks out if I’m gone for thirty minutes. He greets me, "You’ve been gone four hours." I have to stay close.

My back still hurts from the T12 wedge fracture I suffered on August 13. I walk slower and tire easily. Hiring a housekeeper two days a month helps. Now if only someone would cook our dinner every night. Hubby doesn’t have the energy or desire to take me to a restaurant, an event he used to enjoy. Frozen dinners taste delicious to him. That says a lot about my cooking.

Thank goodness, my fall took place after Nichole’s visit eight months ago. I could almost keep up with her then, but not Frank. She noticed his turtle walk, confusion, and lack of enthusiasm. At last, she understood why we couldn’t fly out to L.A. for a visit.

I wondered if she would confide what I felt to be true. Could I ask, "Does it bother you that Jeff is free to pursue his dreams of acting because you work long hours to support him?"

A loose-lipped comment a year ago gave me insight into why she stays: "If I were free to marry again, only men in their seventies would be interested. Men my age want young and busty arm candy. I lose on both counts."

Rather than be a ‘cougar’, she has accepted her situation and worked on changing his rude habits and getting back to her roots. She still loves acting and recently invested in headshots to send out for auditions in Community Theater or commercials. Best of all, I don't let her attitude bother me anymore.

Three weeks ago, I made my usual bi-weekly call. Nichole is always multi-tasking, so shuffling noises often form the background for our conversations. I find it annoying and yes, insulting.

This particular time the noise was really obnoxious. Imagine someone chewing celery an inch from the speaker. I asked, "What is that crackling sound?"

"I’m reading the paper," she snapped. "Does it bother you?"

"Yes." I snapped back. "I like to think you’re giving me full attention when we talk."

"Fine! I’ll put the paper away. There, is that better?"

"Thank you," I growled and then asked to speak to Jeff, something I do every once in a while.

"Hey, Ma, how ya doing?" My son-in-law’s upbeat voice contrasted with Nichole’s annoyed tone. "I don’t know what Nichole’s problem is this morning." We chatted awhile. Nichole didn’t ask to be put on again.

The next day I received an e-mail:

                Sorry, Mom, for being rude. I get bad moods once in a while—well, maybe
a lot!  I wasn’t reading the paper, I was looking at the classifieds.

An apology from my daughter? A rare e-mail too. Two more icebergs melting.

I never did ask why she read that section. I knew she wanted to change jobs if something better showed up.

~~~~~~~~

Five years ago, we stopped exchanging Christmas gifts at my request. It seemed silly. We both have the means to buy what we want when we need it. Now, I wonder if this offended her. Something I should ask?

Actually, I was always giving her something—the red purse, for example; a subscription to Reader’s Digest every year, a two thousand dollar check one time so she could buy a washer and dryer for her new home. So I don't feel guilty about ignoring Christmas. Still, she broke the expected habit in 2015 by mailing a fun gift from a novelty sock shop. Frank’s pair had his name written in several languages. Shakespeare’s face and the name of his plays decorated mine.

This year, she surprised us with a much bigger gift: a forty-six-year-old arthritic elephant named Rosie. We received a photo, a certificate of adoption and a newsletter about her life and friends.  Rosie lives in a sanctuary in Tennessee. She has no tusks, a shorter trunk than most,  and a mouth that curves upward in semblance of a smile.

English teacher that I used to be, I saw the animal choice as symbolic. An "elephant in the room" is an idiom that refers to an obvious problem or difficult situation that people don’t want to discuss. Hence, healing never comes. Such was the situation with my mother and her daughters, with me and both sisters. Such was the situation when Nichole married Jeff.  I tried my best to repair damage.

Was Rosie a reminder that we still have to work things through? Considering what happened to my elephant, I like to think my daughter has turned a corner and forgiven old grievances. When I called today, she announced, " Sad news. Rosie passed away." I pray Nichole, too, has put to rest bad memories as I have chosen to do. Everything's good with my blood relatives again.

My journey has entered the final phase of my life. I'm now a caregiver to hubby, but instead of resenting my role,  I’ve embraced it. He may not be blood, but like my mother, father, Chris, and hopefully, Nichole, Frank loves me unconditionally, making him the only one now who really matters.

Author Notes

Rosie's health was so poor, that on December 29, she fell and could not get up on her own. The Care Staff noted a visible decline in her overall health and ability to remain standing, even with assistance. On December 31, they made the decision to put her out of pain. Her closest friends, Sukari and Tange were given an opportunity to visit her body.

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