Losing It part 3

For those of my readers who have seen my recent posts on Facebook, you already know this...or some if it. For others who don't have valuable time to waste on social networks--techno-gossip--hope you get a laugh.
As a follow-up to a recent post here, I did locate the missing new phone in my husband's car--it had slid down the front passenger seat on the side by the door. Finding it only brought a pale sense of relief. Five days later, the new phone parachuted from the pocket of my pants into a flushing toilet. I never saw it go in, but heard it, and knew from the ache in my stomach that I wasn't going to find it under the cabinet in the powder room, where I'd hoped beyond reason that it would appear.
Stop laughing! It's not that funny. Nor is it uncommon. The comments on my FB post revealed many stories of cellphone mishaps.
I had just transferred a large collection of phone numbers off the old cell, and didn't get rid of it. A few hours later, I heard a faint buzzing sound from the potty where it took a nosedive. A brief session with a plunger retrieved it, and withing a few days of letting it dry out in a jar of rice, it still has capacity to function, at least as a camera or storage device for MP3 files. The new one--if it survives past the two year expiration date for the insurance policy--will suffice for now.

Employments Symposium

I headed to Philadelphia today with 7 of my kids to take part in an event sponsored by Networks for Training & Development. Last year, I took a course with them to become a Communication Mentor, hoping to work with individuals who are non-verbal. Learning about Assistive Technologies has opened  my mind to a paradigm shift; being able to facilitate communication for people with physical and intellectual challenges has had some amazing results.
While attending classes at Arcadia University, I met some amazing people. Jill Gromen was one of the organizers for today's event, and she & I had some conversations about my son's experiences with a mentor who led him to find work doing photography and video production & editing. Chris made his debut as a speaker, taking part on a panel with three other young people overcoming obstacles like he has. He was eloquent as he shared his relationship with his  hero, and told the story of how meeting Bill led to his pursuit of an entrepreneur venture. His presentation was met with overwhelming approval, as was his display of his photography, and his short video clip from his latest soccer film.
The O'Clan Contingent of the Rebel Heart Irish Dancers (Miss Stephanie, Andrew, Robert, Maria, John Paul, Teresa, and I) performed during the lunch break. Miss Stephanie talked about the founding, growth, and development of the troupe, and our mission in education, entertainment, community involvement, and outreach.
She explained how her siblings take part in almost all of shows, and help with teaching, choreography, costume design & construction, running shows, and taking care of all aspects of business.
It was difficult to leave the Crowne Plaza, because so many of the participants were overwhelmed with the contributions we made to the event.
Miss Stephanie got an email from the organizers of this year's TASH conference in November. They said they were reviewing  our proposal to perform and present our story at this year's event in California. They are trying to see if they can fit us into the schedule (and hopefully fund our travel and lodging expenses). I am keeping my fingers crossed and my outlook hopeful.
I'll update when I hear more.
And speaking of updates, my poem "Silent Voice" was rejected for this year's version of Wild Onions Magazine. I'll get over it. It was meant for Alina--not everyone affiliated with Penn State College of Medicine Department of Humanities, after all. And she & her mom loved it. In the end, that's all that matters.

Crowning Moments

Allow me to gush about the amazing experience of being a part of the Rebel Heart Irish Dance family. The 100+ member troupe has officially adopted me as "Mum" of all. It's no surprise that non-Oscilowski dancers and their families touch my heart. I can't tell you how many times other people's children have brought tears to my eyes. Our show this week at Cumberland Crossings in Carlisle was a great example.
Anan, one of the youngest dancers, tends to steal any show that he and his 3 year old sister Alana perform with us. They exceed the quota of cuteness allowed in any one place.
Anan performed a 2-hand ceili with my son Andrew. Andrew is 19 and stands about 6 feet tall, and Anan who just turned 5, is short for his age. As they prepared to dance, and Miss Stephanie was telling the audience about what they were doing, Anan looked up at Andrew with such admiration, you'd think he was holding hands with God. The beaming smile on his face as he looked at his towering partner was one I will cherish.
I doubt that many residents of Cumberland Crossing noticed how well Andrew performed the step, as they were too charmed by the little guy hanging on for dear life at the hands of his mentor.
Andrew's mission has been to recruit the young boys who get dragged to the studio for their sisters' lessons. He has privately tutored many of them, and attends the lower level classes to give instruction and encouragement to the males wanting to emulate him and his brothers John Paul and Robert. Although he is humble about his dancing feats, Andrew has won the hearts of many, including the boys who look forward to their time in class and at shows.
What a gift!

Short Blogs

I took the test. Results are in. I am "normal." I never believed test results. Why should I accept this one? I scored a 15 on the test to measure my degree of autism. So, according to the professionals who created it, I don't have Aspergers. So. It doesn't mean I am normal. Anyone who knows me would laugh at that label being applied to me.
Normal is overrated.
Speaking of which, normal blogs tend to be brief. People don't like to spend much time reading them, I guess.
But I've never been short-winded.
I used to call it having diarrhea of the typewriter. Back in ancient times when we used antiquated means of expressing ourselves with words. Philosophy written with reeds on papyrus. Profound.
I am trying with this entry to be brief. I am better at adding than subtracting in my editing process. I just proved I can be normal. Hope I've made my point.

Drinking in Grace

When we used to meet for breakfast at a diner in Frankford (Philadelphia), he'd turn his head and offer me his cheek to kiss in greeting, with the excuse that he had a cold. It didn't take me long to realize it wasn't germs he was trying to protect me from, but the odor of scotch on his breath. Once the silver-plated flask appeared from under the Formica table-top, the secret was out. But who was I to judge? There was a time in my life when I preferred a swig of chilled Stoly before I got out of bed.

I didn't catch his cold twenty years ago at the Red Robin as we made small talk over the eggs over light and home fried potatoes, but I think his memory loss has been contagious. A good example why came tonight. After I had dressed him in flannel PJ's and tucked him into his rented hospital bed, he reached for me, and planted a kiss on my lips that came from the depths of his soul. As I searched my data base trying to recall a similar incident, I came up blank--and then he gave an encore! The gesture on his part--so rarely initiated by him, has burned a tatoo-like image in my mind-- immune to my mid-life inability to recall names, dates, or where I left my driver's license.

When Peter came to live with us 7 years ago, I was in turmoil over what to do with him. The shock took its toll, and my reaction to the newness of the arrangement left me numb. As luck would have it, friends like Shirley and Sue rescued me with simple solutions to problems learned in their years of nursing and working in patient care. My forehead was bruised from repeated self-inflicted whacks, as I punished myself for not having arrived at their "WELL, DUH!" answers to incidental issues like incontinence and risks for falling. The story, as I like to relay it, was that my father-in-law's move in with my family was expected to last six months. He was on a waiting list for an assisted living arrangement--not his idea, but a necessary shift for him. One day, he was asked about going into the nursing facility, and his response was--matter-of-fact--"What home? I have a home. I live here!" My husband Fran and I looked at each other, and knew his decision was made. And our lives were changed in ways we'd never imagined.

No one would have identified us as an ordinary household before he joined our family of eight home-educated kids (and another eight foreign exchange students--one at a time-- over the course of 17 years.) And to think-- I had just celebrated my graduation from diapers as my youngest ended a streak that included approximately 30,000 changes, and menopause was waiting in the wings. But, why complain? It's just part of life. Dziadzia ("Grandpop" in Polish) was here to stay. In 2003, I was convinced that his death was just around the corner, but his determination to live to be 100 has trumped my notions.

Anyone who has taken on the responsibility of caring for an elderly parent, ailing spouse, or disabled child knows that it tests our love in many ways, and challenges us to put aside our own needs and plans for the sake of someone who relies on us for more than we can muster on our own strength. Along this journey, we have had the benefit of supportive family, faith-filled friends, experienced professionals and strangers with hearts of gold. More than anything, we have weathered the stress of caregiving with a sense of humor, perseverance in prayer, and attention to the needs of each other for respite.

My dad died 21 years ago, just two months after the birth of my third child. His passing at age 59 changed my world forever, since we had developed a close relationship. Because we had moved 100 miles away from our parents, we didn't get to spend much time together as he concluded his battle with cancer. Having Peter with us now as he faces the approach of his century mark (March 25, 2011--if he makes it) is filling a gap that has lingered for two decades. As the twilight faded in the converted den this evening, Peter's face transformed into a resemblance of my father's. Before he succumbed to his three year battle which started with a tumor in the roof of his mouth, my dad appeared frail and elderly. So maybe what I saw was my mind playing tricks on me; more likely, it was the eyes of my heart which perceived the likeness of the two men.

With all the activity of my daily life, I don't get much one-on-one time with any member of my family. Each one of them has my love and devotion, but as my friends have learned, there's only so much of me to go around. I'm stretched pretty thin these days, and plans I make with anyone have a 50/50 chance of falling through. And solo time--like now as I write this--is at a premium. But there is an urgency now to treasure the remaining time Peter has with us.

Last week, a door was opened and prayers for help answered when Hospice of Central PA took us on as clients. For at least a year, I've had friends who work in the home health care and hospice field suggest the option of what hospice has to offer.
Peter's health and capabilities have declined to a point where he's losing his will to live. He can't stand without two people lifting him out of his chair or bed, his mobility has diminished, his appetite has declined, his speech is often incoherent, and there's less and less of him with each day. With the burdens lightened by the visits and calls from hospice staff, I'm still in the phone booth, changing into my lycra suit and cape, but I know I'll be flying over rooftops any minute now.

So, tonight, after I got Peter ready for bed, (instead of rushing off to do dishes, paperwork, laundry, artwork, Irish dance class, kayaking, walking the dog, and chipping away at the impossible to-do list) I sat by his side in the wheelchair, holding his hand, feeling his pulse, counting his breaths, watching his eyes fight to stay open, and simply being there with him. He cried for his mother, and I think my presence reminds him of her. He spoke to me about her, and his late brother Joe. He said that he hopes that there is a Heaven, and that if there is, he would see me again. I watched him fade in and out of dozing, and wiped his tears.

He expressed his gratitude for all I have done for him, and told me that I had no idea how much he loves me. (Of course, he was wrong.) He wished for me a long life with good health. He means well, but I'm not interested in living to be 100--he's done a pretty good job of illustrating why reaching a century mark isn't worth all the hype.

Before we shared a nightcap: a shot of Dewar's White Label with a chaser of water, he reached for me, and pulled me in close for a kiss on the lips, the kiss that was diverted to the sides of our faces at the diner long ago. I trust my readers won't misconstrue the expression of affection on his part. He mumbled something about "just two more days," but also said he knew his time was near. How profound to sit with this man--who is no more a saint than I am (and no less)--and learn from him the lesson of how humble we are in the face of death. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be living this drama with eyes and heart open wide. I pray I will be so lucky as to have someone hold my hand, and kiss me tenderly, as my daylight fades into eternity.

(The photo with this post was taken today on our front lawn after his nap. Peter snacked on summer sausage and crackers, and sipped a Coors Light while I did a crayon drawing of our neighbor's front yard.)

One benefit of having a herd of kids is their ability to keep each other company when Mom or Dad are busy with the demands of life. The majority of our children are comfortable in their own skin, and happily accept

Bag Ladies

Another favorite image of Rita and author.

Beyond Lingering

Beyond Lingering

(I promised to publish this if it did not get accepted for Wild Onions Magazine 2010. Better late than never. I am including a copy of the original poem that was published in Wild Onions 2009. I own the copyright--please request permission to use it. Thanks)

Lingering
by Susan Oscilowski ©

I shiver from the gloom
This winter day has cast.
Yet just in time the sun
Has fiercely pierced the pall
With hues of gentle gold.
The icy crystals dance
Painting brushstrokes
Of hope in vivid pastels
As they chaperone the dusk
And usher nightfall.
Whose hollow eyes are those
Who in the mirror mock me?
"I look like a cancer patient"
‐‐the thief who dwarfed my days
into December’s darkness.
This burden of pain and sorrow
With gravity’s pull bind me to earth.
"I am light as a feather:"
My spirit glides toward the dawn
That quietly awaits my arrival.

Enveloped in visions of forsythia
As twilight gathers
“I feel like I am not here”
My vision fades...
I disappear like daylight.
I squint to see the first star
Rising above the crescent moon
And hear its healing whisper

In sweetest rapture
I long to reply.

Beyond Lingering

There's no better incentive for a writer than to find approval for words carefully crafted.

With several of my works previously published in Wild Onions, I gained confidence that success could be repeated. Despite my efforts, the rejections outnumber bylines. The “thank you for submitting, but...” letters came when poems were written specifically for the magazine. I cringe that the inspiration for those poems was to see my name in print.

Last year's submission was different. A former Critical Care Nurse from Penn State Hershey Medical Center commissioned me to compose a literary piece based on her experience as a massage therapist for a cancer patient. Shirley and I have been neighbors and friends for years; more than once she has asked me to share my writing gifts. We both rely on the inspiration of my muse to assist in these endeavors.

I trust the creative spirit to move my fingers on the keyboard. I collect observations of life around me each day, and hold those images in my mind. It delights me to incorporate these into my art and writings. One night in early winter, I awoke with a clear vision of what I'd write for Shirley. She told me her client had made a few profound statements in therapy on the massage table, and she sent me those phrases in a note card. I took a deep breath, and a poem flowed, wrapping itself around the words of a woman who knew her death was imminent. For four decades, I have acknowledged my gift for written expression, yet there are times when the words I put on paper have a transcendence to them that demonstrates the deep spiritual connection with which I have been entrusted.

I spent many hours that evening crafting the poem I entitled Lingering. With conviction, I knew I was not working alone. Maturity and discipline have taught me that a first draft may possess raw emotion, but to work the words like stiff clay into a pliable sculpture takes dedicated time and effort. The end result was overpowering. I sent off an e-mail copy to Shirley before I went to sleep; a second recipient was my dear friend, Rita.

Rita and I met at a writers' group in 1989 in Palmyra. She was one of those souls with whom we know in the first encounter that we were put in the same place at the same time for a reason much larger than ourselves. I offered to write a feature article about her for a local daily newspaper, and our relationship grew from there. Rita was a writer and an actress, among other things. Though old enough to be my mother, the generation gap was never an issue. She became my mentor in writing, encouraged me to take a shot at scriptwriting and acting, and was a constant source of encouragement.

Rita's cancer had been diagnosed a year or so before I wrote Lingering. She was in remission, and full of zest and vigor. Any time we were together, I was assured of a fair dose of laughter, faith, inspiration, and surprise. We had talked about my taking over a character she created: Mary Agnes, the Best Bag Lady in Pennsylvania, as she said she was planning to retire the one-woman variety show. Mary Agnes entertained more than 1,000 audiences, illuminating homelessness while raising money for local shelters. Her reply to my poem's acceptance was like a mother whose kid just won the Spelling Bee: “Fantastic!!!!”

I asked Shirley if she minded my submitting the poem to Wild Onions. It was finished long before the deadline, unlike every other year. She also was enthusiastic about the poem's outcome, and was moved by the feelings the work evoked.

When I found out Lingering would appear in the 2009 edition of the literary magazine, my first calls were to Shirley and Rita, who were both ecstatic for me. I kept May 14 open, because I looked forward to being at the opening reception, and reading my poem for the crowd gathered to celebrate.

On my way to my work in the Simulation Center on May 14, I received a call from Rita's daughter, Michelle. “Mom has taken a turn for the worse; you'd better get here soon,” she told me. She invited me to meet her at the hospital where her mother was awaiting her passing. I requested a copy of the just-published Wild Onions magazine to take with me to share with Rita and her family. I had every intention to visit for an hour or two, and get back in time for the reception.

I entered the room, amidst a parade of visitors who had been pouring in all week to bid her farewell. Wearing a silly hat from Goodwill with dangling ribbons, I sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...,” a tune she included in all her Bag Lady shows. Her family knew it too well; she meant it sincerely each time she crooned it on any occasion when she had a stage or an audience. The silly hat was in response to her insistence that audience members don one from her collection at each show. My costume headpiece was intended for her use as the remains of her hair---roots severed from chemo treatments--- fell out on her pillow.

“I know you! You're Suzy O!” Rita said, giving me a strained smile when I tossed a copy of the publication on her bed. Although she was too medicated to read my poem, the family members present were clearly moved by the message of my writing, and its uncanny timing. I'm pretty sure that when Rita initially read it mid-winter, she had no idea that she, like the subject of “Lingering,” was facing her last spring on earth. The healing power of the words was meant more for her loved ones than for her. I didn't leave her side until nearly midnight that evening. What I missed in affirmation at the reception here given by the Humanities Department was more than compensated for, as she gave my poem renewed meaning.

Lingering, is about awaiting death, taking note of our last few glimpses of the world we are leaving behind. I had collected imagery for the poem during many months of driving as a courier. That winter, I delivered nuclear medicine to Hershey Medical Center and other hospitals. I felt comfort knowing that the work I did was making a difference in the lives of patients. I saw Rita the week before the reception on a pre-dawn delivery. She was putting on make-up with the aid of a nurse, and bragging about my accomplishments like I was one of her beloved grandchildren.

My copy of Wild Onions—not just my poem---was my ticket to participate in the final week of Rita's life here. She wore my silly hat like a tiara, holding court as she entertained us, just as she had done so magnificently in life. The day after I missed the Wild Onions reception, I had to call Shirley to tell her of the events surrounding Lingering. “Suzy,” Shirley spoke in a gentle voice, “Joann—the woman you wrote the poem for—died last night. I was wondering if I could read it at her memorial service.” The timing of Joann's passing, on the night of the missed reception for her poem, was among an amazing collection of coincidences surrounding my time with Rita.

Rita deserves credit for my current positions at the College of Medicine. As I delivered one of my literary submissions to the Department of Humanities Office many years ago, I noticed an ad on a bulletin board seeking actors to work in medical simulation exercises.

I had confidence to try it out because, like Rita, I found my place on stage in community theater in my mid-forties. She and I faithfully attended each other's plays, provided they weren't run simultaneously. The last show of mine she attended was “Dearly Departed.” Knowing Rita was in the audience prompted me to put on my best performance. My character was a not-so-grieving widow in the comedy about a family's response to funeral plans, and humorous situations surrounding what should be a somber event. Rita's funeral, though hampered by heavy downpours, was filled with hope, joy, laughter, singing, and liquor-laden toasts common at Irish burials.

Rita-- my mentor in spiritual matters, writing, theater, parenting, and life—advised me early on to write what I knew best. The first poem of mine that appeared in Wild Onions was about Labor and Delivery, a subject in which I am well acquainted, having given birth to eight children. My first script was written at her urging, and I based one of the main characters on a blend of her life and mine. Since her death, I have written more frequently, and with greater passion than I have in a long time. I've not been afraid to share what I've written. I'm optimistic that I will be in attendance for future receptions for the magazine. And if I don't make it, you can bet I'm off somewhere, wearing a silly hat, doing other vital work in her memory.