Hot Attack

Lately I've done some thinking about problems. Everyone has them but how bad are they? It’s a hierarchy that's constantly changing. Am I lucky or unlucky? What is the difference? It's a recurring theme in the conversations I have in my head. It's all relative. We know that.

If I start to feel sorry for myself I try to catch myself. Someone always has it worse - all too frequently someone I know. That can help, but you still feel what you feel even if it's not as bad as it could be. I've had the strange experience of feeling simultaneously grateful and resentful which is a bit confusing.

I've been going through some stuff- much of it unpleasant and physical, but I am basically healthy. That said, for a while there it was not very much fun to be me.

After four years of avoiding and deflecting I finally agreed to the dreaded routine colonoscopy. It was a little less than routine because I have a history of bleeding problems. Prior surgeries led to potentially fatal complications. Decades of heavy periods and battles with anemia were ongoing challenges. I have a daughter who has Von Willebrand's disease, which is a bleeding disorder in the Hemophilia family. The condition is hereditary. You get it from your children. Not really, but I think of it that way since Allie was the first to be diagnosed.

Due to my medical history and the fact that Allie has VWD, we assumed that I also have it, but there had been no official diagnosis. The colonoscopy would not take place until blood tests could confirm it. Special precautions could then be made before and after the procedure.

Menopause became a complicating factor. I had heard the expression that the weather in San Francisco is like menopause. You're always either too hot or too cold. I didn't really know what that meant until I started having what I call "hot attacks". My thermostat broke and my body betrayed me. I was waking up every hour or two drenched in sweat. More exhausted than I've been since Lucy was a newborn, I could barely get through the day. Enter hormone replacement therapy. I took it for a few months to stabilize my sanity or some semblance of it.

Unfortunately, hormones can disrupt the results of the blood tests for VWD. Reluctantly I tossed out the pills and decided to tough it out so we could get the answers we needed. Theoretically, it would be for a short time and if I was miserable I could go back on the hormones.

It was not a short time. I was beyond miserable. I could not sleep. The fourth quarter of 2012 is a blur. The lab kept screwing up the tests. The first draw was twelve vials of blood, but they managed to not do the required tests. After several weeks of waiting and hounding the hematologist, I got the news. The test was done improperly and they needed to draw again. Seven more vials. When we went through this with Allie we learned that diagnosis is difficult and it can take multiple blood draws and complicated lab tests to get definitive answers.  It's especially difficult when the tests are not run properly.

More delays, more hounding. More weeks without sleeping. At a certain point lack of sleep becomes a medical issue. I was there. Working a new job with kindergartners every morning but not sleeping at night, I was also working at the shop three days a week. I was so tired I couldn't exercise and gained weight. Beside myself, I sent a frantic fax to my doctor and the hematologist. I was technically well but felt so poorly. Blood was drawn a third time at the hematologist's office. They personally walked it to the lab with the proper
instructions.

Finally the doctors were satisfied with the results. In the third month of testing it was decided my clotting factor is low normal. Call me cynical, but I don't believe the results. I don't think the gastroenterologist believed them, either. She would only do the colonoscopy in the hospital, just in case.

In the beginning of January I had the procedure. Eric took good care of me through the indignities. All is well up my butt and beyond. Just as I thought it would be. It seems like a huge ordeal for a routine test when I had no symptoms or family history. However, if they'd found something I'm sure I'd be feeling pretty damn lucky that I'd done it.

Back To School

Twenty-five years ago Lucy started as a kindergartner at Park School. Her sisters followed and I was a parent there for fourteen years in a row. When Allie graduated from fifth grade I cried because I was so sad to leave Park.  Now I'm back.

For the first time in my life I'm not a student or a parent. I'm a teacher. Well, an assistant teacher. I am  "Miss Wendy".  Selling candles is all well and good and I still do that three afternoons a week, but selling candles doesn't mean anything. It isn't twice as good to sell two candles.

A few months ago I had an ugly realization. Because I have my health benefits through marriage and my husband is seven years older, there will soon be an insurance problem. You’ve heard of Medi-Gap? I will have my own, personal Medi-Gap. Eric will have Medicare coverage in four years. I won't be eligible for eleven. How will I be insured in the interim? This concept really depressed me.

Somehow I thought that after a lifetime of caring for others, I would be cared for too. Not so. Working part time with no benefits is awesome, if you already have benefits and don't need them. It was a purely practical decision to look for work in academia. I was open to working just about any job in any local school district that would ultimately lead to a position with benefits and maybe a small pension. I didn't know I was going back home.

The fact that I am in kindergarten in my neighborhood school where my daughters had so many happy years is sweet. It’s eerie how much I feel the ghosts of their younger selves when I’m on the playground or walking through the halls. The children are SO adorable. They are engaged and imaginative and funny as hell. One of the five year olds announced that because she is Jewish she will be out for all the holidays. Then she paused and said, "Except Valentine's Day!"

So much has changed in a generation, yet much is the same. The families are larger. Gone are the days of zero population growth. Big families are now a status symbol. Three and four children are common. Parental units range from overly protective to seemingly indifferent. That has not changed. The Dads are young and cute. Some of the mothers are so skinny you just want to force a cupcake on them.

Kindergartners are still really short. Sometimes they miss their mommies and cry over the strangest things. They have trouble keeping their shoes tied. That anyone would still wear shoes with laces amazes me. That's what Velcro is for, people. When Lucy was in third grade she had a wonderful Japanese teacher who made them take their shoes off in the classroom. A couple days of that and Lucy demanded I buy her shoes with Velcro. She was not about to waste precious minutes of recess tying her shoelaces.

I am lucky to be working with a wonderful teacher. Someone described her as being like Snow White with birds fluttering around her head. It's an apt image. The program is very academic and structured. There are high expectations for behavior, which dovetail with my own philosophy. School at this level a wonderful break from technology, not just for me, but for the students as well. It's gratifying that I have yet to see a single kindergartner whip out a cell phone. They are learning to read and write the old fashioned way, through repetition and experience.

The principal is named Andy and so is the guinea pig. My first cold has come and gone. I got a flu shot. I pedal home for lunch and take a short nap before going to work at the shop. My afternoons are so peaceful compared to the frenetic mornings.

This job with the school doesn't have enough hours to qualify for benefits, so that problem is as yet unsolved. Maybe something else will come up in the district in the future. For now I get to be part of magic being created in the classroom. I am the magician's assistant.

Cupcakes and Carmageddon

In NY LA SF, the most popular post on Pearls and Lemons, (http://pearlsandlemons.blogspot.com/2010/09/ny-la-sf.html ), I wrote about how much I love to hate Los Angeles. Now I’m confused because I had such a wonderful time visiting Allie in Santa Monica. Travelling was peachy except for when I got detained by security for holding. Holding Greek yogurt. Isn't that ethnic profiling? It seems yogurt is a gel and gels are bad. I also thought it was amusing that American Airlines couldn't decide what to call us. In short order we were referred to  as “customers, passengers and guests". Call me passenger, please.

Flying is always so stressful, but it wouldn't have occurred to me to ask for a cocktail on the way down. The guy behind me was VERY disappointed that American didn't serve alcohol - just tea and coffee. After all, it was ten am. As much as I joked about the jet lag, a one-hour flight is pretty painless.

The LA car culture has not abated. Allie told me a funny story about a recent "Carmageddon". The 405 had to be completely closed one day for construction. Residents bought groceries the day before and then the city stopped. Nobody left home. They couldn't. It wasn't possible to drive anywhere.

Allie had all the parking garages scoped out and knew which ones validated and or had free parking. Some of the garages now have lights along the middle of the aisles. There is a red light in front of every parking spot that is taken and green lights where spaces are empty. All the thinking is done for you. They still have the medieval contraptions to prevent one from backing up or risk severe tire damage.

We needed to do some birthday shopping for Lana so we went to the trendy, open-air shopping center called "The Grove".  As soon as we got there we were almost bowled over by paparazzi chasing after Mario Lopez. He was pushing his baby in a stroller and ducked into an elevator. As soon as the door closed they all spun around and went the other direction. Dylan's Candy Bar was doing a special event with Janet Jackson and other celebrities. The place was surrounded by security but you could see in the windows. On the way out we saw Apolo Ohno. Just another celebrity. Yawn.

I showed Allie where I used to live in Hollywood, back in the late seventies, and the famous intersection of Hollywood and Vine, which is now featuring, you guessed it – a Starbucks. All the hordes following us trying to take photos got to be a bit much so we ducked into the Chateau Marmont for a bite to eat in the garden. Oh, that’s right. It was just us. No paparazzi. Photographs aren’t allowed at the Marmont, anyway. Of course I broke the rule and took pictures of the powder room. The engraved mirror and orange toile wallpaper are to die for. Must have it. Lunch was lovely and the lattes were only seven bucks each.

On the way out to the beach we passed through some tony neighborhoods on the west side. We cracked up when we saw a lost dog poster. The reward for a missing Australian Shepherd was five thousand dollars. The beach was glorious – perfect water temperature, hot, beautiful white sand. We walked down to the Santa Monica Pier, which was teeming with all kinds of people.  A little trip across the overpass and we were in Nordstrom, still in bathing suits with sandy feet. What’s not to like?

I think I was most surprised by how normal people seemed everywhere we went. What’s happened to LA? Where were all the perfect Barbie dolls with cosmetic surgery? I only saw two women with noticeable fish lips. I see more than that in Nor Cal. In Beverly Hills I was most charmed by the cupcake ATM at Sprinkles. You put your card in, make a selection on the touch screen and out comes your cupcake! So clever. I can just imagine the late night munchies that would inspire a trip out for 24- hour cupcakes. You could probably have them delivered, assuming there’s no Carmageddon.

The highlight of my trip, other than being with my darling daughter, was overhearing someone say this: “Remember, if you can’t figure out who the sucker is in a poker game, it’s you.” 

Code of Conduct

This year July brought The London Olympics AND the annual BTC Family Tennis Tournament.  I asked my brother, Doug, to play with me and he agreed. It was good of him considering he's not really a tennis player. He also has no racquet and needed to buy tennis shoes. He's such a natural athlete - I had total faith in our prospects as a team. I figured after one practice we could hold our own against any adult brother sister team. There were no brother sister teams. We were the only one, so Doug got to look like a good guy but didn't have to play with me.

Initially, I didn't want to play with my husband. We were taking a tennis break.  "Mixed Troubles" explains a bit about the perilous marital dynamic. http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5667039797770125597#editor/target=post;postID=5372590367407561333 We weren't having fun playing together, so why keep doing it? This time Eric wanted to try it again so I agreed.

The tournament is sponsored by Esurance and is USTA sanctioned. There was even a referee. Before the first match the referee gave us all a stern lecture. A family tournament, we were to set an example for the children. I shot a look at my husband. He ignored me. The ref went on to explain about sanctions and that swearing or over-gesticulating and other bad behaviors would be reported.

We started match play and got right into the thick of it. At one point Eric got frustrated and sat down on the court at the end of a point we'd lost. Mortified, I hissed at him to get up. He got up, but he was pissed that I had hissed. Something else happened and he smacked the ball at the fence. We got through the match and went on to the next round.

I found myself saying, "crap" when I missed a shot. We won that match and I mentioned it to the ref. He said it depends how loud it is and if it's directed at someone. It wasn't loud or directed at anyone. Miss Goody Two Shoes was in the clear, but I wasn't so sure about my partner. What was the chance he would get through this unscathed?

We have very different views of the game. Eric sees it more like a scrappy, playground battle and I am aiming for the genteel country club experience. Think Wimbledon versus the US Open. When I attended my first tennis match I was deeply struck by the quietness of the sport. It was peaceful to watch the games punctuated by polite clapping. What a difference from all the years at swim meets with spectators screaming their heads off the whole time. I would often go home hoarse. I truly believed that my "cheering" would propel my girls faster through the water. Sometimes it actually did which just reinforced my mania.

Days of swim meets ended and tennis became my focus. Playing, watching, housing tournament officials. I was all in. I've had numerous partners and played 143 matches in nineteen USTA in leagues. I've played in Grand Prix tournaments. I've played in and helped run the Club Championships.

Imagine my surprise when I got the letter. We came home on a Friday night and there was a letter from USTA - hand addressed to me. I assumed it had something to do with fund-raising for the Boyle Courts. Or perhaps thanking me for being a captain. I opened the letter. Wait. What is this? A Code of Conduct violation! An audible or visible obscenity/profanity- "God damn " heard over three courts.

What the HELL? Was this some kind of joke? Where was Eric's letter? I had been reported to USTA for swearing in the Belvedere Family Tournament. I swear less than anyone I know on the tennis court. I love to swear, but it doesn't feel right on the court. I was shocked. When I read the letter again it showed I had racked up two points. If you get ten you're out of competition.

In fact, I did say it, but it was certainly not audible even on the next court. What did this mean? Was it like the DMV and points on your license? Could you get rid of them by taking a class? Was I the only one cited? Eric was thoroughly bemused. I figured his letter had been lost in the mail and would arrive shortly. It did not. I consider this circumstance to be one of my life's bitterest ironies.

In the few weeks since the letter came I have heard players dropping all kinds of verbal bombs on the court, including the "f" bomb. I watched the finals of a tournament at our club and three of the four players said "dammit" over the course of several games. They were all board members or former board members.

The violation form stated a player and the USTA must be informed of the violation within three days. The letter was dated almost three weeks after the tournament. An email address was listed on the form. I immediately sent a message asking for clarification. If it were beyond the time limit would it count against me? If not, why bother sending it? I got no response from USTA.

Our friend Don always says he's not mature enough to play in tournaments. Maybe I'm not, either. I'm certainly not mature enough to play in a family tournament, which may end up working out well for my brother in the future. God dammit.

My Dotty

Connecticut, you've done it again. I've left part of my heart in the Constitution State, and unlike the first two times, I won't be getting it back. The initial wrench was when I left Lucy, my firstborn, at college in 2000. I said goodbye and drove two hours to the airport with tears blinding my vision. When I got to the ticket counter I begged to get on an earlier flight home. I needed to see Lana and Allie. Eight years later I went through it all again with Allie, my last born. I came back to California, but part of me was still there with her.

Fast forward four years. College for Allie was a smashing success. She has graduated and best of all, returned to California. Southern California, but still, so much closer. I just had one more goodbye and it was a doozy.

Dotty married my father in 1965, when I was seven years old. She's been in my life ever since even though Dad rudely left her after fourteen years. After my stepbrother was killed and Dotty lost a breast to cancer. My father chose then to be his worst self and look for another life. That was the beginning of the end of our life with Dad.

Ironically, Dotty took my father away from my mother (and ended her own marriage as well) but then she gave him back to us. She adored him and thought the four of us were wonderful extensions of the man she loved. She valued us and she kept us all on a schedule and together as a new family with her two children. Even though we lived two hours away we saw them every other weekend and every vacation.

Dotty and Dad worked in schools so they had the summers off. We took the epic trip from New York to Florida in the VW bus, camping along the coast. They bought an old boat, Xanadu, but with six kids there wasn't a lot of spare cash. We had big, family dinners at home. Dotty cooked for everybody. I don't remember all of us eating out in a restaurant except for the occasional breakfast on a road trip.  

“Dorfy” was strong willed, so bright and very affectionate. From our earliest days together we bonded. I'd crawl in her lap and comb her hair, which she loved. We had a special hairstyle for her that we called a "Poofontay". She made us all play recorders and wear matching sweatshirts with embroidered initials. A librarian, she shared her love of books and reading. Dotty made me feel special and loved.

Wendy, Doug and Dotty - hair combing

Fun loving Dotty really enjoyed children and vice-versa. My girls got to know her as they grew. We'd visit and always get up to some kind of adventure. Synchronized swimming in the pool was hilarious. She was never too old to get right in there with the kids and have a ball. One year we formed a club with her called "The Red Devils and Black Dragons". I can't remember the point of the club, but one of the by-laws was that you had to wear one of her crazy hats during meetings.   

Dotty and Lana

Now Dotty's life is in limbo. At eighty-seven she has a dreadful disease. A God- awful confluence of symptoms - it's the worst of Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. Called “Lewy Body Dementia”, this disease has cured my lifelong fear of cancer. I've seen loved ones dies from cancer. It's horrible. LBD is a nightmare that lasts for years. She's probably five years into the disease with several more to go before her body shuts down completely.

Now Dotty is in a wheelchair, but keeps trying to walk. One of the symptoms of Lewy Body is that there are "good" days and bad days. It all looks bad from here, but when we visited she was able to recognize me. It made her cry to see me. She knew I would leave her again and became agitated. Yet, she was able to crack a couple jokes. One minute she can't get the words out, the next she says something you understand. That's what so horrified me. She KNOWS. She knows she's trapped in her own body, not getting better. It just seems so unfair and wrong.  

My stepsister, Ann, has Dotty in a wonderful facility right near her house and she is an angel to her. I do not know how she does it. I guess you get used to it, but I don't see how. In a previous visit Dotty was in a different care center. Allie and I took her swimming in the pool there. I knew she was having some dementia, but it was nothing extraordinary. That was two years ago.

Dotty has classic symptoms of Lewy Body Disease. It started with visual hallucinations. She was talking about drain bugs for a few years before any other symptoms were noticeable. It also makes victims prone to falling and several falls were the beginning of the trip down. Into the hospital, in long term care, out of her own home. The predictable pattern repeated by so many of our elders. Knowing what I know now, seeing what I've seen, I wish one of those falls had done her in. Knocked her out cold. We probably wouldn't have known it was a blessing.  

It was so hard to see her - unable to feed herself, struggling to speak. Even now, if I really think about her and how she is I feel almost hysterical. Such a wrench knowing I can't do anything for her and will never see her again. Annie loses her Mommy over and over again - every time she sees her. When Dotty goes, Ann has to lose her once more. When someone has died the sadness eventually eases. The traumatic images are replaced by better memories. This unspeakable limbo seems so unfair. I know Dotty never wanted to be like this, but here she is. There is no healing, no closure, only the prospect of something even worse.

A couple years ago Dotty and I talked on the phone. I was in California and she in Connecticut. I apologized for not calling more often. She said, "That's okay, honey. I know how much you love me." Thank you for that, Dotty. For knowing and for loving me so much. And thank you, Annie, for taking such good care of Dorfy.   

Photo: On the trip from New York to Florida with all six kids. I'm the one in front with the camera.