IWSG: Is Mom Turning into Florence Nightingale?

                                                                           

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                                              

   

After spending the day visiting my mom at the nursing home, one of my 20-something sons asked me, "Was Nana always so mean?"

I thought carefully before answering and decided to ask him to explain.

He said that while he was pushing my mom in the wheelchair, she kept yelling, "Faster, faster," to lose a 90-something neighbor named Nadine who was gaining speed while pushing her own wheelchair.

In all fairness, Mom had tried on several occasions to be friendly to Nadine and though Nadine never had trouble recognizing the other patients on her floor, for some reason she couldn't seem to remember who my mom was and couldn't hear anything she said.

A few weeks later, my brother came to visit Mom after dinner and there was no sign of her. He asked the nurses and combed the floor, but it was as if she had vanished without a trace. He was particularly concerned, because it was BINGO night and she had been on a roll winning two dollars in two weeks.

After my brother turned down several nonagenarians' invitations to see their etchings, our mom finally appeared outside her room.  He hugged her in relief, as she explained her whereabouts.

Using her super hearing powers and ability to read the room, my mom sensed trouble in the dining room after dinner. Apparently a patient had asked a nurse's aid for a banana and her request was not met. Though Mom had never met the patient, she could not sit back and allow her to be ignored.

She remembered that she had an emergency banana in her room, and sought out to find the woman.

On her journey, Mom never let her one good foot and minimal upper body strength deter her from fulfilling this stranger's dream as she inched down the hallway.

Eventually, a nurse helped guide her over to the patient's room. By this time she had forgotten all about the banana and asked my mom to leave.

On her way back, my mom realized that she had created quite a stir and all of the nurses had been talking about her. Mom took it in stride and held her head high.

When she returned to her room and found my brother in tears, she realized that she didn't have an emergency banana after all.

Later when my brother relayed the story, I told Mom that the patient might have been on a low potassium diet which either restricted bananas or limited them.

"But what if she was having a leg cramp? The potassium in bananas helps with leg cramps. I couldn't just sit back and let her suffer."

My mom's now known as the Florence Nightingale of the 7th floor. Well, only a few people know about it, as most of them can't hear.

IWSG: The Defiant One

                                                                   

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

The following is a repost from May 2014 when my mischievous Mom was in rare form.

                                                       
                                                                                                                         

(The Defiant One) 

 
Before we boarded our flight home from Israel, we made a quick stop at the duty-free shop at Ben Gurion Airport. We picked up some Ahava Lotion for my mom. She likes the special formula of Dead Sea minerals, and the convenient travel size tubes. When I told my husband that we needed to get a few extra he said, "She probably uses them like cartons of cigarettes in the joint." Then we rushed to catch our flight.


After our son graduated, I prepared myself for the worst. Though I knew he would be eating better at home, anything could happen once he stepped out of our house. All it took was a matter of minutes for him to get lost, robbed, or kidnapped by a gang of raccoons.


It didn't matter that he lived on his own for four years at college, now he was on my turf, and I felt entirely helpless. I've heard many stories about sneaky twenty-something kids who've gotten into all kinds of trouble. Little did I know, that he wasn't the one I needed to worry about.


I usually talk to my mom on the phone at least twice a day. This rule still applies on days that we spend together. The other night, I reminded my mom that I had an early dental appointment in the morning, and that I would talk to her afterward. She wished me luck, and said that she also had to get up early. When I asked where she was going at the crack of dawn, she replied, "Downstairs."

This struck me odd, as she usually doesn't go to early morning activities at her retirement home, but she said goodnight before I could get anymore information.


The following day I tried calling my mom, but there was no answer. She finally called me back later in the afternoon. I asked her if she was feeling okay, and she said that she was fine. Then I asked  if she went to the doctor. She said, "No, why? What have you heard? Who told you?"


I told her that her story didn't make any sense, and if she was only downstairs then she would've returned my call earlier. Then I asked what was wrong with her, and why she had to keep it a secret. She gave me her standard line, "I didn't want to worry you."

I dove deeper by asking how she got to her appointment. "My nurse took me."

She has a visiting nurse that is set up through her insurance. I didn't realize they were that close. I asked why she asked the nurse to drive her, when I could've taken her. My mom said that her nurse doesn't drive, so her husband took her to the hospital.

My Novocain was beginning to wear off, but I tried to remain calm.

"So her husband drove you?"

"No, he met us at the hospital. Her boss drove me."

"Let me get this straight. So the nurse, her boss at the agency, and the nurse's husband were all at the doctor's office with you, because you were suffering from chronic constipation? It was okay to bother all of them, but you didn't want to bother your own daughter?"


"That's right."


"Did anyone in the group bring you a box lunch?"


"No, but no one gave me any lip either."


"I'm sure your doctor referred you to a gastroenterologist. Did you make an appointment?"


"No, I need to see a spine specialist first."


"Makes perfect sense. I'm sure he'll do wonders for your constipation. And I suppose you gave your nurse a nice present for taking you."


"As a matter of fact, I did."

"The Ahava Lotion?"

"It's the least I could do."

IWSG: Memories of "Boy on a Swing"

                                                                     

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J.  Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

This summer I wrote about a local poetry contest where participants were encouraged to write a poem about one of the 28 sculptures in our community. Keeping in the spirit of the story, my editor asked me to join in the fun, so I unofficially waxed poetic.

Mary Block's "Boy on a Swing"

This poem was inspired by Mary Block’s “Boy on a Swing” and was written about a month before we moved from the home where we raised our two boys.

Memories of “Boy on a Swing”

Swing, swing, see the boy swing,

Not one boy, but memories of two it brings.

Afternoons spent frolicking in Sunset Park,

Boys pleading to run and play until dark.

First the baby swing, how quickly time flies,

Push me higher mom up to the sky.

Swings are for babies, parks are for sports,

First T-ball, then soccer, and basketball courts.

Touch football becomes tackle, your nerves are frayed,

‘Til you’re the one who’s being played.

Sleepless nights where can they be?

Soon they’re miles away pledging a fraternity.

Swing, swing, see the boy swing,

Savor the moments and the joy that it brings.

-Julie Kemp Pick

This poem was published July 5, 2017 in DailyNorthShore.com

IWSG: A Sentimental Journey

                   
                                                                       

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J.  Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

This has been a very bittersweet summer, as we are moving from our family home of 28 years. Our boys fled the nest a few years ago, and in a few weeks we'll be downsizing to a new apartment in the downtown area of our North Shore suburb.

The good news is that we'll be conveniently located just steps away from the grocery store, restaurants, shops and movie theaters. The bad news is that I'll probably be sneaking off to Dairy Queen every day.

It will also be an adjustment fitting everything from our home into a two-bedroom apartment. We've had some luck selling our furniture on Craig's List and a garage sale site on Facebook. We've also given away bags and bags of clothes, and small household items, but some of the most unlikely objects suddenly have sentimental value.

I decided to go to my mom the hoarder for advice:

"How can you throw out that ashtray collection that I bought you when you first got married?"

"Mom, you were the only person who ever smoked in our house, and we don't have room for them."

"Well, you never know. Smoking might come back in style."

Our boys' new condo has more space, so we gave them our old dining room table that seats up to 12 guests. My mom helped cheer me up when I showed her our new dining table that seats four.

"I guess this means that you won't ever be able to have your own kids over for dinner."

My mom didn't want to hear about having a lack of storage space.

"You will have daughters-in-law one day, so you need to save everything for them. By the way, don't even think about giving away any of my clothes. You never know when I'm going to wear them again."

As I look around my home, I see the large, green wooden coffee table where both of my boys learned to table walk. It's the same table that my son turned into a stage and performed one-man shows with props and costumes, while his baby brother looked on.

The boys a few years later

My husband, mom, brother and I would cheer after every performance, and my three-year-old star would always ask, "Are there any questions from the audience?"

Without missing a beat, I would raise my hand and say, "Are you married?'

He'd act mad, but he always called on me.

Currently, we've been trying to sell that table online, as it won't fit with the other furniture in the new apartment. We found an interested buyer who likes the table so much that he's willing to send us a certified check, sight unseen, and a mover will be happy to pick it up. He's even willing to sweeten the deal by adding $30 for our trouble.

I think I'll offer him my mom's ashtray collection instead, because you never know.

IWSG: Before Match.com - The Real Matchmakers

                                                                       

It's time for another edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group.  Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the rest of the talented writers who are always willing to lend a helping hand.

                                       Before Match.com - The Real Matchmakers

June 28, 1987

                                                               

As our 30th anniversary is approaching, it seems only fitting to tell the story of how we met. It all began when my dear friend Lily called to tell me about an upcoming dating show on cable. She said that her client was a Jewish matchmaker who offered to fix her up. When she told her that she was engaged, she asked her if she knew of anyone who might be interested. She knew that I would enjoy being on a dating show, so I thanked her for thinking of me.  A few minutes later, the matchmaker called me at work.

She started firing off personal questions, as I trembled in my cubicle.  I finally cut her off when the subject of weight came up, though I would give anything to trade my 1986 stats right now. The next step was to set up a meeting in person, and afterward she would collect her generous fee. When I asked about the cable dating show, she said that she was still working on it.  I told her to call me back when she had more information.

A few weeks later, I received another call at work. The matchmaker told me that she had several new clients who would love to meet me,  and she "desperately" needed women in my age group. I was a tall, twenty-four-year-old Jewish blond, with good child bearing hips. What's not to like?  I asked again about the dating show which was probably never going to happen in the first place. So there was no TV offer, and she admitted that she was "desperate." This was a true Seinfeld moment when I had "hand."

I offered to meet her if she sent me on a free trial date. The matchmaker said it was out of the question. Then I replied, "Since you told me that you were 'desperate,' I don't see why I should have to pay you." At the time I worked in the advertising department at a magazine, so she suggested I help her with advertising instead. Hence, we set up a meeting for the following week.

The matchmaker looked like Dr. Ruth, and was a compact powerhouse. Since many of her clients were older religious men from New York, she immediately started asking me questions about how observant I was. When she asked me if I ever ate bread during Passover, I answered her honestly.

She sternly replied, "Do you know what the bible said about what happened to people who ate bread on Passover?  It said that they were stoned." Suddenly, I wasn't so excited about my trial date. Then she took my picture to share with her partner, and sent me on my way.  

Her partner must have liked the terrified expression on my face, because I got a call a few days later. We went to a nice Chinese restaurant for dinner. He didn't laugh or try to sneak out when I started choking on the hot n sour soup. It turned out that he lived down the street from her younger partner who had been trying to fix him up for years. She bent the rules by showing him my picture, and he decided to call me. I fell in love with my trial date, and we were engaged six months later.

My friend Lily stood up in our wedding, and later ran into the matchmaker. She always came to see her during the clothing shows in search of sample sales. Though she had only met my husband briefly when she crashed our wedding she told my friend, "You know, he was much too good for her." 


Note: This is a repost from 2012, shortly before our 25th anniversary

The Joke's On Me

                                                                             

                                                                   

Welcome to the April edition of the IWSG, Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh, and all of the other talented writers.

The IWSG and the blogging community have always held a special place in my heart, because the writers welcome all writing styles, and are always quick to laugh at each other and themselves. Unfortunately, the real world isn't always as understanding.

My first experience with disgruntled readers occurred in a most unlikely news story. I was writing about a talented sculptor and writer who penned his first book at 90. He was an entertaining interview who led an incredible life that filled at least two or three books. Then the conversation shifted when I asked him about his love life. He jokingly said, "I run around with a few crazy old women." I laughed, our photographer laughed and even his publicist laughed. Unfortunately, one of the "crazy old women" had a different reaction when she read about it.

The story made the front page, so it received a lot of coverage in our community. What started as a joke from a charming 90-year-old-man was seen as a vicious attack on his lady friend. Her daughter wrote letters saying how this man had ruined her reputation and her life. I decided to act upon receipt of the second letter.

I thought long and hard about my response. She assured me that her mother was a well-educated  pillar of the community that deserved to be treated with the utmost respect. The mother and daughter seemed to be more concerned about being labeled as "crazy" than the fact that there was at least one other woman in the picture. I couldn't say that the man was joking, because that would've only added insult to injury. I also couldn't try to reach the daughter by phone, because I doubted the dispute could be settled in one phone call.

The only logical step was to write a letter from one doting daughter to another. I thought about how protective I was of my mom and commended her for being such a wonderful daughter. Of course, if she only knew that my mom and I battled wits on my blog, she would've never forgiven me.

I tossed and turned all night wondering how the mother and daughter would react. Fortunately,
she sent an email the next morning saying that they appreciated my thoughtful response. They decided to stay clear of this narcissistic nonagenarian, and move on with their lives.

Little did they know the context of our conversation was that his lady friends enjoyed going to the opera and other events and he just wanted to have someone to spontaneously go out for dinner with now and then. I never had the opportunity to explain that in the article, as I was adhering to the word count, and had a difficult time paring down his life story. However, I never professionally wrote that anyone was "crazy" again, as it's no joking matter at any age.

Of course my mom didn't understand what the big deal was, because she loves being spontaneous as long as she has plenty of notice.

IWSG: Mrs. Temple's Guide To Having Daughters Will Curl Your Hair

It's hard to believe that this is the last Insecure Writer's Support Group post for 2016. Thanks to Alex J. Cavanaugh for getting us through another year with warmth and wisdom. 

I was hoping to write a classic holiday story, but ended up with a re-post about the mother of a classic child star. Of course, the real star in the story is my mom who isn't the least bit insecure.

                            Mrs. Temple's Guide To Having Daughters Will Curl Your Hair

                                                                  

Shirley Temple; photo courtesy of Michael Jackson World Network

As we were going through her long list of disappointments, my mom mentioned that I never gave her a granddaughter. Though she loves both of her grandsons dearly, she regrets I didn't also have a daughter.

When I tried to explain there was no guarantee my third child would've been a girl, she stopped me in my tracks. "Shirley Temple's mother wanted a little girl, and she knew exactly what to do to have one."

"What did Mrs.Temple do?"

"She went to a doctor who told her if she wanted an adorable little girl who could sing, dance, and be one of the biggest stars in the world, her husband would have to get his tonsils out."

"And did he?"

"Of course he did. Not only was Shirley Temple a huge child star, but she went on to become an ambassador."

I immediately searched the Internet, and found a 1988 excerpt from Shirley Temple Black's autobiography Child Star in People Magazine. The energetic sixty-year-old wrote how her father had a tonsillectomy to "improve his chances of siring a female," after his two older sons were born. Apparently, my mom sat in on a guest speaker highlighting Shirley Temple Black's life.

Later, I asked my husband if he would've had his tonsils removed if we were assured of having a daughter. He reminded me of when he originally went in to have a tonsillectomy in fifth grade. He ended up spending several days in the hospital, and went home without having the procedure. I asked him if his parents visited him at all during that time, why he didn't have the tonsillectomy, and if he even got to have ice-cream? He answered "yes" to the ice-cream question.

I told my mom she could look forward to having granddaughter-in-laws, and great granddaughters. Cheerfully she remarked, "I won't live long enough to have a conversation with my great granddaughters."

Then I started thinking about what my relationships would be like with my future daughters-in-law. I remembered how it took a long time for me to grow on my mother-in-law. Fortunately, she started to like me after she turned ninety.

Happy Holidays!

IWSG: The Many Faces of Mom

Welcome to the November edition of  The Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the other talented writers.

                                                           

Who is this woman?

   
The other day my husband came home from meeting a state representative who is running for re-election. My husband said he immediately liked him for his views, but was taken aback when he asked, "What keeps you up at night?"

I started laughing hysterically, because absolutely nothing keeps my husband up at night. He sleeps like a baby, while I toss and turn over the most ridiculous things. For example, the other night I kept thinking what if I die in my sleep and whoever finds me notices that I haven't shaved my legs since last Tuesday?

I also worry about my mom whose Parkinson's disease has been flaring up lately causing her to occasionally see imaginary friends in her room, and has grown considerably weaker. I went to visit her yesterday fearing what I might find.

Surprisingly, I found her laughing it up with the social worker. I almost joined in on the fun until I realized the jokes were at my expense. The social worker had laryngitis, so she was writing the questions on small boards and asked my mom to point to the corresponding multiple choice answers of a) never, b) sometimes, c) half of the time or d) all of the time. After my mom the comedienne answered c) half of the time to one of the questions they both broke into laughter, so I leaned in to hear my mom ask and answer her own question: "How often do you find your daughter annoying?"

She continued to provide zingers throughout the day, and at one point turned the conversation ominous when I dared to say no to one of her demands. "Haven't you figured out by now that once I decide I want something - I always find a way get it?"

Who was this mysterious woman? Then I found a loose earring in her drawer, and decided to put it in one of the compartments of her jewelry organizer. I was aghast at what I'd found - a brand spanking new large pair of sharp scissors. The last time she told me not to visit her unless I brought her scissors, so I showed up with an old pair of safety scissors and she still hasn't forgiven me.

Afterward, I told my brother about the contraband scissors. He said that was nothing compared to what he found in her sleeve the other day when he was searching the closet for her phone. Before I could muster the courage to ask, he told me that it was a kitchen knife. The woman could barely move, yet somehow she either works for the CIA or is a gangbanger.

Good thing the state rep. didn't ask me "What keeps you up at night?"

IWSG: Making Deadlines By The Skin of my Teeth

                                                                     

Welcome to the October edition of the Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex J. Cavanaugh and the other talented writers.

This month's question is "When do you know your story is ready?

Standard stories have a beginning, middle and an end. That's why I enjoy writing poetry, because often times you can make up the rules as you go along, or at least that's what I tell myself.

In writing stories for a local news website, I know my story is ready when I've told the most important details of the event or evoked emotion in a human interest story - all in about 1,000 words or less.

Once I've submitted a story to the editor after proofreading it several times, a calming affect sweeps over me. All right, sometimes I feel more like a college student cramming to complete a final paper on the night before graduation.

After I completed my latest story, I decided to drive over to my mom's for a relaxing visit.

Mom: Let me see your teeth.

Horrible Daughter: Why do I have food stuck in them?

Mom: Just smile for me.

(Horrible Daughter obliges.)

Mom: Well, they could be whiter. You could still smile, but they should be whiter.

Then it hit me. I was one day off in my story. I thought the event was October 10th, but it was really October 9th.

I texted my editor at once, and fortunately the story had not been published yet. I raced home and made the correction. Talk about making a deadline by the skin of my teeth.

Now, I'm off to a dentist to correct my other problem, but I know something else will come up, and I'll never ever really be ready.

Sharp Wit Cuts Deep

                                                                   

                                                                   

Welcome to another edition of Alex J. Cavanaugh's Insecure Writer's Support Group. Be sure to visit Alex, and all of the talented bloggers who are always willing to lend support. Below is a story that hints at where my insecurities all began.

                                                           Sharp Wit Cuts Deep


I'm used to hurling insults, and clever cut-ups. Yes, I am talking about my mother again, and this cutting edge story is not for the squeamish. It all began in July when my mom announced once again that I'm a "horrible daughter." I'm hoping that this story will unite other horrible daughters, but realize that this is wishful thinking, as no one has committed a more heinous act than I.

My mom and I used to have weekly outings to the beauty shop. When I began working last year, her caregiver started accompanying her for long, leisurely afternoons of billowing blow driers and near death by hairspray asphyxiation.

Now my mom doesn't have to travel farther than the second floor of her building for weekly comb-outs and blow- drys. Remarkably, during her five month stay only one stylist has quit.

Mom: She doesn't know from teasing.

Horrible Daughter: No one likes to be teased, especially about their work.

Mom: I'm talking about teasing hair. You know with a comb. Will you please try to keep up!

Her beautician for over 20 years is an expert at teasing and roughing, so she set the bar very high. The second floor stylist hasn't quite earned her trust yet, so my mom has decided to take matters into her own hands.

Mom: Bring me a pair of scissors.

Horrible Daughter: Why do you need scissors?

Mom: I don't have time for all of these questions. Dinner's in three hours. Just bring scissors, or don't bother to come.

Visions danced through my head of all the terrible things my mom could do with scissors, because she has Parkinson's Disease, and her hand shakes. She could cut her finger, or drop the scissors on the floor and step on it while she's scooting around in the wheelchair. Another scenario involved unknowingly dropping it on the bed and bleeding to death in her sleep. So I hatched a plan.

On my next visit, instead of greeting me with, "Hello my precious daughter," the first words out my mom's mouth were, "Did you bring me the scissors?"

I smiled and handed her my boys' safety scissors with curved edges from 1992. They looked brand spanking new. My mom was not happy.

The subject of scissors didn't come up again until about a month later when she asked me to get something out of her nightstand drawer. I discovered a larger pair of contraband scissors with squared off edges for cutting bandages.

Horrible Daughter: Where did you get these?

Mom: The nurse gave them to me.

Horrible Daughter: No she didn't. You stole them.

Mom: I did not steal them. She left them in my room.

Fortunately, there was no sign of a shiv under her bed.

Recently, my mom brought up the scissors again when she decided that the stylist couldn't be trusted, and she was going to give herself a haircut.

It was a beautiful Saturday, so my husband and I took my mom for a long walk to a shopping center about a mile away. She loves to shop, and even found a cute top with a gift card from her grandsons. After dinner, we walked back to her room.  Then she said, "Did you bring me the scissors?" When I replied, "No," she didn't take it well.

Mom: It's the only thing I asked you to do.

Horrible Daughter: You can't give yourself a haircut. You could poke your eye out.

Mom: I'll be fine. I never complain about anything. It's the one thing that would make me happy...

I started to gather her clothes from the hamper to take home to wash.

Mom: Don't wash my clothes. Don't ever do anything for me again.

She said goodbye to my husband, and not one word to me.

A few days later our cousins went to visit my mom, and they offered to bring her anything she wanted. They suggested bringing cookies, candy, anything at all. My mom didn't want to be a bother, but she thought she was low on Kleenex, as she was down to four boxes. Hence, they brought her some emergency Kleenex.

Then I asked why she didn't tell them she needed scissors, and she replied, "You know I should have. I forgot all about it."