I learned a lot of bad habits from Mom. I learned many good habits from Mom. I learned a lot of odd methods from Mom. I learned a lot of non-methods from Mom. I learned good versions of all of these too. But mostly I learned stuff.

Moms are great for that – teaching stuff to you, the kids. Even if you did not want to know about it, you were getting the lecture anyway. I smile as I write this because it makes me smile.

Mom is a horizontal filer.

Paper in various forms, newspaper, magazines, bills, flyers, catalogs, birthday cards, etc. comes into every dwelling constantly. In Mom’s case no filter or system of triage is applied when the paper arrives. All is placed indiscriminately and horizontally onto a near at hand flat surface. Usually this is a table. This table may be in the kitchen, dining room or living room. There is no specification other than the surface is to be horizontal and 20 – 30 inches off the floor.

This format was the predominant filing format of any and all paper that entered the house. Of course some paper comes into view at special times and due to this timing achieves special status for a short period. Newspapers are of this ilk arriving as they do at specific times of the day and requiring only a temporary attention.

As paper accumulates of course it becomes necessary to deal with the encroachment into other spaces used for eating, crafts, writing and other activities. This requires a neatenment activity. Paper is stacked. Sometimes it is also sorted by size. Occasionally it is filtered by importance into loose categories; bills and flyers and ads, bills and charitable appeals, stuff that is neither of these, magazines, catalogs too small to stack properly, other.

None of this paper is of long term interest other than invoices. Eventually these are sorted and selected for payment.

This may seem a disorganized arrangement. Consider the alternative stress inducing method of filtering and sorting every piece of mail as it enters the house. I have modified the method slightly by applying certain detection techniques to the mail stream and collecting billing notices into their own stack. No other sort is applied to the pile of paper beyond that.

I think Mom taught me this same method by observation. Children spend a lot of time watching their parents every move. My personal area in this living space looks much like Andy Rooney’s office. Perhaps Andy’s mom was a horizontal filer.

Mom is a down-sizer.

As we age we forget that we are not twenty years old anymore. I have noticed this creeping into my own life as I get older.

Recently my wife and I summoned up the courage to make a change in our lives that we believe will enhance our future (golden) years. We spent 35 years of our life in a five bedroom house with a 200 square foot eat-in kitchen and an even larger dining area for big family gatherings. We have had as many as 50 people in the first floor at one time although not seated around the same table. The house is wonderful. Built in the very early part of the twentieth century. In a perfect neighborhood to raise children. I don’t think either of us thought much about leaving until we seriously started to actually do it.

Mom and Dad did the same thing in about the same time in their lives. It is remarkable to me how similar these two moves are. Single floor plan, three bedrooms, two baths. Garage. Smaller space. No basement.

So, after thinking and discussing this for approximately a year we moved. Most everything is stored, sorted, poured over and away somewhere. Done. The deed is done. On to the next new adventure!

Another observational lesson.

In her later years Mom’s mind flits from thought to nuance to detail to expected failure to indecision to stasis.

Focus is harder as I get older. This observation I wrote about Mom but in the retrospective of several months (now years) time I notice this in myself. Dang! Maybe I’ve been doing this all along. Alas.

It could be that the way to combat this activity is to do what it is that is thought of as a good idea at the time without regard expected failure. Be adventurous. See how it turns out. Why not? What the hell! Live a little.

Another aspect of this is the nagging feeling in the background that Cheryl is getting more frail as we age together and her Parkinson’s takes up more of her effort. I need to do two things: not dwell on this greatly, and, in fact, push her to keep going; be perceptive enough to recognize when this isn’t working and back off. Tricky.

The lesson here may not be as apparent as it ought to be. We are only here for a short time. All the major religions teach this. We should be satisfied with that time that we are here. But while we are here why not make the most of it? Pursue your passion. Live a little.

Mom believes in perceived authority.

The news is a perceived authority, at least, if it comes from a major news outlet. The church is not. Advertising, against the background of a major news outlet, is a perceived authority. Religion is not.

New drugs are hyped by the makers of them (a perceived authority). Too fat? Take this. Too tired? Take this. Life is getting shorter? Take this. Can’t get it up anymore? Take this.

If you read it in “The Sun”…

Doctors know everything. (maybe) But this book says do this. And on and on.

We all do this in some fashion. I think because my mother did it so often, I became immediately skeptical. I am searching for the proof in the pudding.

I think when she got to the end of her life Mom was still searching. And I perceive very little from authority. I want to know the background, the data collection techniques, the sources, etc. She taught me to be a skeptic.

Mom believes in marketing but not advertising.

In an old conversation with Mom after my sister and I helped her move to a retirement community;

“They must be struggling to keep this place rented. I think they have a lot of vacancies here.” – Mom

“What makes you say that?” – me

“They have been advertising in the paper.” – Mom

We were talking about The Seasons Retirement Community. They had changed hands a few months prior to Mom moving in. This is a place were the average age is about 85. The population is not so old that someone was being hauled out in the back of a hearse each day but it is close. (In fact there is a freight elevator and a dock in the back off to the side hidden from immediate view.) Turnover was high. The line was not out the door waiting to get in.

My general impression was “cruise atmosphere while awaiting death”. That sounds harsh but most retirement communities give off that vibe. Later after Mom was gone and buried, a friend, Bill was on a waiting list to get in. They were full up. The new management had corrected the leakage.

Advertising works.

Mom believes in herself and her own self reliance. (It terrifies her that this is slipping away.)

Some notes from conversations at the very end of her life. Joyce and I had moved her from Seasons to Bridgeway Pointe which is a part of UC Health. Not quite a nursing home but greater services than a retirement community.

When I was much younger, Mom used to say, “pull up your socks!” By that she meant be self-reliant. Don’t wait for anyone else to do it for you. You have to make it happen yourself.

“I don’t really need that much help.” She tells me constantly. But today (approximately four years ago now) I found out she is suffering from a episode of the stomach flu wandering around the building. A little gastrointestinal distress others have had in the assisted living facility. She needed help and thankfully she was in the right spot to get it.

June, 2015: I just paid Mom’s Bill’s – she only has one or two besides Bridgeway Pointe. (It just dawned on me how hard that is for me) I have learned – rightly or wrongly that I have weak organizational skills. I look around my office and realize that I too am a horizontal filer.

September, 2015: Mom has insisted she wants me to help her use her walker. I guess I will help coach her. But I never did. At this point in her life she started sitting in a wheelchair or a lift chair. She never got up without assistance ever again. I would push her places.

There is grace in allowing someone to help you.

My italicized remarks about Mom are in the present tense because that’s how I think of her when I think of her. I can actually hear her voice. I guess I didn’t fall far from the tree.

I found this Birthday card that Cheryl gave me for my birthday. On the front is a picture of a couple dancing. They are, perhaps, in their mid-twenties. I believe it was last year but I am not certain, it may have been the year before. In either event it was recent because I am not typically a keeper of cards. Lately however I think I have become one.

This, of course, is not a picture of us but it is how I see her. In my eyes I still see a young woman full of of vim and vigor for life. I think (I know) this is why I kept this particular card. The struggle we have with Parkinson’s disease is multifaceted but it is important, perhaps even demanded, that we do not let that define our relationship and taint our love for each other.

This woman has been my life for 53 years. We met in high school. Eventually got married. Survived college. Had three children with all the struggles that that entails. Partied with friends, celebrated kids birthdays, friends birthdays, family birthdays, played lousy bridge and poker, played good bridge and won at poker, got fat, got skinnier, got the kids through their younger lives and into and through college without major incident, watched as they matured and married and started their families and lives without us, celebrated the birth of grandchildren, celebrated the birthdays of grandchildren, admired how our children parented their kids and loved every minute of it.

Deep breath now – we have this new nuance to our relationship. Occasionally, and I say this with regret, I allow myself to forget that she has PD. I say regret simply because I forget that this nuance, this adjective, this aspect, this aside, this extra descriptor has stolen part of her vigor, not her vim, not her excitement, not her love of the children and grandchildren, not the family and certainly not the friends and friendships. Life is greater than disease. Life is greater than in ability or disability. Life is change and PD is simply another change.

As a man (I will slip into stereotypes here) I have had to adapt and adopt chores that (think stereotype) men do not normally do. This last is not universally true but I was born before the middle of the last century so think Mayberry, think Leave it to Beaver and the Cleavers, maybe even Little House on the Prairie if you are unsure of the vision of manly duties that I was brought up to understand.

A hobby of mine is bread and baking. I have successfully and sometimes unsuccessfully extended that into actual cooking and the making of dinner. Betty Crocker is a friend but can also be a fiend. If you do not believe me, poke around at the website for a bit sign up for the occasional newsletter which becomes the “every fifteen seconds” newsletter. So many recipes, so little time, so many left-overs. Some of what used to be weekend treats have become during the week meals or breakfasts or lunches. It is interesting that Cheryl has kept the “Dinner for Two” cook book all these years. The bindings have fallen apart over time so we (she really) spent some time sliding it into page protectors and into its own three ring binder. The recipes are classics and available on their web space (but do not forget the newsletters filling your inbox.)

Life is full of changes and ever changing. The only constant is change. Buddhists believe this. As I age I am constantly reminded of this and occasionally chagrined. Anger does not come with change but it is easy to be disappointed that certain things that we had hoped would remain “as is” do not. The list is long.

Parkinson’s disease is merely another change. And it sucks!

In an earlier comment I noted that it seems as though Cheryl’s brain is slowly being re-wired so that every passing thought comes straight though. Naturally this is confusing to me because I am unsure as to whether I need to respond or merely listen. We laugh about it occasionally as I will say, “Are you talking to me or are you just talking?” The answer could go either way. Through our first forty to forty five-ish years of marriage she did not do this. Often we could sit for hours quietly, enjoying ones company, occasionally vocalizing our thoughts. Talking about the kids. Telling some story about some occurrence at work. It is different now.

It seems to me that it is different in a couple of ways. She vocalizes her thoughts continuously, often at a low volume, an understandable (mostly) mumble and she will talk about nearly anything to total strangers. This last I don’t recall her doing unless we were thrown into some social situation were it was sort of expected (i.e. sitting at a common table on a cruise.) I worry, probably unnecessarily, that she will give up some piece of information that will hurt her (and us) somehow. It may be totally unfounded but I think it is this nervousness in me that causes some background anxiety. In this behavior is a susceptibility or proclivity to believe in the kindness of ones fellow man which in the case of a scammer is none existent. Hence the source of my anxiety.

Parkinson’s disease sucks. It sucks big time!

Many years ago when Mom and Dad were still alive, we would take them to “Playhouse in the Park” a local theater here in Cincinnati. Mom always seemed to be interested in watching a live play. Dad confessed to me one time that he didn’t always understand what was going on but he went anyway to please Mom. (just one of his lessons to me about love)

One of the plays performed that season was Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot”. On the ride home I asked Mom, “So, who do you think Godot is? and will they ever find him, will he ever come?” Mom answered almost immediately. Godot is death. The second half of the two part question didn’t require an answer. But for whatever reason, this play, and my mother’s answer stayed with me thirty years later. It seemed to me perceptive.

About 15 years later I found a copy of the play in Barnes & Noble. It reminded me again of that conversation and I bought it. Now from time to time I read it. This is one of those times. I picked it up again last evening and read a portion of it before going to bed. The play itself, dialog with notes about the set, movement, actor emotion is harder to read than a fictional novel. It is less visually developed and requires the reader to do that visualization. Curiously, merely one picture or sketch, fixes that visual. Forever. (Standard sets are simple. A dusty road in the country and a tree in the background maybe some rocks are all that’s needed.)

It is an allegory, of course, and allegory interpretation is in the eye of the beholder and interpreter. And my mother’s interpretation was just as valid as the scholars’ interpretation.

Scholars and critics talk of God and religion, humanity and spiritualism, existentialism philosophy. But, in some way, we are all waiting for death. How we wait, what we do while waiting, are we merely waiting or do we search for meaning in the wait? Those are some of the greater life questions that settled on me with a thump today.

Mom has been gone for a while now. Dad even longer but I think of them often when things around me spark some memory. I tell this story often about Mom. Mom was a saver of things to put things into. Boxes, baskets, bowls, crates, the clutter of life are kept in these. Or piled up over there until a suitable container is found. To this day I cannot throw a box away without hearing Mom’s voice in my head, “Don’t throw away that box! That’s a good box!” Life is full of boxes and crates and sheds and garages and storage facilities and warehouses but I have digressed.

Samuel Beckett is a person that I think I would have liked to know in life. Or, at least, I would have liked to sit and have a couple glasses of wine with.

Godot for me the present. One need not wait for it because its here. Lucky and Pozzo are the rest of the surrounding (cluttering) experience. Vladimir and Estragon are the dance with the present. They are waiting for Godot but Godot has come and they are too concerned with their dance to notice.

Early this morning Cheryl got up to visit the bathroom as is often the case with older men and women. Storage capacity diminishes with age. As she looked at the clock I bought for her a while back to help with her orientation in space time – it has more information than just the time – she became confused about what the information meant to her.

Sunday? What does that mean? That’s the thought that passed through her head. She later described this to me. Puzzling through why she couldn’t seem to understand the significance of the word.

She needs (wants) to find an explanation for all the little deteriorations that occur. It’s hard to sort out those that belong to the Parkinson’s and those that are merely “gray hair”.

I guess it’s hard for me too. I tend to think that everything is somehow related to the Parkinson’s. And everything is in a way. A certain amount of independence is given up when one decides that it is unsafe to drive a car. Cheryl has decided that. But, now, because of that decision she has added a concern, a worry, an anxiety, that it is an inconvenience to me. She is right of course. My interests are not the same as hers but I have adjusted – I think. But what I have been unable to do with great success is dissuade her from her being concerned about “putting me out”. I have also been unsuccessful at giving me a bit of warning when she schedules my time so that I can plan a bit and rearrange things as necessary.

Sometimes this causes undue tension between us. Generally speaking Parkinson’s sucks.

We have been together for a long time. Married for 50 years next year. Together as a couple 53 years this year. A long time. I guess we are comfortable with each other. I will call it love since I have no better way to denote it.

When we where younger, we could sit quietly together. No longer is this true. Parkinson’s has attached new wiring and Cheryl’s thoughts come directly to her lips. She now talks constantly. To things, about things, to insects and sometimes to me.

These are noticeable changes in behavior.

There is a deep emotional connection to these changes in behavior. They are a window to a view of the future. It feels like grief. It sucks.

Our middle child once became very angry with me about something. I no longer recall the context of the outburst. But his thought was this, “I want to do more than just hold the board!”.

It may mean little to you as you read this. But to us, he and me, it spoke volumes. When David was very little, I was in my prime wood working years. I gave him a pair of safety glasses and showed him some safety things. What to do and not do. Often when crosscutting a board with a hand saw I would let him hold the board to steady it.

Later on in life he wanted to use the saw.

When people say, “She’s a good-looking woman,” they usually mean, “She used to be a good looking woman.” But when I say that about Margaret, I mean it. She thinks—she knows-that she‘s changed, and she has; though less to me than to anybody else. Naturally, I can’t speak for the restaurant manager. But I’d put it like this: she sees only what’s gone, I see only what‘s stayed the same. Her hair is no longer halfway down her back or pulled up in a French pleat; nowadays it is cut close to her skull and the grey is allowed to show. Those peasanty frocks she used to wear have given way to cardigans and well—cut trousers. Some of the freckles I once loved are now closer to liver spots. But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person, and find them still. The same eyes that were in the same head when we first met, slept together, married, honeymooned, joint-mortgaged, shopped, cooked and holidayed, loved one another and had a child together… [Julian Barnes in “The Sense of an Ending”]

What a beautiful sentiment. Its true with the advantage of age, its easy to look back and see these same things in the person I love. Thank you, Julian.

Memories come from the tiniest bit of action. I was pouring a Coke into my glass. That simple act sent my mind to recall a time when I was very young watching my father collecting water from a spring in the side of a cliff. It’s like a snap shot. As I write this I can examine more detail. We were in a 52 Ford sedan. It was painted a brownish pink tan color. The spring came out of a crack in the rock close to the side of the road. Someone had pushed a piece of pipe into the crack to make it easier to fill bottles and buckets. Dad was filling empty coke bottles.

Strange what will trigger a memory.

A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do. -Bob Dylan

Recently I tripped over this quote attributed to Bob Dylan. Can this be so? My thought is this, in between morning and night may be many things that, although, one may not want to do them, they are necessary. Who for example desires to do the laundry? Clean toilets? Dust? I imagine there may be those who long to do these things. Not I. Blow your ass in the wind, Bob. I still think of myself as successful.

Success might better be described as comfort in your own skin with what you do with what you have. Me I’m skilled at fixing things. I’ve always wondered how things work. My favorite YouTube videos are typically labelled with the word “how”. So, if I’ve fixed something that day, I was successful. No cure or complete relief is available for Parkinson’s disease. So far that is unsuccessful.

I found another quote attributed to Lady Gaga (Stephanie Joanne Germanotta) ; I realized that part of my identity is saying no to things I don’t wanna do… It is your right to choose what you do and don’t do. It is your right to choose what you believe in and don’t believe in. It is your right to curate your life and your own perspective.   This woman is an outlier in her perspective and perception and far above average at her craft. Her success and life philosophy model each other. And what wonderful voice she has.

I am unsuccessful at staving off the creeping scope of the effect of Parkinson’s disease on our daily lives. It seems often there is some new something to deal with. Thank you Stephanie for your insight and philosophy. You have helped me look inward and find comfort and solice in what I do and how I give care to Cheryl. I choose to not curate our life with this insidious creeping disability. I strive for success at living in spite of the effects of PD.