A well-matched pair; God bless them.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
The week of Celebration, Part III
I think it's quite charming how, whenever a friend gets married, they are so happy, they think everyone else should get married, too. It's the same with those who answer the call to the priesthood or religious life. It is the fulfillment of their vocation--the way in which God is calling them to give their heartscompletely in love. I've had numerous experiences with friends who, once they are engaged, set about trying to find ways to "fix me up" with various people. After all, they're so happy, and so they should help me find the same happiness. I also have a friend in the seminary; he loves it so much, all his letters and enclosures are encouragements for me to look into different orders of the religious life.
I think it's a wonderful expression of love to one's friends that you want to see them as happy as yourself. After all, being single is not a vocation, unless it's the consecrated single life. Which I have not taken vows for. So let's all help this poor girl find her vocation. Oooh! There's this guy....
Sometimes I feel like the "set-ups" that come to people's minds contain no regard for personality or compatibility. It's the "warm body" technique. He's single; you're single; there you go!
I have large suspicions when names are mentioned because "he's Catholic." Hmmm. I went to college with a whole lot of Catholics, and I can tell you, although essential, there's more than that involved. In fact, I told Alissa this weekend about one of Andy's friends who rode in my car at one point: "[He]'s a really nice guy, but GOSH! He prays the rosary WAY too slow!"
Then there's my loving sister: "I think [So-and-So] would make a great addition to our family. What do you think about him?" Uh-huh. How about this: it doesn't work that way.
I remember something our dear former chaplain, Fr. Bart, once said: "Every loving relationship is a miracle." It's true; everyone is so different. How do people ever live with one another and grow in love for each other their entire lives, except by grace?
There is the possibility of human instrumentation, of course. These people met through mutual friends. This person introduced me to that one. But the course of events is then in the hands of Providence.
I think it's a wonderful expression of love to one's friends that you want to see them as happy as yourself. After all, being single is not a vocation, unless it's the consecrated single life. Which I have not taken vows for. So let's all help this poor girl find her vocation. Oooh! There's this guy....
Sometimes I feel like the "set-ups" that come to people's minds contain no regard for personality or compatibility. It's the "warm body" technique. He's single; you're single; there you go!
I have large suspicions when names are mentioned because "he's Catholic." Hmmm. I went to college with a whole lot of Catholics, and I can tell you, although essential, there's more than that involved. In fact, I told Alissa this weekend about one of Andy's friends who rode in my car at one point: "[He]'s a really nice guy, but GOSH! He prays the rosary WAY too slow!"
Then there's my loving sister: "I think [So-and-So] would make a great addition to our family. What do you think about him?" Uh-huh. How about this: it doesn't work that way.
I remember something our dear former chaplain, Fr. Bart, once said: "Every loving relationship is a miracle." It's true; everyone is so different. How do people ever live with one another and grow in love for each other their entire lives, except by grace?
There is the possibility of human instrumentation, of course. These people met through mutual friends. This person introduced me to that one. But the course of events is then in the hands of Providence.
The week of Celebration, Part II
Funky jewelry-making Tuesday night turned out to be the most creative bridesmaids' gift I've ever experienced or heard of. One advantage to being a later marriage vocation is all the great ideas you accumulate from others.
The only other non-family member who was a bridesmaid was a really sweet co-worker of Alissa's from Lithuania. She reminded me so much of my former co-worker and friend from Hungary. And she informed me that I reminded her of one of her very best friends from high school: "Yoor eesty-eel, yoor mah-noor, ay-vrything." So it was a fun bridal party.
That made the whole week TONS of fun! Just imagine 5 Dalley sisters, 1 Dalley cousin, 2 Dalley adopted-friend-daughters, plus Mrs. Dalley herself, who happens to be a favorite among our graduating class from "that-anon." When Molly-O, C-Boyer, and E-Hurley showed up, the girl-fun only escalated! I haven't laughed so much for that many consecutive days since my senior year of college.
So the girl-time aspect of this week was unforgettable--a good way to leave off from one's life as a single woman, I should think. If I can have half the "last week" that Alissa had, I shall be a happy woman.
The only other non-family member who was a bridesmaid was a really sweet co-worker of Alissa's from Lithuania. She reminded me so much of my former co-worker and friend from Hungary. And she informed me that I reminded her of one of her very best friends from high school: "Yoor eesty-eel, yoor mah-noor, ay-vrything." So it was a fun bridal party.
That made the whole week TONS of fun! Just imagine 5 Dalley sisters, 1 Dalley cousin, 2 Dalley adopted-friend-daughters, plus Mrs. Dalley herself, who happens to be a favorite among our graduating class from "that-anon." When Molly-O, C-Boyer, and E-Hurley showed up, the girl-fun only escalated! I haven't laughed so much for that many consecutive days since my senior year of college.
So the girl-time aspect of this week was unforgettable--a good way to leave off from one's life as a single woman, I should think. If I can have half the "last week" that Alissa had, I shall be a happy woman.
The week of Celebration, Part I
It started out Monday evening, when my wonderful (big) little brother drove me up to Erin's (roommater, not sister) apartment in Denver. It was late, we went to bed almost immediately, and she had to work Tuesday morning. But she told me to be ready with my book after 12 noon, because she wanted to go study at a coffee shop. Yay!
She picked me up and prefaced our afternoon with, "I think this might be the coffee shop you were telling me about...it's the only one that I know of in the Cherry Creek area. You can let me know..."
Yes, yes it was. Two years ago, the man I was dating drove by it with me and told me all his plans about how he was going to improve business there when he closed on it in a few weeks. I remember him visiting me one weekend and talking to my boss at the awesomest coffee shop ever, in order to get some advice. My very successful boss, Jeff, echoed my reservations when I expressed doubt about this business venture: "Yeah, I'm not sure he's fully aware of what he's getting into..." However, Jeff had more hope than I: "...but then again, neither did I!" I never knew what happened, though. We separated soon after that drive-by, and he has been the only person before or since that I have blocked email from. Needless to say, we haven't kept in touch!
So here we are, early Tuesday afternoon, ordering our lunch salad and iced chai tea, and I look around for any sign to tell me whether success has been his (or someone else's). Not knowing what exactly to look for, I finally ask the tall skinny barista with the peasant shirt: "Excuse me, who is the owner of this place?"
Barista: "[First name of ex-boyfriend]"
Myself: "What's his last name?"
Barista: "[Last name of ex-boyfriend]. Why do you ask?"
Myself: "Oh, you know. I haven't been here in a while..."
Erin (roommate, not sister) eyes me warily with a slight smirk. "We'll be out front," she tells the girl.
A flood of questions rush through my mind as we sit there.
Does he ever come by to check up on the place?
Is he even in the country?
Has he exchanged his black beret for a green one yet?
Does he still drive the silver Passat?
Will my sunglasses disguise me?
Erin starts laughing: "Calm down! Stop looking over your shoulder every 5 minutes. What does he look like again? ...ok, I've never seen anyone of that description here. Although I've only ever come here in the evening,.... Hey, relax. A little drama might be good for you. Did you hear me? Hello! Turn around and read your book!"
The most restless reading session of Katherine Lavransdatter I've experienced yet!
Not to be anti-climactic or anything, he never showed up. Later, while Erin was using the restroom, I recognized some of the beautiful photos he took in Afghanistan hanging on the wall. Unfortunately, my favorite photo of him standing in a hot spring in Greenland wasn't there. But then I saw the jar with the sign: "Help raise $2000 for Leukemia: [Ex-boyfriend's first name] getting ready for Leukemia triathlon" Yep. Definitely him. Must be in town. Can we go now?
And so began my week...
She picked me up and prefaced our afternoon with, "I think this might be the coffee shop you were telling me about...it's the only one that I know of in the Cherry Creek area. You can let me know..."
Yes, yes it was. Two years ago, the man I was dating drove by it with me and told me all his plans about how he was going to improve business there when he closed on it in a few weeks. I remember him visiting me one weekend and talking to my boss at the awesomest coffee shop ever, in order to get some advice. My very successful boss, Jeff, echoed my reservations when I expressed doubt about this business venture: "Yeah, I'm not sure he's fully aware of what he's getting into..." However, Jeff had more hope than I: "...but then again, neither did I!" I never knew what happened, though. We separated soon after that drive-by, and he has been the only person before or since that I have blocked email from. Needless to say, we haven't kept in touch!
So here we are, early Tuesday afternoon, ordering our lunch salad and iced chai tea, and I look around for any sign to tell me whether success has been his (or someone else's). Not knowing what exactly to look for, I finally ask the tall skinny barista with the peasant shirt: "Excuse me, who is the owner of this place?"
Barista: "[First name of ex-boyfriend]"
Myself: "What's his last name?"
Barista: "[Last name of ex-boyfriend]. Why do you ask?"
Myself: "Oh, you know. I haven't been here in a while..."
Erin (roommate, not sister) eyes me warily with a slight smirk. "We'll be out front," she tells the girl.
A flood of questions rush through my mind as we sit there.
Does he ever come by to check up on the place?
Is he even in the country?
Has he exchanged his black beret for a green one yet?
Does he still drive the silver Passat?
Will my sunglasses disguise me?
Erin starts laughing: "Calm down! Stop looking over your shoulder every 5 minutes. What does he look like again? ...ok, I've never seen anyone of that description here. Although I've only ever come here in the evening,.... Hey, relax. A little drama might be good for you. Did you hear me? Hello! Turn around and read your book!"
The most restless reading session of Katherine Lavransdatter I've experienced yet!
Not to be anti-climactic or anything, he never showed up. Later, while Erin was using the restroom, I recognized some of the beautiful photos he took in Afghanistan hanging on the wall. Unfortunately, my favorite photo of him standing in a hot spring in Greenland wasn't there. But then I saw the jar with the sign: "Help raise $2000 for Leukemia: [Ex-boyfriend's first name] getting ready for Leukemia triathlon" Yep. Definitely him. Must be in town. Can we go now?
And so began my week...
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Resting...
This pretty much sums up the first part of my vacation. Then more of that: run...sleep...go out for breakfast with the soon-to-be-married A-team...enjoy Brazilian drinks and South American foods with Erin (roommate, not sister)...watch (big) little brother's baseball team get clobbered in the regionals by last year's national champions -- not so much fun, especially when he was pitching -- and etc! Restful, yes!
I feel kind of liberated, not having access to internet, not having cell-phone reception in these mountainous hills of home. Maybe this will be my last entry.... Oh, shoot. School will get me back into the technology of life soon enough.
But for now, maybe I'm signing off to the world for two weeks. Maybe. Of course, my phone will be on for the wedding festivities this week. So maybe not.
I feel kind of liberated, not having access to internet, not having cell-phone reception in these mountainous hills of home. Maybe this will be my last entry.... Oh, shoot. School will get me back into the technology of life soon enough.
But for now, maybe I'm signing off to the world for two weeks. Maybe. Of course, my phone will be on for the wedding festivities this week. So maybe not.
Monday, May 09, 2005
I Know I Said...
...I would never be caught dead doing office work again, but I was offered a GA position:
Administrative Research Assistant.
My interest both in what's happening behind the scenes and in being able to afford rent and food next year compel me to accept this offer with exceptional gratitude to God.
Administrative Research Assistant.
My interest both in what's happening behind the scenes and in being able to afford rent and food next year compel me to accept this offer with exceptional gratitude to God.
MGS Retreat a Success
The beautiful convent retreat house in Darien, CT, housed between 11 and 13 girls this past weekend. Plus 4 adults, 2 of whom spent the night--Angela and me. It went so well, it was unbelievable. Only the Holy Spirit could have run that smooth of a retreat.
Of course, the girls themselves are such good girls. Sharon and I both thought we would more than dislike leading a group of junior high to high school girls. But they're great.
Dr. Alice von Hildebrand's talk was definitely a highlight: The Privelege of Being a Woman. I've heard her before, but this was different. This was in a little room, with 13 girls scattered around her, either in chairs or on the floor, as she sat with her hands folded in her lap, without a microphone, sending a rhythmic trickling of wisdom forth from her lips.
The Missionaries of Charity who came in the afternoon were so beautiful. Their life is so amazing in its simplicity and poverty. A friend of mine in the seminary has mentioned the MC's to me time and again as something I should "look at;" I don't know what delusions he has of my capabilities to accept that kind of call to holiness. Wow. They completely blow my mind.
And then our own pastor, Father Paul Check, the best priest I've ever known, came Saturday evening to give a talk, Benediction, and confessions. His comfort and encouragement are things I don't deserve, but soak up like a child seeks her father's embrace.
"...I'm very proud of you," he says. "This is exactly what I had in mind when I asked you and Sharon to take this group. You're doing well. Do not let your heart be troubled. Be at peace. The confessions these girls made this evening were very good..."
I wish I could be at peace, Father. I don't know what is wrong. I wish I knew so I could straighten it out.
"...Go home. Rest. Come back in two weeks. See if you feel better. You have had a lot on your mind these past months. Go home to your family..."
Can he read my mind? Father, school is over. I should already be at peace.
"...It takes a little time to wind down. You've been tense and anxious for a while now; I've noticed. When you come back, we can dig that deep and see what it is. But for now, go home and rest. You've done a beautiful job with this retreat. Remember, you're not on retreat; you're giving the retreat..."
So I'm going home. Tomorrow. After Father Check's morning Mass at St. John's, Sharon will bring me to the airport. And I will feast my eyes on the huge, clear, blue sky and drink in the de-oxygenated air and rejoice in the friends I will see, both from home and elsewhere, coming together for Alissa's wedding.
Of course, the girls themselves are such good girls. Sharon and I both thought we would more than dislike leading a group of junior high to high school girls. But they're great.
Dr. Alice von Hildebrand's talk was definitely a highlight: The Privelege of Being a Woman. I've heard her before, but this was different. This was in a little room, with 13 girls scattered around her, either in chairs or on the floor, as she sat with her hands folded in her lap, without a microphone, sending a rhythmic trickling of wisdom forth from her lips.
The Missionaries of Charity who came in the afternoon were so beautiful. Their life is so amazing in its simplicity and poverty. A friend of mine in the seminary has mentioned the MC's to me time and again as something I should "look at;" I don't know what delusions he has of my capabilities to accept that kind of call to holiness. Wow. They completely blow my mind.
And then our own pastor, Father Paul Check, the best priest I've ever known, came Saturday evening to give a talk, Benediction, and confessions. His comfort and encouragement are things I don't deserve, but soak up like a child seeks her father's embrace.
"...I'm very proud of you," he says. "This is exactly what I had in mind when I asked you and Sharon to take this group. You're doing well. Do not let your heart be troubled. Be at peace. The confessions these girls made this evening were very good..."
I wish I could be at peace, Father. I don't know what is wrong. I wish I knew so I could straighten it out.
"...Go home. Rest. Come back in two weeks. See if you feel better. You have had a lot on your mind these past months. Go home to your family..."
Can he read my mind? Father, school is over. I should already be at peace.
"...It takes a little time to wind down. You've been tense and anxious for a while now; I've noticed. When you come back, we can dig that deep and see what it is. But for now, go home and rest. You've done a beautiful job with this retreat. Remember, you're not on retreat; you're giving the retreat..."
So I'm going home. Tomorrow. After Father Check's morning Mass at St. John's, Sharon will bring me to the airport. And I will feast my eyes on the huge, clear, blue sky and drink in the de-oxygenated air and rejoice in the friends I will see, both from home and elsewhere, coming together for Alissa's wedding.
All moved Away
I don't know anyone in Kentucky anymore.
Not that it would matter, anyway. I need to find housing close to where I'll be doing my clinical rotation.
I have a choice between two sublease agreements. The first is a 4-bedroom house shared with an 19 year-old "serious student" (according to who? her mother), her 20 year-old brother, and a 25 year-old woman from South Africa. I'm only excited about the safe neighborhood and the woman from South Africa. The last roommate I had from South Africa was my favorite part of working at Ojai Valley School summer camp for spoiled nitwits. I don't know if all women from South Africa read their Bible everyday and have a knack for disciplining junior high school girls, though. Anyway, I told "mother" that I don't know if I want to live with her son for the summer. This one's closer.
The other option is a 3-bedroom townhouse shared with Ashley, a recent college graduate who works 2 jobs to pay off her student loans and when she's not working is staying at her boyfriends' place, and Sarah, a pre-med student. Sarah's boyfriend only stays over about one night per week. This one's cheaper.
Any thoughts, folks?
Not that it would matter, anyway. I need to find housing close to where I'll be doing my clinical rotation.
I have a choice between two sublease agreements. The first is a 4-bedroom house shared with an 19 year-old "serious student" (according to who? her mother), her 20 year-old brother, and a 25 year-old woman from South Africa. I'm only excited about the safe neighborhood and the woman from South Africa. The last roommate I had from South Africa was my favorite part of working at Ojai Valley School summer camp for spoiled nitwits. I don't know if all women from South Africa read their Bible everyday and have a knack for disciplining junior high school girls, though. Anyway, I told "mother" that I don't know if I want to live with her son for the summer. This one's closer.
The other option is a 3-bedroom townhouse shared with Ashley, a recent college graduate who works 2 jobs to pay off her student loans and when she's not working is staying at her boyfriends' place, and Sarah, a pre-med student. Sarah's boyfriend only stays over about one night per week. This one's cheaper.
Any thoughts, folks?
Friday, May 06, 2005
YAY!!
Done with my first year!
Thanks for all the prayers.
...leading a retreat for some great high school girls from my parish, St. John the Evangelist.
The theme is "lifted" from Pilgrim's name (with permission!), adapted before that from Jn 17:14-16, Not of this World.
Dr. Alice von Hildebrand is coming tomorrow morning, a few Missionaries of Charity are coming in the afternoon, Fr. Check is coming in the evening, and not the least of all, Sharon's baking cookies!
Saint Maria Goretti, pray for us.
Thanks for all the prayers.
...leading a retreat for some great high school girls from my parish, St. John the Evangelist.
The theme is "lifted" from Pilgrim's name (with permission!), adapted before that from Jn 17:14-16, Not of this World.
Dr. Alice von Hildebrand is coming tomorrow morning, a few Missionaries of Charity are coming in the afternoon, Fr. Check is coming in the evening, and not the least of all, Sharon's baking cookies!
Saint Maria Goretti, pray for us.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Can't - Work - Not - Motivated
I need
Sharon
across
the table
reading
Little Women.
and it's 9:11pm, folks...
Sharon
across
the table
reading
Little Women.
and it's 9:11pm, folks...
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Beginning to End
My final exam is a practical clinical exam.
Today I present (to one of my professors) how I would examine a 10 year-old boy with cerebral palsy, spastic quadriplegia (which means he has spasticity in both arms, both legs, and the muscles of his trunk).
Then I receive some "findings" from my pretend examination, and create a plan of care to treat him, which I present (to another professor) on Thursday.
Meanwhile, we have our last written exam on Wednesday.
Then on Friday the first professor chooses 2 pieces from the examination and 2 pieces from the treatment and watches me actually perform them on one of my classmates.
Then, ...I'M DONE with my first year of graduate school!!!!
And I proceed immediately to the Maria Goretti Society Retreat that I'm still planning for this weekend....
Today I present (to one of my professors) how I would examine a 10 year-old boy with cerebral palsy, spastic quadriplegia (which means he has spasticity in both arms, both legs, and the muscles of his trunk).
Then I receive some "findings" from my pretend examination, and create a plan of care to treat him, which I present (to another professor) on Thursday.
Meanwhile, we have our last written exam on Wednesday.
Then on Friday the first professor chooses 2 pieces from the examination and 2 pieces from the treatment and watches me actually perform them on one of my classmates.
Then, ...I'M DONE with my first year of graduate school!!!!
And I proceed immediately to the Maria Goretti Society Retreat that I'm still planning for this weekend....
Monday, May 02, 2005
Not Coming Home Tonight
My roommate, Jess, and I have to tell one another when we won't be home at night. And when we will, eventually. And when we'll be home early in the morning. This is because we have a little gold chain that connects the front door to the adjacent wall. It's for security, but it's also so that when I come home at dawn on a Saturday morning, I can scare the beegies out of Jess by ringing the doorbell.
On Thursday, I said to Jess, "I won't be home tonight."
"Oh, ok. Staying with Frank and Sharon?"
"Yes. Actually, just Sharon. Frank's out of town until the end of the semester. Which is when I leave. Wow. Jess, I won't be spending the night in this house ever again!"
That's when we started waxing nastalgic about how little time has passed since I moved in, but what a full semester it's been. That's also when I decided that Saturday would be a good day to start packing up my room, and pulling my bed into its individual component parts. Jess walked into my bedroom Saturday afternoon and looked around. The bed frame was in different pieces around the room, the shelves in the closet were almost bare, and my mattress and boxspring stood propped against the wall.
"It feels like you just moved in," she started in again.
"I'm slowly bringing all my stuff over to Frank and Sharon's house, and the rest of this I'll just put in storage."
And so every day, I take a few more items out of my bedroom and deposit them in Frank and Sharon's guest room.
As it turns out, Sharon will be going to New Jersey tomorrow to visit her family for a few days. "Feel free to stay here, though," Sharon told me.
"I think that would be easiest, since it's finals week, and all my stuff is here now," I replied with gratitude. "I'd have to pack an overnight bag to stay up at my place! But I'm going to miss you."
I mentioned it to Jess this afternoon as I was leaving with some more of my books and a laundry basket full of shoes.
"Aww, you can stay here if you want," she said.
"I don't have anywhere to sleep!" I reminded her.
"The couch! Want me to pull out the couch?" she asked.
What will I mean each day this week when I say I'm going "home"?
On Thursday, I said to Jess, "I won't be home tonight."
"Oh, ok. Staying with Frank and Sharon?"
"Yes. Actually, just Sharon. Frank's out of town until the end of the semester. Which is when I leave. Wow. Jess, I won't be spending the night in this house ever again!"
That's when we started waxing nastalgic about how little time has passed since I moved in, but what a full semester it's been. That's also when I decided that Saturday would be a good day to start packing up my room, and pulling my bed into its individual component parts. Jess walked into my bedroom Saturday afternoon and looked around. The bed frame was in different pieces around the room, the shelves in the closet were almost bare, and my mattress and boxspring stood propped against the wall.
"It feels like you just moved in," she started in again.
"I'm slowly bringing all my stuff over to Frank and Sharon's house, and the rest of this I'll just put in storage."
And so every day, I take a few more items out of my bedroom and deposit them in Frank and Sharon's guest room.
As it turns out, Sharon will be going to New Jersey tomorrow to visit her family for a few days. "Feel free to stay here, though," Sharon told me.
"I think that would be easiest, since it's finals week, and all my stuff is here now," I replied with gratitude. "I'd have to pack an overnight bag to stay up at my place! But I'm going to miss you."
I mentioned it to Jess this afternoon as I was leaving with some more of my books and a laundry basket full of shoes.
"Aww, you can stay here if you want," she said.
"I don't have anywhere to sleep!" I reminded her.
"The couch! Want me to pull out the couch?" she asked.
What will I mean each day this week when I say I'm going "home"?
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Laura
I spent the night at my grandparents' house last night on Long Island. I try to do that as often as I can, since they only live about an hour or so drive from me. My grandmother is in the beginning to mid stages of Alzheimer's Disease, which is something we've been studying a bit this semester. Last night my grandfather told me she was taking Aricept, which I recognized to be a medication developed specifically to address the effects of Alzheimer's. As we were sitting at the kitchen table, snacking on Entemann's donuts (a trademark of Grandma and Grandpa's house), he told her, "You still have to take your Aricept before you go to bed."
Later on, I asked her, "Grandma, did you take your medicine?"
She yelled in to my Grandfather, who was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, "Did I take those pills?"
My grandfather yelled back that she still needed to take the Aricept. Shortly thereafter, we all went to bed. I don't know if she ever took them.
But this morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table with the latest Reader's Digest when my grandmother emerged from her room.
"Laura?" she said, surprised, as she pulled her bathrobe tighter around her nightgown. "What are you doing here, honey?"
Laura is one of my younger cousins; I thought maybe Grandma couldn't see very well from her bedroom door, so I just said "Good morning!" and waited for her to come into the kitchen.
"When did you get here, dear?"
"Last night, Grandma. I spent the night upstairs. Did I wake you?"
"No, no! Don't be silly. I'm so confused. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, I did. I was very comfortable."
"Well that's good. Sometimes it's cold up there because we keep the doors closed and the heat doesn't go up," now Grandma is looking at me quizzically, "...You remind me of...wow, I'm trying to think here...you look so much like...Erin... no... I'm trying to think of Eddie's...."
At this point, I realize that she still really thinks I'm Laura. But before I say anything, she continues, "I'm so confused. Where did you come from last night?"
"From Connecticut, Grandma," I hope she'll be able to figure it out soon.
"Connecticut? What were you doing there?"
"I'm going to school there, Grandma."(Laura is a junior in high school)
"Going to school... I'm so confused. Where's Mom and Dad?"
"They're in Colorado, Grandma. My mom and dad are Eddie and Donna. I'm Shannon. I just came from Connecticut last night because I'm going to school there."
"Oh... ! You're Shannon. And I called you Laura! Oh, dear. Look at me, dear. I'm so out of it..."
We talked for a bit, repeated a few things, established the fact that Grandma had seen me last night when I arrived. I felt so bad for her. There was no way I could ease her frustration. Even though she handled it admirably, I could see she was a bit distressed that she could not recall what I was telling her. I reminded her that she had just woken up, and that usually, there isn't anyone sitting in her kitchen when she walks out in the morning. So the surprise was understandable. She told me there was a resemblance between me and Laura. I told her that was a compliment to me; but I didn't know what else to say.
When Grandpa woke up, I knew, because Grandma came back into the kitchen and reported, "Grandpa remembers that you came last night," as if to verify my report.
He was wonderful. When Grandma kept mentioning the fact that she had called me the wrong name, Grandpa said, "Well, that's alright, Mommy. I heard her say she wanted to be named 'Laura' anyway." And he even continued to call me Laura for the rest of the morning, making Grandma laugh every time!
I thought about the Aricept then. I wonder if she took it last night. I wonder whether that matters. How scary to be in her situation! Thank God she has Grandpa. I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be to know that there are things you should be able to remember, but you just can't. What a cross.
I love my grandparents so much. I am so blessed to live so close to them for these few years. I just can't get over the helplessness I felt this morning, not knowing how to completely reassure and comfort my grandmother. I understand that it is not her fault; my understanding of her condition, though, only makes me realize how distressing it must be to experience the disease's progression firsthand.
Saint Dymphna, patronness of those with mental disorders ... Pray for us.
Later on, I asked her, "Grandma, did you take your medicine?"
She yelled in to my Grandfather, who was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, "Did I take those pills?"
My grandfather yelled back that she still needed to take the Aricept. Shortly thereafter, we all went to bed. I don't know if she ever took them.
But this morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table with the latest Reader's Digest when my grandmother emerged from her room.
"Laura?" she said, surprised, as she pulled her bathrobe tighter around her nightgown. "What are you doing here, honey?"
Laura is one of my younger cousins; I thought maybe Grandma couldn't see very well from her bedroom door, so I just said "Good morning!" and waited for her to come into the kitchen.
"When did you get here, dear?"
"Last night, Grandma. I spent the night upstairs. Did I wake you?"
"No, no! Don't be silly. I'm so confused. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, I did. I was very comfortable."
"Well that's good. Sometimes it's cold up there because we keep the doors closed and the heat doesn't go up," now Grandma is looking at me quizzically, "...You remind me of...wow, I'm trying to think here...you look so much like...Erin... no... I'm trying to think of Eddie's...."
At this point, I realize that she still really thinks I'm Laura. But before I say anything, she continues, "I'm so confused. Where did you come from last night?"
"From Connecticut, Grandma," I hope she'll be able to figure it out soon.
"Connecticut? What were you doing there?"
"I'm going to school there, Grandma."(Laura is a junior in high school)
"Going to school... I'm so confused. Where's Mom and Dad?"
"They're in Colorado, Grandma. My mom and dad are Eddie and Donna. I'm Shannon. I just came from Connecticut last night because I'm going to school there."
"Oh... ! You're Shannon. And I called you Laura! Oh, dear. Look at me, dear. I'm so out of it..."
We talked for a bit, repeated a few things, established the fact that Grandma had seen me last night when I arrived. I felt so bad for her. There was no way I could ease her frustration. Even though she handled it admirably, I could see she was a bit distressed that she could not recall what I was telling her. I reminded her that she had just woken up, and that usually, there isn't anyone sitting in her kitchen when she walks out in the morning. So the surprise was understandable. She told me there was a resemblance between me and Laura. I told her that was a compliment to me; but I didn't know what else to say.
When Grandpa woke up, I knew, because Grandma came back into the kitchen and reported, "Grandpa remembers that you came last night," as if to verify my report.
He was wonderful. When Grandma kept mentioning the fact that she had called me the wrong name, Grandpa said, "Well, that's alright, Mommy. I heard her say she wanted to be named 'Laura' anyway." And he even continued to call me Laura for the rest of the morning, making Grandma laugh every time!
I thought about the Aricept then. I wonder if she took it last night. I wonder whether that matters. How scary to be in her situation! Thank God she has Grandpa. I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be to know that there are things you should be able to remember, but you just can't. What a cross.
I love my grandparents so much. I am so blessed to live so close to them for these few years. I just can't get over the helplessness I felt this morning, not knowing how to completely reassure and comfort my grandmother. I understand that it is not her fault; my understanding of her condition, though, only makes me realize how distressing it must be to experience the disease's progression firsthand.
Saint Dymphna, patronness of those with mental disorders ... Pray for us.
Alone in the Dark
I'm not afraid of the dark anymore. I used to be, but now I kind of like it; there's a certain stillness that accompanies darkness. It can be a great help in re-centering and entering into peacefulness.
But there's still a scary side to the dark. I can still work myself into a panic where I need all the lights in the house on--particularly when my roommate, Jess, isn't home. That's when every creak, every move of the man downstairs or the couple next door, sounds like someone breaking in or someone wandering around inside my apartment. I can't say I look forward to being alone all night long.
So I understand why Sharon asked me to spend this next week with her; Frank left today with his dad to take care of some business in Italy (the poor men). I wouldn't want to be alone in the house, either. And plus, Sharon is now about 5 months pregnant; somehow, that makes the idea of being alone even less attractive. "I would appreciate it... and Frank would appreciate it..." she said. Well, hey, you don't have to twist this arm! I love staying here! In fact, I look forward to spending most of June here before leaving for Kentucky!
One of my classmates, Hope, met Frank and Sharon briefly right before I left for California. She stood inside their house for about five minutes, but raved about them afterward.
"They just seem so at home--with each other, in their house,--they seem like such lovely people: the picture of a happy married couple."
It's so true. They live their vocation with their whole hearts. Just being around them has given me a model to look up to. They give a whole new meaning to the command of Our Lord to "strive for perfection."
Even if it weren't such a treat for me to have "sleepovers" in the home of my dear friends, I don't think there is any request they could make that I could turn down. They are such giving people; I feel as though I could never possibly give as much to them as they give to me. So the giving continues. And so does the friendship.
And so here we are, Sharon in her room, and I in "mine," as we've all started to term the guestroom! And both of us feel strange that Frank isn't around, but both of us also feel safer and happier, knowing the other is under the same roof. Tonight neither of us will be alone in the dark.
But there's still a scary side to the dark. I can still work myself into a panic where I need all the lights in the house on--particularly when my roommate, Jess, isn't home. That's when every creak, every move of the man downstairs or the couple next door, sounds like someone breaking in or someone wandering around inside my apartment. I can't say I look forward to being alone all night long.
So I understand why Sharon asked me to spend this next week with her; Frank left today with his dad to take care of some business in Italy (the poor men). I wouldn't want to be alone in the house, either. And plus, Sharon is now about 5 months pregnant; somehow, that makes the idea of being alone even less attractive. "I would appreciate it... and Frank would appreciate it..." she said. Well, hey, you don't have to twist this arm! I love staying here! In fact, I look forward to spending most of June here before leaving for Kentucky!
One of my classmates, Hope, met Frank and Sharon briefly right before I left for California. She stood inside their house for about five minutes, but raved about them afterward.
"They just seem so at home--with each other, in their house,--they seem like such lovely people: the picture of a happy married couple."
It's so true. They live their vocation with their whole hearts. Just being around them has given me a model to look up to. They give a whole new meaning to the command of Our Lord to "strive for perfection."
Even if it weren't such a treat for me to have "sleepovers" in the home of my dear friends, I don't think there is any request they could make that I could turn down. They are such giving people; I feel as though I could never possibly give as much to them as they give to me. So the giving continues. And so does the friendship.
And so here we are, Sharon in her room, and I in "mine," as we've all started to term the guestroom! And both of us feel strange that Frank isn't around, but both of us also feel safer and happier, knowing the other is under the same roof. Tonight neither of us will be alone in the dark.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
grrr...
Vent session...
Depression and sadness aren't the same thing.
Just because someone has Alzheimer's Disease does not mean they are also automatically depressed.
If someone is sad because of a loss, the answer is NOT to put them on anti-depressants.
For our clinical activity a few weeks ago, we had to go to facilities where older adults with cognitive deficits were in long-term care. We interviewed them, and posted some of our experiences on an open discussion board for our class. So many people commented that "maybe this person couldn't answer the questions because he was depressed," or "maybe her sense of humor was really just a mask for depression." Good grief! Age doesn't mean depression--Alzheimer's doesn't mean their humor is fake! By the way, how can you "fake" not being depressed? Wouldn't that just be "good coping skills," in which case clinical depression would not be the diagnosis?
As my ABD in School Psychology friend says frequently, "As the confessionals empty out, the psychiatrists' offices fill up."
She's really got a point. We've come to a place where we think anything can be fixed with a pill, and everyone is expected to be on something. If a widower with Alzheimer's disease isn't taking medication for depression, let's suspect he's masking it with a sense of humor.
HUH???!!!
Depression and sadness aren't the same thing.
Just because someone has Alzheimer's Disease does not mean they are also automatically depressed.
If someone is sad because of a loss, the answer is NOT to put them on anti-depressants.
For our clinical activity a few weeks ago, we had to go to facilities where older adults with cognitive deficits were in long-term care. We interviewed them, and posted some of our experiences on an open discussion board for our class. So many people commented that "maybe this person couldn't answer the questions because he was depressed," or "maybe her sense of humor was really just a mask for depression." Good grief! Age doesn't mean depression--Alzheimer's doesn't mean their humor is fake! By the way, how can you "fake" not being depressed? Wouldn't that just be "good coping skills," in which case clinical depression would not be the diagnosis?
As my ABD in School Psychology friend says frequently, "As the confessionals empty out, the psychiatrists' offices fill up."
She's really got a point. We've come to a place where we think anything can be fixed with a pill, and everyone is expected to be on something. If a widower with Alzheimer's disease isn't taking medication for depression, let's suspect he's masking it with a sense of humor.
HUH???!!!
Andrew's curls, Megan's fashion sense!
Mom warned me I would laugh out loud when I saw this picture. But I forgot. I decided to check my email during a "slow point" in class. My friend Katie, who was sitting next to me, and I both had to muffle our sudden nasal air-releases when Bethie popped up on my screen. oops!
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Off Topic
As we're settling in for the big exam today, our professor, Michelle, picks up a large zip-lock bag from the front table.
"Are these somebody's brownies?"
Questioning murmurs and a few hesitant "Shannon's?" are heard before I give the final, "Yes--those are everybody's. Help yourself. I hear they're delicious."
"Oooh! Are they 'special' brownies?" says my Classmate Who Never Will Pass my Mother Test ("would you allow him to treat your mother?")
When questions like this are put to me, I pretend I have no clue what's being referenced. I don't know why. Maybe because, for much of my life, I didn't know what people were talking about. Even though I have vague ideas now, it's still simpler to stick with the "innocent and clueless" ploy. Maybe I pretend because I don't find humor in people suggesting the presence of sedatives or hallucinogens in my best friend's yummy chocolate desserts. For whatever reason, I answered (quite honestly, in fact):
"Yes! They're very special brownies! They're Pope brownies!"
"Huh? Did you say Pope brownies? What the ..."
"My friend Sharon baked them for the Pope party we had last night. Do you know we have a new Pope? These are in honor of him."
"Umm, did you study last night?" that came from someone who would pass the Mother Test.
"No; but you know, I don't think we're going to have a new pope very many times in my lifetime. It's just so exciting. I had to celebrate with everyone at the rectory."
These people look at me funny, but they still associate with me. They even call me "friend." Marvelous, isn't it, that we can have so many different levels of "friends?" These are my friends I study with, that I play softball with, that I go bar-hopping with, that understand when I get excited about innovative treatment strategies. I pray for them, I do what I can--say what I can--to show my concern for their eternal salvation. But it's not reciprocal; that's not their primary concern for me. Even though they are aware of my concern, they're not fully aware--how could they be, unless they're already looking beyond this world?
And so they aren't my "true friends." And unless I live near some of those "true friends," I'm a pretty lonely girl.
So far I've been blessed. I've never been far from "true friends."
I draw my strength from them. I find myself more fearless in daily conversation, defending the Church, asserting moral boundaries, disapproving sinful situations. And to my surprise, my "school friends" don't run away. They may not all conform to the Truth, but they are not repulsed by it. I think a few of them actually respect the "strong opinions" I stand for; others think I'm too innocent to think anything different. Either way, I find myself "off topic" from everyone else much of the time.
Like today. Exam? Study? Well, I was at a wedding (one of the happiest days in the life of my good friend) and then our new Pope got elected yesterday (a momentous historical occasion for the Church, the Bride of Christ). What's an exam in light of all this?
I know we speak the same language. We're just talking about different things.
"Are these somebody's brownies?"
Questioning murmurs and a few hesitant "Shannon's?" are heard before I give the final, "Yes--those are everybody's. Help yourself. I hear they're delicious."
"Oooh! Are they 'special' brownies?" says my Classmate Who Never Will Pass my Mother Test ("would you allow him to treat your mother?")
When questions like this are put to me, I pretend I have no clue what's being referenced. I don't know why. Maybe because, for much of my life, I didn't know what people were talking about. Even though I have vague ideas now, it's still simpler to stick with the "innocent and clueless" ploy. Maybe I pretend because I don't find humor in people suggesting the presence of sedatives or hallucinogens in my best friend's yummy chocolate desserts. For whatever reason, I answered (quite honestly, in fact):
"Yes! They're very special brownies! They're Pope brownies!"
"Huh? Did you say Pope brownies? What the ..."
"My friend Sharon baked them for the Pope party we had last night. Do you know we have a new Pope? These are in honor of him."
"Umm, did you study last night?" that came from someone who would pass the Mother Test.
"No; but you know, I don't think we're going to have a new pope very many times in my lifetime. It's just so exciting. I had to celebrate with everyone at the rectory."
These people look at me funny, but they still associate with me. They even call me "friend." Marvelous, isn't it, that we can have so many different levels of "friends?" These are my friends I study with, that I play softball with, that I go bar-hopping with, that understand when I get excited about innovative treatment strategies. I pray for them, I do what I can--say what I can--to show my concern for their eternal salvation. But it's not reciprocal; that's not their primary concern for me. Even though they are aware of my concern, they're not fully aware--how could they be, unless they're already looking beyond this world?
And so they aren't my "true friends." And unless I live near some of those "true friends," I'm a pretty lonely girl.
So far I've been blessed. I've never been far from "true friends."
I draw my strength from them. I find myself more fearless in daily conversation, defending the Church, asserting moral boundaries, disapproving sinful situations. And to my surprise, my "school friends" don't run away. They may not all conform to the Truth, but they are not repulsed by it. I think a few of them actually respect the "strong opinions" I stand for; others think I'm too innocent to think anything different. Either way, I find myself "off topic" from everyone else much of the time.
Like today. Exam? Study? Well, I was at a wedding (one of the happiest days in the life of my good friend) and then our new Pope got elected yesterday (a momentous historical occasion for the Church, the Bride of Christ). What's an exam in light of all this?
I know we speak the same language. We're just talking about different things.
Monday, April 18, 2005
"I'm gong to be blunt"
The most prevalent phrase I heard this weekend was, "what are you up to these days?"--which is not surprising, since that's what people ask old friends whom they haven't seen in several months.
But another phrase that characterized this weekend was the announcement of forthcoming bluntness. The fact that it happened twice in two days makes it a prominent feature of my whirlwind weekend. And it makes me stop and consider what I think about it. Thus an entry for faithful reader one and faithful reader two (or should I call them "faithful check-ers," since I hardly ever give them something new to read? how about, "for the Erins in my life"):
Ahem. Back to blunt.
The older (and wiser?) I get, the more I appreciate bluntness. If you need to say something, just get it out. Chances are, it's not that big of a deal. Frustration comes when something needs to be addressed, the speaker doesn't want to be blunt, and the listener spends most of his energy trying to figure out exactly what's being said.
As if to prove my point, both instances I experienced turned out not to be a big deal. If it were not for the bluntness, though, they might have turned into a big deal. Especially the second announcement of forthcoming bluntness I experienced, made in the car on the way to the airport, with plenty of miles to go! Yikes--dangerous closed environment from which there is no escape! Of course, it was my fault:
Lounging in the passenger seat, chatting away, watching the traffic and the darkening California sky, I suddenly realize my driver hasn't said much. Not too concerned, but wanting to draw out some dimension of fascinating personality I know is hidden within my good friend, I ask, "What are you thinking about?"
"Uuuum," startled smile, side glance, "well, ok. I'm going to be kinda blunt now, ok?"
By the way, what does "kinda blunt" mean? I think it means, "If you don't want me to be blunt, you can still object, and I'll tone it down without too much effort." Maybe it just means, "this is blunt, but it's not scary." Whatever it means, I give permission, because the conversation can be finished more quickly.
And as a matter of fact, the conversation was resolved in less than 5 minutes, and I moved on to the next thing I wanted to discuss with my friend. Which thing was a line I read recently in a beautiful book entitle A Right to be Merry:
"The highest use of something is the sacrifice of it."
Like my driver pointed out (the blunt comment off his mind, he was a little less reserved), it's not that profound until you realize how much truth you have to already understand. In commenting on my little "favorite," he actually coined another profundity:
"You have to realize, not only that this world is not the only thing, it's also not the important thing."
Yes, yes, this is all quite obvious. But take these two sentences and meditate on them in front of the Blessed Sacrament. You will find that suddenly you're not kneeling in a little chapel anymore.
Suddenly, you are hovering on the edge of creation, wondering why God so loved.
You're realizing how generously He gives His little children things to sacrifice back to Him--like a father who gives his child a dollar to purchase a candy bar for a Father's Day gift.
Suddenly, every little doubt, every tiny worry about what may or may not happen, becomes silliness and irrelevance.
And then you wonder why you ever worried.
Another comforting thought, credited to Father Check (the best spiritual father I've ever had):
It is in God's own interest to let us know what His will is. Doesn't He want us to do His will? In any romance, there is a certain hide and seek that goes on, which makes it beautiful. But ultimately, the Lover wants His beloved to discover Him and to discover His desires.
And you wonder why you ever worried.
But another phrase that characterized this weekend was the announcement of forthcoming bluntness. The fact that it happened twice in two days makes it a prominent feature of my whirlwind weekend. And it makes me stop and consider what I think about it. Thus an entry for faithful reader one and faithful reader two (or should I call them "faithful check-ers," since I hardly ever give them something new to read? how about, "for the Erins in my life"):
Ahem. Back to blunt.
The older (and wiser?) I get, the more I appreciate bluntness. If you need to say something, just get it out. Chances are, it's not that big of a deal. Frustration comes when something needs to be addressed, the speaker doesn't want to be blunt, and the listener spends most of his energy trying to figure out exactly what's being said.
As if to prove my point, both instances I experienced turned out not to be a big deal. If it were not for the bluntness, though, they might have turned into a big deal. Especially the second announcement of forthcoming bluntness I experienced, made in the car on the way to the airport, with plenty of miles to go! Yikes--dangerous closed environment from which there is no escape! Of course, it was my fault:
Lounging in the passenger seat, chatting away, watching the traffic and the darkening California sky, I suddenly realize my driver hasn't said much. Not too concerned, but wanting to draw out some dimension of fascinating personality I know is hidden within my good friend, I ask, "What are you thinking about?"
"Uuuum," startled smile, side glance, "well, ok. I'm going to be kinda blunt now, ok?"
By the way, what does "kinda blunt" mean? I think it means, "If you don't want me to be blunt, you can still object, and I'll tone it down without too much effort." Maybe it just means, "this is blunt, but it's not scary." Whatever it means, I give permission, because the conversation can be finished more quickly.
And as a matter of fact, the conversation was resolved in less than 5 minutes, and I moved on to the next thing I wanted to discuss with my friend. Which thing was a line I read recently in a beautiful book entitle A Right to be Merry:
"The highest use of something is the sacrifice of it."
Like my driver pointed out (the blunt comment off his mind, he was a little less reserved), it's not that profound until you realize how much truth you have to already understand. In commenting on my little "favorite," he actually coined another profundity:
"You have to realize, not only that this world is not the only thing, it's also not the important thing."
Yes, yes, this is all quite obvious. But take these two sentences and meditate on them in front of the Blessed Sacrament. You will find that suddenly you're not kneeling in a little chapel anymore.
Suddenly, you are hovering on the edge of creation, wondering why God so loved.
You're realizing how generously He gives His little children things to sacrifice back to Him--like a father who gives his child a dollar to purchase a candy bar for a Father's Day gift.
Suddenly, every little doubt, every tiny worry about what may or may not happen, becomes silliness and irrelevance.
And then you wonder why you ever worried.
Another comforting thought, credited to Father Check (the best spiritual father I've ever had):
It is in God's own interest to let us know what His will is. Doesn't He want us to do His will? In any romance, there is a certain hide and seek that goes on, which makes it beautiful. But ultimately, the Lover wants His beloved to discover Him and to discover His desires.
And you wonder why you ever worried.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
wear a helmet
I just returned from a clinical rotation at an amazing rehabilitation center. I saw a 17 year-old girl who was in a really bad car accident in February. She's actually "getting better;" amazing perspective, given the fact that she has to work really hard to speak because of weakness in her muscles, cannot maintain an upright position in tall kneeling unless there's someone guarding her, and cannot yet keep focused on a task. (Rancho Level V/VI, in case anyone cares)
What was she like beforehand, I wonder?
I'll probably be seeing a lot this summer, including more brain injuries. My clinical rotation will be in a Kentucky hospital. It is an "inpatient acute neurorehab" affiliation
"inpatient" means the you treat the patients while they're in the hospital
"acute" means their condition has just recently happened, so it's usually pretty severe stuff (vs. "subacute," which means their condition is probably a little less severe)
"neurorehab" is short for neurorehabilitation, which literally means therapy for problems with the nervous system--brain injuries, strokes, multiple sclerosis, and a lot of other diseases and conditions we've been studying this semester.
It's fascinating, but very, very sad.
Wear a helmet.
What was she like beforehand, I wonder?
I'll probably be seeing a lot this summer, including more brain injuries. My clinical rotation will be in a Kentucky hospital. It is an "inpatient acute neurorehab" affiliation
"inpatient" means the you treat the patients while they're in the hospital
"acute" means their condition has just recently happened, so it's usually pretty severe stuff (vs. "subacute," which means their condition is probably a little less severe)
"neurorehab" is short for neurorehabilitation, which literally means therapy for problems with the nervous system--brain injuries, strokes, multiple sclerosis, and a lot of other diseases and conditions we've been studying this semester.
It's fascinating, but very, very sad.
Wear a helmet.
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