Remembering Grandpa

Forty years. 

It's been 40 years, but I remember it so vividly. 

I was a senior at Montclair State College, a commuter school. Grandpa had been diagnosed with cancer (initially a brain tumor) a few months prior. 

After a successful surgery to remove the tumor, he underwent radiation therapy as an outpatient, but when his care became too much for my grandmother to handle at home, he was admitted to the hospital, and it was downhill from there. 

I was in denial. This was Grandpa, after all! He'd recover and return home to take his seat at the head of the Sunday dinner table soon. 

But on this day, 40 years ago, when I returned home from classes and opened the garage door, my mother's car was already there. Grandpa had slipped into a coma, she said. 

We went to visit him that night. Such a dimly lit, depressing place was Orange Memorial. It was one of those hospitals where older Italians went to die. 

Grandpa had stopped talking to us weeks ago—he had not wanted to return to the hospital—but now his eyes were closed and he may not have known we were there. 

I still had a glimmer of hope in my heart as we rode the elevator to the lobby. People emerged from comas, didn't they? 

The next afternoon, November 3, 1983, when I opened the garage door, Mom's car was there again. 

And I knew. 

So much life has been lived during the 40 years since—holiday celebrations, graduations, weddings, funerals, as well as the births of all of Grandpa's great-grandchildren and great-great grandchildren. 

I know he has been with me through it all, and he continues to watch over all of us. 

But I will never stop missing him.

Fear of Falling: Fostering Copper, Clifford, and Jasper

My twisted sister Mary and I have discussed the risks of falling, When we were younger, we didn't understand why falling is more common—and more dangerous—as people age. But now that we are "women of a certain age," we get how easily it can happen.

And that's the conversation that popped into my head yesterday when I fell for the third time since my hip joint replacement.

It happened so quickly, I didn't realize I was falling until I was on the ground. I'd been trying to increase the distance between my foster dog, Jasper and two small "yippy" dogs on the other side of the street. It wasn't his fault; I should have paid closer attention to the area of grass I moved him to, which turned out to be much slicker than it seemed, due to a recent torrent of rain.

I got up quickly and began to contrast and compare this fall to my two previous ones.

The first fall post-hip surgery occurred when I tripped on something in my bedroom. The impact knocked me off-balance, and I fell backwards, hitting the "new hip" side and banging my head on a bookcase for good measure. It happened only a year or so after my hip replacement, so I called my surgeon in a panic, fearing I had injured the new joint. He assured me that if I had I would know. It would be painful to bear weight on the right side.

Fast-forward to May 2020 when my family started fostering dogs for our local animal shelter. It was something my son, R, and I had wanted to do for awhile and the stay-at-home restrictions of the pandemic seemed an opportune time to begin helping dogs in need.

Our fostering journey (we've helped to save nine dogs so far) has proven to be fulfilling, joyful, heartbreaking, educational, and free of falling. And then we brought a hound mix we named Copper (from Disney's Fox and Hound) home.

In July 2021, Copper came into the shelter as a stray with a neck wound likely from an embedded collar. He was understandably afraid of many things, especially car rides. So much so that I had to lift him in and out of the car whenever I needed to take him somewhere. On one such occasion, as I lifted him out from the back seat, the leash handle caught on the car's console. The unexpected pressure on his neck prompted Copper to rear up, knocking me off-balance and backward. I hit the parking lot pavement on my right side (again).

After Copper (left) was adopted in January 2022, we pulled Clifford (below) into foster. This sweet, misunderstood boy never precipitated a fall, but he was a runaway train on-leash initially. By this point, we had hired a trainer and, in the weeks prior to going to rescue, Clifford's leash manners (and my leash skills) greatly improved.

And then yesterday happened. Not gonna lie. The fall scared me. But compared to my previous tumbles, it was minor.

As I have explained in this space before, dogs have always been an intregal part of my life, now more than ever. The longer I am involved with dog rescue, the more I see how us humans continue to fail this unconditionally loving animal.

I want to help. So, I'll keep fostering for as long as my body will let me.

Tony the Cop: One of the Good Ones

I was raised to respect and trust the police. Always.

But as reports (and video footage) involving “bad cops” have become widespread, I can no longer pledge blind allegiance to the judgment of every person wearing a police uniform.

My father graduated from the police academy before he met my mother so I grew up in a police family, a unique perspective that non-police folk might struggle to understand. Going to work meant Dad may not come home (a reality my mother kept to herself during my formative years), so I was taught that civilians should never second-guess anything a cop does in the line of duty.

And while the evidence mounts to support systemic racism being enforced in police departments throughout the country, I have held tight to the belief that, during his tenure, my father was one of the good ones.

Dad’s stories about his experiences on the job offer a consistent pattern of de-escalation. Although he was ready to defend his life if warranted, his first instinct was to use his voice, body language, and common sense to calm people in the heat of the moment. I once asked him if, during his 38-year career, he had ever fired his gun in the line of duty. “No,” he replied, without hesitation.

As a police officer, Dad responded to a broad range of calls, from a squirrel that came down a chimney (the homeowners thought a burglar was afoot), to dramatic hostage situations, to helping track and capture a tapir that had escaped from the local zoo. In multiple instances, he found himself thrust into the role of social worker or psychologist, interacting with people who were clearly struggling with mental health issues. Many of his stories describe how he successfully negotiated and/or wrestled weapons away from individuals--without using his own. During one memorable interaction, when told by a fellow officer that a Black man had a gun, Dad’s response was to tackle the suspect, only to learn that the gun (as in the case of Tamir Rice) was a toy.

When I asked about police behavior in the cases of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, Dad was adamant that those officers were wrong. In particular, the video of George Floyd’s murder infuriated him. “I have no sympathy for [those four officers]. They should be taken out and shot.”

Other recent charges of police misconduct were not as cut and dried. For example, in the case of Rayshard Brooks’ killing, because Brooks had a weapon (a taser), the officer “had cause,” Dad said.

“So, what has changed since you walked the beat? Why is all this happening now?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Not all cops are like that, but there are always some ‘bad apples,’ no matter where you go,” he said.

To support his theory, Dad described the exploits of several “bad apples” who graduated from the police academy with him. Highlights included shaking people down, accepting money to provide favorable testimony in court, planting drugs on innocent people, and burglarizing stores while on duty.

“I told them they were going to get caught eventually, and they did. They all got fired,” Dad said.

“Why didn’t you report them?”

“You don’t squeal on another cop, Ri.”

Although we may disagree about how many “bad apples” are now patrolling our communities, I know that “protect and serve” is hardwired in Dad’s DNA. As a police officer, he treated all people with dignity, a skill that seems to be in short supply today. In other words, he was and is one of the good ones.

Pain in the Ass? Or Your Own Best Advocate?

If you know anything about me, you know I've had a lot of experience being a patient. Too much.

As I've gotten older, I've also become more verbal ~ and less hesitant ~ about asking questions and speaking up when I feel I need to. In short, being my own best advocate. Or, a pain in the ass, depending on your point of view.

Such was the case earlier this week when I found myself sitting on a "bed" in the local ER, awaiting test results.

I had called my internist's office to see if I could be seen for some chest pain I'd been experiencing. The nurse told me to go the emergency room.

"I don't have the time or the money to go to the emergency room!"

Yeah, I really said.

After a brief silence, the nurse informed me that the ER was the place to go. There, the staff could draw blood to determine the presence of cardiac enzymes and determine if I had actually suffered an "event" ~ and then treat me as needed.

Sensing I was still hesitant, she closed the deal:

"If you come here and tell us you are having chest pain, we will call 9-1-1."

So, off to the ER I went.

The triage nurse told me I could expect to be there for about six hours,which turned out to be pretty accurate. She started taking my vitals around 2:40PM and I finally left shortly after 9PM.

Preliminary blood tests and X-rays all came back negative, according to the ER PA, who did a good job of keeping me updated.

Then, there was a shift change at 7PM, and my new nurse entered my curtained "room," IV kit in hand.

"Is that an IV?" I asked her.

"Yes," she answered, somewhat cautiously. "You've been marked for admission."

"What???!!"

I told her, none too gently, that all my tests had been negative and I was waiting for a cardiology consult. She thought I'd already seen someone from cardiology. No, I told her. I had not.

After she left, I went to the main desk. The PA who'd been taking care of me was engrossed in conversation with other staff.

"Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?" another nurse asked me.

"I. Need. To. Speak. To. Him.," I said, pointing at the PA.

"Okay, I will let him know."

Moments later, my nurse returned and apologized. I was not being admitted. The PA had had to mark that on my chart to initiate the cardiology consult. One more blood test was needed. If that was also negative, I would probably be discharged. And she would page cardiology to inquire about the delay.

And, as noted above, I was discharged a few hours later with a cardiologist referral and a possible stress test in my near-future.

My Father, My Advocate
This incident reminded me of my spondylolisthesis surgery. More specifically, what happened during my recovery.

My surgeon, Hugo Keim, ordered 24-hour, private nurse care for the first week or so, post-op, but that first night, my nurse was "sharing" patients ~ meaning she was splitting her time between me and another patient who was also in need of 24-hour care.

I was still fuzzy from the anesthesia and floating in a morphine haze, but I did realize that each time she turned me ~ from one side to other ~ she left the call button where I couldn't reach it. And then seemed to disappear for long stretches of time.

The next day when my parents came to visit (back then, parents didn't stay with their hospitalized children), although I have no memory of it, I recounted the previous night's ordeal in graphic detail.

Without a word, my father left the room.

"Where is Dad going?"

"To the nurses' station," my mother said.

I don't know what my father said (although I can imagine it!), but I never saw that nurse again. And that night, I met "Paul," whose kind care I still remember fondly.

So, be a pain in the ass! Speak up! And take good care.

Bras and scoliosis

Now there are two words I never thought to put together. Until now.

Thinking back on my Milwaukee Brace years, I wished then that I could forgo a bra. The brace pads pushed the elastic components of the bra further into my skin over my ribs, leaving deep, reddish-pink grooves. However, thanks to my mother's genes, I've always been one of those girls who really needs the support of a bra, so it was just one more discomfort to endure during that time in my life.

Recently, Michaela contacted me about a business idea she is exploring that will somehow involve scoliosis and bras. Intrigued? You can help her out by participating in this brief survey.

Mobility and mortality

As I celebrate another birthday this month, I find myself wondering what life will be like ~ and how mobile I will be ~ as age and wear and tear affect my spine and joints.

My primary concern is the prospect of being confined to a nursing home and, worse, a wheelchair. Although I will do everything I can to avoid that, nothing will stop the aging process.

This has been a source of anxiety for me, until . . .

Recently my family moved from North Carolina to Illinois and, in an effort to meet people, I joined a book discussion group with our new church. The book selection: Being Mortal. Written by a doctor, it illustrates how physicians are trained to treat, and then treat some more. They are not taught how to help us accept the reality of our own mortality and how to exit this life on our own terms.

I was a little scared to read this book, but I got through it and now I feel empowered by what I've learned. Despite what we have been conditioned to believe, we are in charge of our lives and our medical care. Through the experiences of patients Dr. Gawande has known, readers can consider different scenarios they may face on the journey toward their own mortality.

So now I know that all assisted living and nursing home facilities are not created equal. There are choices to be had and decisions to be made, and I can take steps to ensure my wishes are known and honored. This means asking myself some difficult questions and sharing those answers with my loved ones. It won't be easy, but it needs to be done ~ for me as well as for them.

So if you're looking for a good read, check out Dr. Gawande's Being Mortal. It's not an easy one to get through, but it's important to read it anyway. Trust me.

Puberty in a shell

It was summer in New Jersey and a friend had invited me to her house to go swimming in her family's pool. I told her I would walk there (less than a mile away from my house) and she expressed concern.

"What if you fall? You'll be a like a turtle on its back. 'Help me! Help me!'" she mimicked the infamous line from "The Fly".

I laughed and assured her I'd be fine. And I was.

Another summer, during a family trip to the Florida Keys, I spent some of my "brace-less" time in the sun ~ and fell asleep. The resulting case of sun poisoning made wearing my Milwaukee brace unbearable, so I went without for awhile. I remember feeling vulnerable, sleeping without the brace's support. Or maybe I was feeling guilty, not wearing it as prescribed.

This story reminded me of those instances. It is Hannah's story, seen through her aunt's camera lens. This touching tribute, by photographer Julia Cybularz, chronicles Hannah's scoliosis treatment. The story title is the first reference to "living in a shell" that I can recall ~ a very accurate description. Scroll through the photos of "Breaking the Girl" to see Hannah's journey of strength and courage.

This July will mark 36 years since my last body cast was removed, finally freeing me from my shell.