Lifescapes

Louise Lang
The Lowdown on Ancestors

More Tales

At Eighty, Auntie Still Goes for the Gusto

In 1989 when Aunt Alice's eightieth birthday was approaching, my sister Judy and I figured Auntie might enjoy coming to visit with us in Nevada for a change of scene, so we called our other sister Marge in New Hampshire, and she agreed. The three of us "girls"that's what Auntie called us in spite of our being grandmotherspooled our cash and paid for Auntie's round trip airfare from Vermont to Reno.

We phoned Aunt Alice and asked if she'd like to come to visit with us for her birthday, then told her that we had already bought tickets.

"Really? You did that for me? I don't know how to thank you. Of course I'll come."

Two years earlier we had created a big surprise for Dad for his eightieth, a family reunion, so we were thrilled to be able to do something unusual for Aunt Alice also.

Auntie's upcoming birthday trip became the topic of discussion between Judy and a friend who owned a hot air balloon. Judy often crewed for Harry's flights, so she asked if he would take Aunt Alice as a passenger on one of his ascensions.

Auntie.

"Sure, no problem. Be glad to." He consulted his schedule and told Judy what day and time to be near the gate of Rancho San Rafael Park for the lift off. No one told Auntie it was to be our surprise.

My sisters and I enjoyed a special relationship with our unmarried Aunt AliceI believe we were the children she never had. She was always wonderful to us. She took us to the circus every year when we were very young, even though it must have been boring for her after so many times. On Boston Common she took us to ride the Swan Boats, swan-looking little floating two-seaters powered by pedaling. She took us to the Arboretum to see the lilacs in bloom when we were a bit older. She took us to the Ice Capades year after year. She took me to see the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo at that age when ballet dancing fascinated me. She took us on vacation with her and Gram when they had the cottage on Cape Cod before the 1938 hurricane blew it away. After that, she took us on vacations elsewhere. On these occasions she invariably spoiled us with late bedtimes, new toys, and an abundance of sweets, pure heaven.

Aunt Alice had always been a person to try any adventure and to go her way. During World War II she joined the WACS, and helped to maintain military vehicles on the home front. She traveled to Europe in her seventies. She remained single throughout her lifenot that she didn't have offersbecause she chose to.

When Auntie came to Reno we took her to see, and take photos of, beautiful Lake Tahoe, a national treasure nestled in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Another day historical Virginia City fascinated us, with its old silver mines, authentic gold-rush days buildings, Mark Twain impersonator, wood-plank sidewalks, and informative bus tours. Closer to home the gambling casinos beckoned, exciting places to a person who has never been inside one. Auntie had never been exposed to gambling, and at first she said she wasn't interested. After a while, Judy and I found ourselves having to pry her away from the slot machines.

Springing our big surprise on her happened near the end of her Reno sojourn. Auntie, Judy and I got up early one morning, dressed quickly, and went to watch the process of inflating hot air balloons, and to take pictures of them. That's what we told Auntie. She was enchanted by the preparations: the gondola on its side, the long piece of multi-colored fabric spread out on the ground, the cold air inflation by the huge fan, then the loud whooshes as yellow flames burst from the burner and the billowy balloon slowly rose into the cold morning air to bring the wicker basket to its standing position. She took many photos to show her friends.

We were standing only a foot away when Harry assisted a middle-aged couple and another woman into the hot air balloon's gondola.

Then Judy and I said, "You're next," and propelled Aunt Alice closer, one on each arm.

She protested, "I can't do that."

"You'll love it. This is for you, for your birthday. It's really fun."

Harry's hands reached out for Auntie. She grabbed them. At that moment she realized she would never have another opportunity like thisher heart was strong and her nature adventurous. Judy and I helped her over the edge.

The flight was smooth and ended gently. Judy and I greeted Auntie at the landing site.

"I loved it! Gliding above the treetops was beautiful. This trip will be my best memory for the rest of my life," Auntie told us. Telling her story and showing her snapshots, she was the envy of all her friends in the senior complex where she lived.

Bonding with Lauren

Lauren's two year old face was contorted into a scowl, one hair's breadth away from outright howling, that's how upset she looked. Waking up in the early morning's darkness in an unfamiliar room in Gramma's unfamiliar house frightened her. As she shuffled into the lighted kitchen I immediately smiled, plopped myself on the floor, and held my arms out, inviting her into my hug.

She sat on my lap, and we snuggled. I caressed her and told her, "I'm glad you came to visit me. I've missed you so much. I love you." I rocked us a little bit, absorbing the moment: the sweet smell of her head, the warmth of her soft body through the pajama fabric, the feel of this precious child in my arms once again. Too long since last time, several months.

Cuddling her, I talked softly, rocking, stroking, loving every second of it, for perhaps fifteen minutes. Finally she woke up enough to become her happy little self, and to recognize the house where she and her family had gone to bed the previous evening. She got up off my lap, studied the cat food dish, and asked, "Where's your kitty?"

Each morning of her stay, Lauren and I repeated the hugging session, both of us feeling unconditional acceptance and love. On my next trip to my son's home, as soon as I stepped inside, Lauren shouted, "Gramma!" and sped across the room with open arms.
I write letters to her and her brother Evan, mail them in separate envelopes, one to each, and always tuck in a stamped self-addressed envelope for their reply. Now that she's six, she responds with pictures. She prints her name. Evan writes his responseshe's nine.

I regret that Evan and I didn't experience a dramatic bonding episode when he was younger, but that can't be changed. We have fun together when he comes to visit, and in time, we'll develop strong ties. He knows I love him and miss him, just as Lauren does. Grandparenting certainly does have its rewards.
Thrilled, I scooped her up for hugs and kisses. The bond we created grows stronger each time we see each other, a glue to last forever.

Evan and Lauren

Orthotics Fun

The upper section of the blue naugahyde examining table is vertical as I sit leaning against it. My feet are bare, my gray slax rolled up several inches as Dr. Chambers, whose ordinary face is topped by receding dark thin hair, is on a chair at my feet. With his surgical-gloved hands, he's dipping one of the stiff white gauze strips into a bucket of water near his right elbow. He's dressed in a plaster- spattered blue surgical gown that has white knit cuffs. On the floor in front of him, under my feet, is a sheet-like white cloth that looks like a painter's drop cloth, spotted as it is with white. Looking at the gauze, knowing it'll soon be applied to my foot, I'm thinking, that's gonna be cold on my poor permafrost foot. He wrings the strip briefly, struggling against the stickiness to smooth it out enough to apply to my right foot.

"Oh, that's nice and warm," I say. He says nothing, acknowledging my statement with a hint of a grin. This cubicle is the usual barren examining room, now permeated with the scent of wet plaster. On its gleaming tile floor to my right squats a treadmill with a video camera mounted on a stand just behind it. Next to the front of the treadmill a stand holds a small monitor showing the treadmill, and I notice my name is on the screen. The doctor's blue eyes are intent on his work, his hands moving quickly, efficiently. When the two wet white plasters are in place he holds my foot in the exact position he wants, saying, "Takes about two minutes." Then he repeats the procedure on my other extremity.

Earlier I had stood barefooted on the treadmill while he marked a blue-pen stripe on the back of each heel while I
held my feet as directed. He used a plastic triangle such as mathematicians use to achieve perfectly perpendicular lines. Turning on the treadmill, he instructed me to walk taking fairly long steps. As the brown material under my feet was moving, I hung onto the handrails like a monkey in a tree to keep from losing balance. This proved unnecessary, so I just touched them lightly as instructed. The monitor showed my walking feet from behind, blue stripes at sharp angles to the perpendicular. Aghast, I said, "It's genetic, isn't it."

"Yes."

"Hope my kids didn't inherit this."

I definitely need orthotics. Little wonder I'd been having more and more minor foot problems with my daily walks.

After removing the second plaster he hands me a damp towel saying, "You can wipe them with this. Just push the crumbs on the floor." And leaves the room. The white stuff is between my toes and in all the skin creases, so I do as I'm told, then get back into my socks and shoes. It's time to write a big check and go home.

Religion and Theosophy

In Jamaica Plain Mum and Dad attended a Congregational Church, so that's where we were christened as babies. Gram often read bible stories to us. In West Roxbury the Methodist Church was close, so we went to Sunday school there every week.

On Saturday evenings Mum gave us our weekly bath and shampoo in preparation for the next day. Yes, baths and shampoos were once a week. In winter we dried our hair by sitting in front of the gas stove's open oven, with a tiny rubber-bladed fan on the oven rack to blow the hot air out at us.

Easter Sunday meant new clothes and hat and shoes and gloves to wear to church. Now that seems ridiculous to me, but at the time it was what everyone did. Our winter Sunday shoes were usually black patent leather mary-janes, and the Easter ones for warm weather were the same style in white.

When my friend Kathleen was preparing for her first communion, I went with her a few times to catechism classes (Catholic), and attended her Communion ceremony where she wore all white. I had no clue of what it meant, but it was interesting to watch.

In my mid teens I became an atheist, and remained so until my thirties when I was introduced to the Unitarian Universalist group in North Conway, NH. These people have no dogma, no belief system that you must accept. They teach tolerance and good works, and embrace any person regardless of belief. Some are atheists, some theists, some agnostics, and everything in between. Their Sunday school educates children to seek what is truth to that individual, one course being Comparative Religion where they learn about all of the world's established faiths. I have gradually come to believe there is something, perhaps a cosmic consciousness, that determines much of what occurs, so I suppose I am either an agnostic or an atheist. There is NO white male supreme being, of that I am convinced.

Still Got That Swing

(This was published in Dancing USA magazine)

If Doug hadn't been playing senior softball last spring, we wouldn't have been at the dance. We hadn't heard about it.

At softball practice Eric, another player, bragged to Doug about winning a dance contest. Eric and his wife had gone to a place near Lake Tahoe the previous week where they had won the competition. Then he said, "There's a special senior dance Saturday at the Convention Center. It's free. We're going. Why don't you come too?"

"Sure. We'll see you there," Doug said.

The hall was fairly full that night. White fabric tablecloths graced the big round tables. On the underside of several cloths were little stickers that, if you found one, you received a beautiful bouquet of roses. We found one. Our lucky night.

Three portable wooden dance floors covered the carpeting. The live band music was excellent. We were having fun.

The announcement of a contest
wasn't clear enough over the loudspeakers that we could be sure what had been said, but that didn't matter. We'd have danced anyway to the song they started playing, Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." That's our favorite jitterbug tune, and no way can we stay seated when we hear that, ever!

Doug and I did our high-energy routine, the one where my legs are up in the air now and thenin spite of our being seventy-three and sixty-seven. One by one, all the other couples were tapped on the shoulder, the signal for them to sit down.

The band kept playing, so we kept dancing, loving every second. It must have been fifteen minutes of that strenuous stuff before the band halted and the audience applauded. Panting just a little, grinning and perspiring a lot, we accepted our prize, a color TV.

    

The Gift of Life

At about 8 AM I hear a gurgle and a thud. I drop the newspaper I'm reading. I run to where the sounds came from, the bathroom.

Doug is semi-rigid, crumpling to the floor, holding his asthma inhaler in his right hand. His face is blue. His eyes are open, unseeing.

"Doug!" No answer. He's nude and his hair's still wethe's just finished showering. The inhaler clatters to the floor as I ease him down, wondering what's going on. Is he dying?

He's not breathing.

I push on his chest. "Breathe! Doug, breathe!" pushing on his chest. My own heart is pounding.

I run around the corner to the kitchen and grab the cordless phone and run back to Doug. I push on his chest with both hands a few times, then dial 911. My hands are shaking. I push on his chest with my free hand.

Upon hearing the 911 operator speak, I yell, "He's not breathing! He's not breathing!" into the phone, and then answer the woman's questions, pushing on his chest with one hand. Although she's still talking, I put the phone on the floor to push on Doug's chest with both hands a couple of times.

I pick the phone up and listen to the operator and follow her instructions to clear Doug's mouth of anything. I remove his upper dentures; the lowers are already on the counter.

I put the phone on the floor to push on his chest some more. "Breathe! Breathe!" But his face is blue. He's not breathing. Is he dead?

"NO!" Push on his chest. Push on his chest. My vision narrows, and focuses on his eyes. For the first time ever, I see how sky-blue his eyes are.
Up to now I hadn't noticed the vivid color behind his glasses.

I hear a loud pounding on the front door. I run to open it. Three firemen rush in carrying equipment and ask, "Where's the victim?" I point toward the bathroom as I close the door behind them.

To have more space to work on Doug, they drag his bare body by the arms into the bedroom. One man uses a manual resuscitator. One makes a call on his cell phone, and another asks questions of me.

Loud pounding on the front door reminds me I forgot to leave it unlocked after the firemen. I run and open it again, feeling embarrassed and stupid.

Three EMTs rush in. One administers oxygen. One makes a cell phone call and I hear only the words "asthma crisis." Another starts an intravenous 
running into Doug's right arm on the inside of his elbow.

I wonder how his mind will be after not breathing for so long, and worry that he might be a vegetable, spending the remainder of his days in a nursing facility, helpless and hopeless. I exert control and do not allow my emotions to show.

The paramedic adds medication to the oxygen.

Doug gasps. He's alive! He's alive! His breathing improves. His color improves.

I ask no one in particular if it's okay to put a blanket over Doug's cold nude body. Someone says, "Yes." I cover him with a long-wise-doubled blue blanket from a nearby linen cabinet.

The firemen leave. The paramedics bring a gurney from their vehicle. The men apply a neck brace to Doug, who then is placed on a rigid blue board and strapped down onto it. The board is placed on the stretcher, and wheeled out the door by two of the medics.

"We'll need his Medicare card and a list of all his prescription medicines."

I find his wallet and get out his Medicare card, place it in a plastic baggie with his dentures. I put this on the table the men will pass on their way
out so they can take it with them. I notice the cordless phone on the floor, pick it up and shut it off.

While I round up Doug's medications, the EMT asks, "Do you want to ride with us?"

I'd like to, but I haven't found everything they requested yet, so I say, "No."

"You'll follow us to the hospital then?"

"Yes."

Shakily, will power holding down the panic I feel, I drive as fast as I dare to the hospital, and park. Inside, I ask directions to Emergency. It seems like I walk and walk and walk, then I ask another person where it is, before finding the right place. At a desk I see a friend of my sister, so I ask where Doug is.

"Is he the 74-year-old man?"

"Yes."

"I'll take you there, but first fill this out."

That done, I follow the woman to the small room where I find Doug. He now has oxygen tubes in his nose, the IV in his arm, and he is still strapped down to the blue board and wearing the neck brace. He is hooked up to a heart monitor. A doctor and a nurse are with him.

Doug looks at me for the first time since he stopped breathing, but his face registers only discomfort. The doctor leaves. I move to the bedside, pat Doug's forehead and kiss his stubbly cheek, tears beginning to burn my eyes.

I say, "I'm so glad you're alive!" Tears of relief now trickle down my face. I brush them away quickly, not wanting Doug to see I'm upset.

For the first time in our sixteen years together, tears run from Doug's eyes. He asks me to dry them, and says he'd like his dentures and eyeglasses from the stand holding his medicines.

I oblige, and kiss his cheek once more.

Then he says, "If this ever happens again, don't wake me up." I'm upset by that, but say nothing.

Doug says, "My hands and feet are cold. Can't you take these straps off? They're hurting."

The nurse says, "Yes," and unfastens the straps. The nurse leaves, and returns with two warm white flannel blankets, removes the blue one from home, and replaces it with the warm ones. I tuck the end under Doug's icy feet.

A technician arrives to do a test.

Doug says, "I'm awfully uncomfortable here."

The nurse and tech remove the neck brace and hard blue board from under Doug.

I watch from a plastic seat against the wall as the screen shows Doug's heart and carotid arteries pumping blood. He turns from side to side when asked, saying nothing.

It is uncharacteristic of Doug not to kid around with the technicianthis worries me. How is his mind? The process takes a while, and when done, it's time for Doug to be wheeled to X-ray.

I go to the coffee shop for tea and cinnamon roll. After returning I wait in the little room, then pace the corridors. I am pacing near the nurse's station when I hear Doug vomiting. I hurry to the room where Doug is, but can't see much, as the door is partly closed. Hearing the nurse and X-ray tech's voices, I think, they can handle it. They don't need me. I continue prowling the nearby corridor.

Some time later the nurse comes out and says, "He'll be admitted to the fourth floor, but I don't know which room he'll be in. Maybe you'd like to go home for a while and come back when he's settled."

"I'll do that."

I find my way back to my old Toyota to go home. Before turning the ignition key I suddenly burst into tears, crying loudly, venting some of the pent-up fear and tension. Feeling better after a minute or two, I go home. There I pick up the dropped inhaler, throw away the discarded resuscitator wrapper, and feel very very alone. I call my sister and pour out the whole event, believing she will hear it anyway from her friend who works in Emergency.

After puttering around at home a couple of hours, I'm preparing to leave for the hospital when the phone rings.

It's Doug! "Hi, hon," I say. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I want to go home. Would you bring me some clothes to go home in?"

"Sure. I'll bring the works, and a jacket." I'm elated that he sounds like his old self.

"I'm in Room 431, bed #2. You coming soon?"

"I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you."

"I love you too."

When I arrive he's sitting up in bed. He still has the oxygen in his nose and the IV in his arm. He's happy to see me.

I kiss his cheek, asking, "Have you
had lunch?"

"I ate everything. I was still hungry so they brought me a snack."

"That's good. You're okaythat proves it." Relief replaces the tension that has gripped me since 8 AM.

A nurse and a technician come in.

"Maybe I can go home this afternoon. I'm fine."

The nurse says, "You'll be staying tonight. Some tests are scheduled for tomorrow. You'll probably be able to leave after that."

At home alone at dinner time I'm sure Doug's doing well, and call my sister to say so. I had promised her an update on his condition.

It is evening when the phone rings. I answer and am thrilled to hear Doug's voice on the other end.

We chat about how he feels (fine, now that the IV is out) and what he had for dinner, and that he had extra snacks because he was still hungry, and then we go on talking, neither wanting to end the conversation.

An hour later I call Doug just to hear his voice again. He sounds pleased, and again neither is eager to hang up. We miss each other.

The next morning Doug calls to say he can come home after lunch.

During the drive home, he asks about what happened to him, saying he remembers nothing after feeling his chest tighten. I explain.

Doug says, "Before I woke up I was in a really pleasant place. That's why I was so mad when I woke up all strapped down to a hard board. I had a headache and I felt awful. And I didn't know why. I only became fully conscious when I started vomiting. Up till then I can't remember much, except how awful I felt."

I stop for a red light. "If it's a really pleasant place, then death must be something to look forward to," I say, glancing at him.

"It was very nice. Nothing to fear." Doug is smiling at me.

"Are you still mad we didn't let you die?"

Reaching over to pat my knee he says, "No. Not now. I'm glad to be here."

"I'm glad you're still with us."

Once home, Doug feels as good as new. He uses his inhalers faithfully, something he had not been doing before his brush with death. We walk in the park, and resume our usual activities.

However, our attitudes have changed. Doug finds me softer, he says. I notice he's no longer sarcastic, he's more affectionate, and he invites me on his little errands, like going to the bank, which he didn't do before. We spend more time together, and I watch more TV with him. Doug is careful to look for shows we both might like, and asks me in advance if I think I'd enjoy this or that.

We have a renewed appreciation for each other and our relationship, and realize how much we almost lost.