Version 1: DF Story selection

     Then she appeared, a tall, thin woman.

     She was handsome in her severe-ness.  A linen dress stopped midway down her slender calves.  With her elegant, long fingers she drew her brown shawl tighter around her bony shoulders.  Her face was all sharp lines: her high cheekbones sloped beneath sloe, crystal-blue eyes to her pencil-thin nose, which had a slight upturn at its end.  Her wide mouth showed neither friendly nor stern, yet the only thing soft about this woman was the loose, brown curls that framed her angular face.

     Annabelle swallowed hard; she was not able to look away. 

     "I am the Forest Wife, Matt Jones and Annabelle Smith."  The woman’s voice was deep, feminine and rich.  "It is my cottage in which you find yourselves.  I hope the stew has filled your bellies."

     Annabelle pressed her lips together before quietly saying, "The stew was delicious.  Thank you.  And thank you very much for your hospitality, but my friend and I," she broke from the woman's stare to glance at Matt, "we've decided to find accommodation elsewhere."  Matt stood stricken.  Annabelle reached to him and tugged his sleeve.  He stumbled to her side.

     The woman's mouth widened slightly further into a smile.  "There is nowhere else," she said in a throbbing, steady voice.  "You will not survive out in the night.  You will stay here.  I will take care of you."

     "Thank you for your warning, but we'll be leaving just the same."

     The conundrum was before the pair like lightening, and Annabelle gasped while Matt moved between the two women.  “Sit,” she said in that throbbing, steely voice.

     Standing so close, Annabelle could smell the fragrance of fresh trees, petrichor and newly turned dirt wafting from the woman, who could nearly look 6'1" Matt in the eye. 

     “Please.  I am anxious to hear of your journey."

     Matt and Annabelle sidestepped the woman and made for the door, Annabelle clinging to the tail of Matt’s jacket like a leash.

     "Matt Jones, Annabelle Smith," spoke the woman. 

     Matt stopped and lingered at the door.  Annabelle found herself lingering too, shoulder bag swinging from her hand. 

     "You will stay.  Only terrible danger awaits you out there.  Stay here," the woman's voice became liquid caramel, "where there is a warm fire and food to fill your bellies.  Listen to what I say; then tomorrow you may make your…decisions."

     Something in Annabelle's head, like a small, insistent voice softly pounded an encouragement to not leave the cottage.  Annabelle shook her shoulders and guided Matt forward with a hand on his back.  "Thank you, but we really must be going."  She closed the door behind them.

Thankful for being one of "Sue's girls"

     In reading a book (A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty), my mind wandered to my first friend my age who became a mother.  Then the thoughts of my friend moved on to her baby shower.  LeeAnn received a gift from Sue, and in the accompanying card dear Sue wrote, "You're the first of 'Sue's girls' to have a baby."
     And with that memory I realized something I, frankly, have been too stupid to realize until this very moment (thirty-two, never too old, ever):  All my life, most of it anyway, I've wanted to belong.  To belong.  To be a part of something special.  A huge longing.  Everyone longs for that, it's very human.  I, until this moment, didn't think, didn't realize, just didn't get it, that I was (still am as it's a part of us and that won't ever change) part of something special.  I was one of "Sue's girls."
     I guess I shouldn't feel too bad for being so dense.  Jesus' disciples witnessed him feeding 5,000 people from five loaves of bread and two fish (Matthew 14:13-21).  Not long after (within the span of a year or two at least) Jesus wants to feed 4,000 people (Matthew 15:29-38), and his disciples panic and ask where they're to get enough food to feed all those people.  [Cue crickets chirping.]  They didn't get it.  Not until Jesus died and came back to life -- which is a pretty big thing.  I guess I shouldn't feel so bad it's taken me thirty-two years to get this.

     There were five of us that made up "Sue's girls":  Jennifer, Donna, me, Ashley and LeeAnn.  Sue was our babysitter.  It was her neighbors that gave us this moniker.
     I have, in the past, considered writing about those times, but I don't have the memory for it.  Most of the memories have faded.  I'd achieved about four pages once.  I'd written a poem, which I liked.
     It doesn't matter though that I can't accurately write about what was a large part of my childhood; (I went there from the age of two and a half to about fourteen.  I wasn't the first to come, but I was the last to leave.  In the end I was only there to catch the County bus.)  That time has marked our souls and shines, paints, sings into our lives, a part of who we are and what we bring into the world.  There were other children there, of course, through the years, it just happened that...well, I don't really know how it happened; I shouldn't pretend I do.
     I do know the memories are fun stories, but there's not really a way to describe the magic, and it is magic.  A special magic.  And I'm thankful to be one of "Sue's girls."

Me and Sue c. 1985

Today I am thankful for fear.

To all the writers who "brag" (whine, really) about having to whittle your work down from around 150,000+ words, I kind of want to cut you with my ax (if I had an ax; if I could even lift an ax.  Fine, a spoon.)  I struggled and struggled to make it to 50,000 words with my novel and that was by the skin of my teeth.  And though I'm stepping away from the first draft of my novel before the "revising, revising, infinitum," I still worry over how I'll keep it at 50,000 or build the word count to a greater number.

I really am terrified to go back to the story.  Not just the word count, but making it not crap, as all good first drafts are.  That it will never be more, never be better, never be....I don't know.  Not great necessarily, but "something."  Reading editing helps -- books and articles -- does dispel some of the fear.

I am thankful for the fear because without it, I wouldn't know what peace feels like.  It's a figurative sword fight me and this fear and this novel.  Really a grand adventure.

What Once Was Lost

     What once was lost, now is found.  

     It finally happened, only not quite the way I thought it would.  I thought I would get a call from the police or a kindly soul:  "Is this Stephanie?  We have your grandmother here."  I was prepared for that.  I wasn't prepared for a long, mostly sleepless night.  I wasn't prepared to wonder if she was scared.  I wasn't prepared to contemplate all the possibilities:  Will she stay in the car with the heat on?  Will she think to pull over and ask someone for help?  Will she/Has she been in an accident?  Has she had a stroke or another pulmonary embolism and may not be found until it's too late?  Where the hell can she be?

      The phrase, "Choose to trust," kept rolling through my head like a mantra.  The prayer of "I know you're here with me, and you have your eye on her, and that is enough" was repeated many times.  And, as always, Jesus came through.

     Last night my grandmother went out about a quarter to eight to eat at the restaurant she frequents.  I give her two hours of "You're not aloud to freak out, Stephanie" whenever she does this while I'm home.  The two hours passed.  Every other time I've worried, it's always been fine -- she went to visit with someone or she stopped somewhere for gas.  The third hour passed.  I sat in the kitchen, legs crossed with a foot swinging, arms crossed looking at the clock every five minutes distracting myself with a movie on TV.  The fourth hour came.  It was close to midnight.  She never stays out that late, even when she's playing Yahtzee at her one friend's place.  So I got in my car and drove by the restaurant.  I drove by other restaurants.  I drove by the post office.  I drove by gas stations, through my uncle and aunt's neighborhood, through the parking lot of her one friend's apartment complex.  She was no where.  I came back home and called the emergency room -- no one by that name had been through that night.  I called my uncle and aunt's.  By this time five hours had passed.  It was now near 1 AM.  Back and forth and waiting by the phone for another hour or so.  My uncle called the local sheriff's office.  The deputies came by, got a description, advised they had deputies scouring the (very tiny by the way) city.  

     Around 3 AM I crawled in bed wide awake.  The clock in the next room was tick-tick-ticking (me off), so I pulled the battery out.  I kept listening for the sound of my grandmother pulling into the garage or the doorbell ringing or someone banging on the front door.  I put on a movie and tried to sleep.  I got maybe an hour.  The sprinklers outside woke me at 5:15 AM.  I had decided the night before, no wait, correction, I had decided a couple hours before that I would go into work today.  Didn't want to sit around the house doing nothing.  Waiting.  There was still no word from the police.

     Driving to work, a raven flew over my car, and the spark of a little girl heart's dream flashed: oh that I did have the power to speak with birds; I would have them search all the land for my grandmother.  But then the Holy Spirit reminded me that he doesn't need birds; he knows right where she is, and again the prayer: "I know you're here with me, and you have your eye on her, and that is enough."
     After I'd been at work about half an hour, a call came on my mobile.  It was a woman named Susan -- God's answer to my prayer.  My grandmother had driven to a gas station.  Susan noticed something wasn't quite right and thought maybe this woman needed help pumping gas, so she went to the car and tapped on the window.  My grandmother told her, "I don't know where I am."  Susan asked if there was someone she could call.  "Well, my granddaughter, but she can't come get me; she's at work."  "I'm sure she'll come get you," Susan had said to her.  By God's grace, my number was in my grandmother's purse.  
     Susan gave me directions to the gas station, her cell phone number and said she would stay with my grandmother until I came.  I told her my grandmother had been missing since last night, and it was a good thing that she called me.  She had asked that, whether or not she had been right to call.  "Oh no, it's very good you called me.  She's been missing since last night."  She said she got goosebumps by that.
     So I went to pick up my grandmother who remembered going out to eat last night, but the twelve hours after she left the restaurant (according to the receipt she had left about 9 PM) are a mystery.  She'd told Susan (who was kind enough to give my grandmother some water even) she had left the house this morning to go on errands and couldn't remember how she got there or where she was.  I told my grandmother, "No, you went out to eat, and you didn't come home.  We had the police out looking for you."  She was baffled.  After making sure we were okay Susan left.
     My grandmother's legs were shaky from having sat in the car all night.  It took a few minutes before she felt strong enough to walk from one car to the other.  I drove her home where my aunt met us.  She waited for my uncle, and the two of them retrieved my grandmother's car.  Then we all went out for lunch.
     As I told the police, and my answered prayer Susan, this is the first time something like this has happened.  Thankfully, my grandmother is safe.  The redeeming part about her memory loss is she won't be traumatized by this.  As she doesn't remember what passed in the twelve hours of her leaving the restaurant and driving into the gas station, she won't remember if she was scared or cold or ashamed.  We've revoked her driving privileges, took away her keys.  She took that well, though she is a little put out she can't drive to see her one friend whenever she wants.  But, like with her medicine, that too will blow over.
     I am tired.  My head aches from tears I refused to shed.  But at least she is found.  And she is safe.  Thank God Almighty for that.  
     

Downward Spiral

     She asked me about the dishes again yesterday.  "Are you taking dishes to work and not bringing them back?"
     "No," I reply.  "You have the same amount of dishes, give or take a broken glass, as you did when I moved in here three years ago."
     "I know that when I buy dishes...I should have twelve."
     Repeat.
     A few moments later: "Do you think someone could have a key and is getting in and taking them?"
     She actually doesn't get all the way through this sentence before I interject, "No, Nana, no one has a key to the house."  Now I'm frustrated because I don't know how many different ways to tell her she's not missing any dishes; I have to practice my self-restraint to tell keep myself from saying to her that she's being paranoid.  So I try a different strategy:  "Call David & Leslie and see if they have any ideas."
     She doesn't.  So when David comes by to pick her up for dinner I tell him, "She's concerned," do not say "paranoid" because she is standing right there, "about her dishes again."
     Yes, again.  This is the third time she's asked me about dishes in the last month or so.  (Although in the past year, there were a few scattered times she believed she was missing Tupperware.)  I've lived with her three years -- the same amount of dishes exist.  Why now is she so...concerned about them now when she never was before?
     Dementia -- there really is no logic.

The Obsession: Part II

Hearing stories from other people whose elderly relatives developed dementia, I gather that weird or unusual obsessions are part of the disease.

I've mentioned "the pills" before.  Well, this one is to do with the kitchen.

I've been living here with my grandmother about three and a half years.  All serving items (plates, bowls, etc.) have, for the most part remained the same in that time, with the exception of a few new mugs and a few "OK to throw away" containers.

Last week or the week before....

My grandmother:  What happened to all the silverware?
Me:  What do you mean?
My grandmother:  I had [insert number of] forks.  Some aren't there.
Me:  I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.

This goes on for a little bit.  The self-restraint is hanging by a thread, and I flippantly say, "I guess someone came in and stole them."
My grandmother: They must have because I had [however many] of each and now there are only [less number than however many].


This past weekend....
My grandmother:  Are you taking glasses to work and not bringing them home?


[Okay, pause....I can't even begin to describe the absurdity of this statement.....resume]

Me:  No.  There are the same number of glasses in there as there always are.
My grandmother:  No, some are missing.  I had...just a minute.  [She goes to check to tell me just exactly how many are missing, like she can remember the exact number of each type of glass she has, but gets sidetracked by something else and forgets about the whole thing.]

(I realize that last bit is a little callous, but please permit me a little blazing honesty for a moment.  My self-restraint is temporarily broken.)

I checked a few minutes later, not mentioning the conversation, just looking.  All the glasses are there.


I don't know if this one counts as obsessional technically, or paranoid.  Either way....oy.  And since I don't remember to ask in the moment, because I'm too busy being stunned by whatever absurd question has been thrown at me: "Jesus, please allow me your strength in these moments.  Amen."

How Not to Kill Your Grandmother

I've become quite familiar with the emergency room.  How old is mine?, you ask -- she'll be 82 this month.

Last November (it was forever ago and it was yesterday) was our first visit.  I get home from work to find the house slightly amiss.  I walk around cautiously calling for Nana, praying I don't walk into a room and find her on the floor.  Her car is still in the garage, but her purse is gone.  I assume she's at the neighbor's. What really nags at me is the sight of my work number lying on top of the microwave, like she had the intention of calling me. I call Uncle David and Aunt Leslie to make sure Nana isn't with them (leave a message for both) before going to knit/crochet group.  Aunt Leslie calls me back while I'm at group.  She had gone to the house after she got my message.  She went to the neighbor's but the neighbor said she hadn't seen her.  Leslie went across the street to another neighbor's -- they happened to see an ambulance come pick up Nana.  So I go home.  We discover the hospital Nana'd been taken to.  The story finally comes out that she felt short of breath so she called an ambulance.  By the time the ambulance had arrived, she knew she had called them, but she couldn't remember why (a recurring theme with these ER visits).  It was determined she had a pulmonary embolism.  This visit marked the commencement of me being charge of her medicine.

The second visit is a Saturday.  I had planned a lovely day at the zoo with a friend and her son (me complaining is another common theme with these ER visits), but Nana said she woke with a pain across her chest.  By the time we even leave for the ER, Nana is no longer in pain.  We're at the ER -- a long, drawn out process, especially for the complaint of chest pain -- they run their tests.  Nothing is wrong, but they admit her overnight for observation.  During this visit, I discover that she and her one friend had chili dogs the night before.  The woman probably had indigestion.  This visit taught me that should Nana ever complain of chest pains in the future, I should ask more questions before jumping in the car.  (Please, for your sake and mine, do NOT state anything along the lines of "Better to be safe than sorry."  Really not helpful.)

The third visit I wasn't privy to until I came home from work.....thank you, Jesus.  She went in, nothing wrong, sent her on her merry way.  

Let me interrupt here to say, the thing about these ER visits, there's always the thought of "Is this the One?"  There's the worry regarding whether or not this one's very serious, like the first; whether this will be the last one because it's the one she won't come back from.  That thought is always there nagging.

And now for the fourth visit: today.  I am woken up at 5am.  "Stephanie.  Get up.  I need you to take me to the hospital."  I get up; I get dressed. I prepare myself to ask questions regarding what kind of chest pains she's having, is there shortness of breath, etc. -- remember the lesson learned from Visit #2.  I walk out into the kitchen.  She has a bag all prepared in case they admit her.  Before I can ask any questions: "Look at that."  She points to her feet.  She has a lovely bruise on one toe.  "I was lying in bed reading, and it did that."  A stubbed toe? I'm thinking.  Well, she's on coumadin [blood thinner].  Fine.  So we get in the car.  I'm so tired, my eyes are watering.  I didn't bring a warm sweater or sweatshirt because I clearly didn't learn a lesson about the ER being the same temperature as the Antarctic.  So we sit there in the ER.  I'm tired, I'm cold, I'm a little angry at myself for not saying, "Let's wait a bit; if it gets worse, I'll take you."  

A nurse finally comes in; this is when I discover that Nana did not want to come to the hospital because of a stubbed toe.  Oh no.  Here in paraphrase is what she told the nurse: "I was reading in bed.  My feet and legs felt tingly.  I looked down and they're blue."  She's showing her legs to everyone like we're all supposed to be impressed by something.  By her legs being blue, she meant the veins had shown themselves.  Like the veins in her ankles and on her feet -- you know, the veins all old people get for whatever medical/scientific reason old people's veins start showing off on the legs and feet -- were all new to her.  Just Saturday she was mentioning how awful they looked, and she doesn't remember it looking like that.  It does by the way.  All the time.

So, in my words, Nana wanted to go to the hospital because she felt new veins showing.  So here's "how not to kill your grandmother" in three easy steps.  Actually, there aren't steps, just three words: don't do it.

I am so mad and so tired, I have to turn my head to the side so she doesn't see tears running down.  I call my mom, who insists on staying informed on every hospital visit, and have Nana speak with her.  Mom wants to speak with me afterwards, but I can't.  I have to step out of the "room" (it's a cubby with a curtain) because I can't not full out cry.  Because that's what happens when one is sick or really upset about something -- you cry to your mother (or mother figure).  And when you don't want to cry, it's just disaster waiting to happen.

The doctor feels her feet and ankles -- good temperature, good arterial pulse, no unnatural discoloration, (she's fine).  He has a quick blood check done -- all well there.

By the time we're ready to leave a few hours later, Nana -- even though she's told everyone there without any prompting why she came to the hospital -- asks me, "Why did I come in?"  All I can do -- very little self-restraint left at this point -- is look at her and say, "Really, Nana?"

I took her home and went to hang out with a friend, which is often three times the worth of a month of professional therapy.  Thank you, Jesus, for Donna.

So the lesson from this fourth visit is like that of the second, and what is that:  always ask questions.  

Stay tuned for another brief post regarding my grandmother's obsessions.