(google image)
No Christmas movies on TV this year
Caught “Bad Santa” on Netflix, though.
Enforced jubilation wears on the soul
inside I’m screaming, “No more!”
Wish I had a new brain
free of the pain
no trauma
to re-live
helpless, out of control
I sincerely wish you all “Merry Christmas”
and a “Happy New Year”
though I can’t wait for it
to go
Don’t expect me to smile
though I know how to laugh
Surviving the Ghosts of Christmas
Present and Past
(photo: glasseyes view)
Raymond looked different than the last time I saw him: hair shaved close to the scalp, different glasses, belt cinched tighter around his waist. He looked paler somehow.
I saw Mom in the day room. She said, “It’s been a long time. Where have you been?”
“I wasn’t feeling well one weekend, and last weekend I had a lot to do,” I said.
“Oh. Let’s go to the room,” she said.
I wheeled her to her room.
I was nervous about seeing her on Saturday. Our last visit had been on Thanksgiving, and she was in good spirits. I wanted to hold onto that, thinking it might go away.
“I brought you coffee and cookies and Christmas presents,” I said.
“Oh, and to think we missed Christmas,” she said, frowning.
“We didn’t miss it. It’s next week. I’ll come by on Wednesday after work and bring you the chocolate chip cookies.”
“That would be great,” she said.
“Do you want to open your presents?”
“Not right now,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
We took a spin around the floor, passing Raymond, as we usually do. He’s an avid walker of the halls.
“Hi,” he said to me.
“Hi, Raymond.”
After our spin, we returned to Mom’s room. I did some channel surfing and stopped on AMC. They were running a Christmas movie marathon; the original Miracle on 34th Street was on.
“I always liked this one,” I said.
“Me too. But I haven’t seen any Christmas movies.”
“What about Christmas in Connecticut? That was on last week.”
“Oh, yes, I saw that,” she said, smiling.
“I liked that one.”
“Me too.”
Raymond shuffled into Mom’s room.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, Raymond.”
“He’s always coming into my room. I don’t want him in here,” Mom said.
“He doesn’t mean anything by it. I don’t think he knows where he’s going.”
“I don’t care. I don’t like it,” she said.
“Raymond, let’s go this way,” I said, leading him out of her room towards the nurses’ station.
Mom and I went for another spin.
We returned to her room and drank coffee together. A Christmas Carol with George C. Scott was on.
“I never saw this one,” she said.
“Me neither, but I heard it was good.”
“You know what I really need?” she said.
“What?”
“A bra. The ones they gave me are too big and I hate them. I need a Lasserette.”
“A what?”
“Oh, let me think.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raymond.
“Vassarette!” she says. “Size 36B, with some padding.”
I never heard of Vassarette bras.
Raymond doesn’t say anything and heads straight to Hannah’s bed. Hannah is Mom’s roommate; she has the bed closer to the door.
“Vassarette? What color?” I said.
“Beige.”
“Okay, I’ll look for one.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Raymond lies down on his side, eyes closed, and hands tucked under his head in prayer position on Hannah’s bed.
“Mom,” I said, gesturing to Raymond.
“What is he doing? Get him out of here.”
I go out to the nurses’ station to speak to Deirdre, the second shift nurse on duty.
“Deirdre, you’ve got to see this,” I said.
“What?” she says, smiling.
“It’s Raymond.”
“Oh, no,” she said, looking at him on the bed.
She nudged him gently. “Raymond, you have to get up. This isn’t your room.”
“Huh?” he said, like a toddler being woken from a nap.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Oh,” he said.
Deirdre led him out gently by one arm.
Mom and I went around the floor one more time. When we returned, guess who was lying on the bed?
I told Deirdre.
She said, smiling, “He’s like George Washington. He sleeps in everyone’s bed.”
*Pseudonyms have been used for staff and residents at the Actors Home.
(google image)
This poem was inspired by a Facebook friend’s post this morning.
Black Friday
Cyber Monday
Giving Tuesday
Worthless Wednesday?
Thankless Thursday
Let’s continue:
Fraternizing Friday
Scatological Saturday
Sexy Sunday
Monstrous Monday
Toxic Tuesday
Wombat Wednesday
Taciturn Thursday
Freedom Friday (TGIF!)
Sleep-in Saturday
Saucy Sunday
I don’t like labels
especially for the holidays
Who converted Christmas to “Xmas” anyway?
X marks the spot
X for excess
X for absentia
Ex as in ex-boyfriend, -husband or -friend?
I’m not a super-Christian,
but a lapsed Catholic
so maybe that makes me an “X”–
something less
Wikipedia says
the X doesn’t erase the “Christ” in Christmas
“X” comes from the Greek letter chi,
first letter of the Greek word Χριστός which translates “Christ.”
Plain red Starbucks coffee cups
don’t bother me,
nor do
white and silver snowflake cups
from Au Bon Pain
I prefer “Xmas” myself because
it’s fewer letters to key
and I’ve been typing to
Xcess
google images
You are traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind, a journey into a wondrous land where boundaries are that of imagination. That’s the sign post up ahead. Your next stop—Medicaid-land.
Pseudonyms are used for Medicaid and nursing home personnel.
The day after Christmas. My husband Lorin and I are wrung out from Christmas traveling. Yet we journey to Metropolitan Hospital in New York City, locus of the central Medicaid office, to obtain the essential piece of paper, the paper that would save us all—proof of my mother’s disenrollment from NY Medicaid. We moved her to a nursing home in New Jersey on September 6, the Actors Home, but she will not qualify for NJ Medicaid until this final document is obtained. We shall fight to the death for this document.
We arrive at the office. Lorin speaks to a bespectacled man in white thawb (gown) and kufi, who motions to his right. “She help you,” he mutters, almost unintelligibly.
The woman says, “This is the wrong office. You need to contact the office in Brooklyn that handles nursing home transfers.” She’s a bit gruff at first, but then she warms up, perhaps realizing our plight.
She writes down two phone numbers and an address.
Lorin says, “This is an urgent matter. We need the document in the next two weeks or we’ll have to start the enrollment process all over again.”
She says, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
We thank her and return to the car.
The numbers have a 929 area code—the area code for another dimension. That’s not the Brooklyn area code, or any cell phone area code that we know of.
We make the calls in the car. I call the first 929 number.
“Hello, my mother was living in a nursing home in New York, and now . . .”
She cuts me off, “You have to call 718-557-1368.”
“But . . .”
Click.
Lorin says, “Call back.”
We put the cell phone on speaker and call the second number. A man answers.
“Hello, my mother-in-law moved from a nursing home in New York to a home in New Jersey and we need confirmation of her disenrollment so she can get New Jersey Medicaid,” Lorin says.
“You have to call this number: 718-557-1368,” the man says.
“Okay, but we need confirmation right away. This is time-sensitive,” Lorin says.
“I understand, but we can’t help you here. You have to call this number. They can give you what you need,” the man says.
“Okay. If we don’t get what we need from them, we may be stopping by your office,” Lorin says.
“We don’t see people here,” he says.
What kind of place is this, Area Code 929?
I call the 718 number, and speak to Miss S.
“What’s your mother’s social security number?” she says.
I give it to her.
“We don’t have a discharge notice for her from the other nursing home,” she says. “You’ll need to contact them to obtain the form.”
“Okay, what form do I need, and where does it go?”
“Tell them you need MAP 259F. They know what it is. They must complete the form, fax it to us, and indicate on the form where the confirmation notice should go, which would be your home address or the nursing home in New Jersey.”
“Okay, but New Jersey Medicaid needs this form in 2 weeks. Do you think that can be done?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thank you for your help. Happy Holidays.”
“Same to you.”
I call Silvia, the social worker at the old nursing home, and get voicemail. Lorin and I decide to go in person to get this taken care of. This form should have been sent right after Mom was discharged—almost 4 months ago. We are seething. I feel nauseous.
Lorin says, “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
We drive to the nursing home in the Bronx, and wait for Marlene, the administrator, to speak with us.
She appears in the lobby, looking like a beaten dog.
“Hi, Marlene, Happy Holidays,” I say.
“What’s up?” she says, expressionless.
We explain the situation.
“Come into my office,” she says. “Silvia’s not in today, so this will have to get done on Monday.”
“Okay,” I say.
Lorin explains how urgently we need the document. “Why wasn’t the discharge notice sent back in September?” he says.
“I have no idea. Human error, I suppose. Nobody’s perfect,” Marlene says.
It’s hard to get angry at someone who looks like they’re on suicide watch, so we don’t.
“What’s the name of the form you need?”
“MAP 259F,” I say.
She locates it on her computer and prints it out.
“Write Silvia a note saying where you need the confirmation sent, and I’ll put it on her desk with the form.”
She hands me a slip of paper the size of a check, and I run out of space.
“May I have a larger piece of paper?” I ask, and she hands me a ruled notepad.
“May I sit here?” I ask, pointing to a chair piled high with boxes.
“Sure.”
I place the boxes on the floor and start to write a note. I ask Lorin to check the note, and he asks to re-write it: I’ve missed some pertinent facts. Guess I’m overly tired.
We hand the completed note to Marlene.
“Make sure you can read this,” Lorin says. She reads it.
“I’ll make sure Silvia sees this on Monday. Lorna is on vacation for two weeks starting Monday, so Silvia will be on her own which means she has an extra workload. She’ll do her best.”
“Okay, but we need this form as soon as possible,” Lorin says.
“I understand. She’ll fax you and the nursing home a confirmation on Monday after she faxes it to Medicaid. She won’t have to time to send emails to all these people,” she says, with tired disgust.
“That’s okay. We included the emails just in case,” I say. “Thanks for your help, Marlene, and Happy New Year.”
“Okay,” she says, and we exit the premises.
I send an update to the social worker at the Actors Home, letting her know what has transpired.
All we can do now is hope and pray that the MAP 259F will be completed and processed in due time. The Paperwork is all that matters in Medicaid-land.
Actors Home party (photo by E. Herd)
Pseudonyms are used for Actors Home staff.
I took last Friday off from work to go to a holiday party at the Actors Home where my mother resides. I had other things to do, like renew my driver’s license, return a pair of slippers at Kohl’s. and pick up a final Christmas gift, but the main reason I took the day off was to go to the party.
My husband Lorin and I arrived a little before 4:00 to escort Mom from her unit to the party on the main floor.
“Mom, there’s a party on the first floor. Wanna go?”
“Not really. I don’t feel so good,” she said.
That should have clued me in, but I was persistent. Let’s be honest, I wanted to go to the party. I was looking forward to a couple glasses of wine, a hot meal and the entertainment. The mood was festive: red and white tablecloths, decorations, a pianist playing Christmas carols. What could go wrong?
When we entered the party room, Mom said, “I’m not dressed for this.”
“Do you want to change upstairs?” I said.
“No.”
The activities coordinator, Mira, said, “I’m dressed casually; I’ve been working all day.”
I said, “I’m casual too, Mom.” I was wearing jeans, and my striped Christmas sweater and black hiking boots.
She said in an acid voice, “Well, you’re always casual. At least you’re comfortable.”
No use arguing with the boss. Guess I’m a bum.
Servers came around with platters of hors d’oeuvres like shrimp and spring rolls.
“Mom, you like shrimp. You want some?”
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, we’ll get you some anyway.”
The server handed her a small plate of shrimp with a spoonful of cocktail sauce and a wedge of lemon.
“Do you want lemon on the shrimp?” I asked.
“No.” I handed her a shrimp dipped in cocktail sauce, and she ate it reluctantly.
Lorin sipped a glass of coke, I had white wine and Mom had a Sprite.
Lorin said, “Mom is in a brown study.”
I had to ask him what that meant.
“Do you want a glass of white wine?” I asked her.
“No, this is fine.”
She used to like Chardonnay.
The pianist continued playing Christmas carols, and I sang along, hoping Mom would pipe in.
“This isn’t Christmas anymore. I miss Rick. There’s no family, not the way it used to be,” she said.
Rick is my brother who lives in upstate New York.
“I know, Mom. Do you want me to call Rick? We can speak to him now.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“These clothes don’t fit. Why don’t you give me clothes that fit?” She tugged at the rolled up sleeves of her pink sweater.
“I didn’t buy you that sweater, Mom. They got it for you at the old place.”
I sang along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and said, “You always liked this one.”
“Yes.”
“It’s from Easter Parade*,” I said.
“I’m not dressed for a party,” she said, scrunching up her face.
Lorin and I made an executive decision to return her to her room, sensing that her discontent was escalating. When a social worker asked why we were leaving, I said that Mom was “cranky,” and we thought it best to bring her back to her room.
“Come back and enjoy the party,” she said, smiling.
I told Russ, the nurse in her unit, that she wasn’t having a good time and asked if she could have dinner with the group.
“Sure,” he said.
I wheeled her to a table with two other ladies and said, “I’m putting your cookies and soap in your room.”
“Okay, at least that’s something to look forward to,” she said.
Lorin stayed with her while I was out of the room.
When I returned, I said, “Okay, so you’ll eat dinner here.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, petulantly.
“You need to eat something.”
Her face contorted into a sneer and she said to Lorin, “You shit!”
I exchanged looks with Lorin.
“Okay, Mom, we’re going now,” I said.
“You’re not staying with me for dinner?”
“No.”
Lorin said, “Have a good dinner. Good night, Katherine.”
“Enjoy!” she burst out, almost hissing at him.
One of the ladies at her table looked at Lorin and said, “She’s a liar.”
From the mouths of babes, or old people with Alzheimer’s—kind of the same thing.
Lorin and I returned to the party and enjoyed the buffet dinner and entertainment.
Broadway dancers and singers performed, including Christine Ebersole, who closed with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”
I wish Mom could have enjoyed the party with us, but it was not in the stars, I suppose. Somehow it’s easier for me to tolerate her abuse of me—she could be very cutting and hurtful towards me before her Alzheimer’s diagnosis and still is from time to time. What I cannot tolerate, however, is her abuse of Lorin. That is unacceptable.
Perhaps I’ve become inured to her verbal and psychological cruelty, but something snapped on Friday. I felt like Little Edie in Grey Gardens, the ever-present caretaker who spent her life living with and taking care of her mother. No, I don’t live with Mom, but sometimes it feels like she lives inside my head.
I spent Saturday being angry at her for her cruelty, and at myself for spending so many years taking care of her when she has expressed so little love for me. I don’t think she’s ever really loved me. I’m not saying this for sympathy, but because I believe it to be true. There are many wasted years I’ll never get back. Liking myself and loosening her grip on me takes daily work; it may be a life-long effort. I don’t want to live in Grey Gardens.
*The song is actually from Meet Me in St. Louis, not Easter Parade.
Haymarket Riot, 1886 (Granger)
“Anarchism: a philosophy of a new social order based on liberty unrestricted by man-made laws; the theory that all forms of government rest on violence, and are therefore wrong and harmful, as well as unnecessary.”
–Emma Goldman
Did you know that bands of “anarchists” have been running riot in the streets of NYC and all across the U.S.? Well, that’s what the New York Post says. Apparently, they started their dastardly plan to destroy the holidays prior to Thanksgiving. By golly, they are worse than the Grinch!
“Anarchists plotted on Wednesday to disrupt the Thanksgiving Day Parade – feeling emboldened after cops allowed them to run free on major roadways like the FDR Drive and the West Side Highway . . . .”
But they were no match for blow-up Snoopy and Woodstock—the parade continued as planned. Phew! I chalk it up to the journalistic integrity of the Post, owned by Fox News CEO, Rupert Murdoch. Thank you, Rupert!
Call me old-fashioned, but when I think “anarchist,” I think Haymarket Riot, bombs, Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman.
Chicago’s famed Haymarket Riot of May 4, 1886 was a direct response to police brutality during a strike for 8-hour workdays at the McCormick Harvesting Machine Company the previous day. On May 4, several of the better-known labor leaders and anarchists addressed a crowd of sympathizers from the back of a wagon pulled into an alley near the Haymarket, a popular meeting place and square. August Spies spoke, followed by Albert Parsons, who also spoke almost an hour denouncing the capitalist system, and quoting statistics, as he had on numerous other occasions. Parsons’ speech was followed by a speech by Samuel Fielden, another well-known activist. As Fielden was concluding his address, Inspector Bonfield and more than 170 armed other police officers ordered the crowd to disperse. An unknown person threw a bomb into the crowd. Seven policemen and an unknown number of civilians were killed during the confrontation; eight anarchist labor leaders, the “Haymarket Martyrs,” were arrested and convicted of inciting violence and conspiring to commit murder. Four of the eight were hanged as a result of their involvement in the riot.
“The public and the mainstream press called for vengeance, the anarchists claimed sabotage, and a wave of popular sentiment against anarchists and labor organizers swept through the city and the country. In Chicago a secret organization of prominent businessmen and employers was formed to counteract the labor activism. Many were arrested, illegal searches were conducted, and rights of free speech and assembly were drastically curtailed. Some labor organizations and activists also protested the violence and supported the government’s response to the bomb throwing. In the meantime, no one knew who threw the bomb or if it had originated in Chicago.
In short order a specially constituted grand jury indicted ten defendants, most of whom were prominent labor organizers and activists, as accessories before the fact to the murder of Officer Matthias Degan by the bomb.”
December 3, 2014 New York City (Nathan Congleton)
Protests in response to the grand jury’s failure to indict Officer Pantaleo in the death of Eric Garner have been mostly peaceful; no bombs were involved. 20 people were arrested for blocking the FDR Drive and for disorderly conduct. “Die-ins” were staged at Grand Central Terminal, an Apple store on Fifth Avenue and in Macy’s at Herald Square.
You might believe the protests were quite violent if you read the Post’s interpretation, however:
“Protesters chanting ‘No justice, no tree!’ tried to storm Rockefeller Center on Wednesday to disrupt the annual lighting ceremony following a grand jury’s decision not to indict an NYPD cop in the death of Eric Garner.
‘F**k the tree!’ the mob bellowed as cops held them at bay along Sixth Avenue near Radio City Music Hall.
Hundreds of frustrated anarchists then trekked to the West Side Highway, where they vaulted barricades and clashed with cops in riot gear.”
After reading this report, I’m wondering why the “anarchists” are so “frustrated.” Any thoughts? As we have observed, nothing can stop the tree lighting, not even the death of an unarmed man selling loose cigarettes on the streets of Staten Island.
Only time will tell if the “anarchists” can truly stop Christmas from coming.
*For clarity’s sake, please be advised that I do not believe the protesters to be anarchists.
Suburban Hobo 