Thursday, May 29, 2014

THE BECKET RANT

STAFF ON CALL:

Back to ye olde schedule except Terri there every night now, overnight, on a couch off the livingroom because she worries she won't hear them if she's upstairs. 8 PM - 10 AM. $50 per night. How long can this last. Don't know. Will have to hope something sells soon. Possibly the Civil War musket that was over the fireplace that Peg thought had been stolen until I reminded her that Fontaine's Auction house took it before she went off to the hospital with her approval. She also wanted to know where all the Royal Copenhagen Blue Christmas Plates had gone (in a box, as she suggested, up in the eBay room, having been photographed by Dominick). Which begs the question, if we put Daddy in the garage, how long would it take Peg to notice he was missing? 

The idea, originally, was that Terri would only stay the first week they came back from the nursing home, to help get them acclimated to being home again. But now it seems will be longer. The word is that Peg is adjusting, slowly, yes, but getting back into the swing of things, the routines. Daddy though, not doing well. Slept almost round the clock for the first few days and needs help getting out of his chair, actually asks for assistance (unheard of) and sometimes, Terri says, needs help even sitting up in bed. Jesus. I'm torn between being pissed off and feeling sorry for him. Putting him in the nursing home with Peg for two weeks I thought was such a brilliant idea, but I guess wasn't. It appears to have really set him back. Lost strength. Muscle control. I suppose it's not exactly surprising if you're going to be chained to your bed or a wheelchair for all that time and not allowed to move without ringing for someone but am furious with Laurel Lake for not telling me this was how he was going to be treated. Mostly with myself, though, for being blinkered enough to think it would be like checking him into the Hilton. I was just so anxious to get away. I should have hung on another few weeks. I was desperate to make Liz Roberton's birthday tea, a cruise up the Thames starting at Cliveden with Bollinger. Nice but weather sucked, my knee highs wouldn't stay up and kept rolling round my ankles like old lady's stockings and I came home with both heels dripping blood from rubbing against the cute new leopard-print sneakers I'd found at Marshalls. Should have stayed in Becket with my dad. 
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DOG NEWS:

Heidi, Terri's little 11 year old spaniel is in residence at Becket now and Peg and Odd love her, according to Terri. Also, according to Terri, Peg has said any number of times that perhaps Spurn Me Not Angel Honeybear should stay down at the collie breeder's in Pine Plains where she's "clearly happier". Aha. This is good news, of course, to me at least, since the dog was a serious miscalculation to begin with, but not sure where it leaves us financially, since Peg shelled out $2000 for it. Do I ask for some of it back? How much? How much for feeding a dog that won't come near you and craps on your carpet, poached chicken breast for two years?
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GUESTS:

Peg has a Creek or maybe it's Cree Indian fan named Gary from Oklahoma and his wife and daughter staying at the house for a week. Or some Indian beginning with C. I know it's not Comanche because that's what she keeps calling Bonnie, which annoys Bonnie, who keeps reminding her she's Cherokee.

Gary has had this trip east planned for months, his two main objectives being to see Peg, and Niagara Falls. I'm thinking his geography of New England is a little off, because he's got the Falls planned as a day trip from Becket, as he did Bangor, Maine two days ago, both of which by my estimation take at least nine or ten hours to get to let alone a round trip or stopping to see or eat anything. He was planning on staying at some motel in Lee until Peg persuaded him to stay at the house, assuring him it was no trouble (Gary and I have exchanged approximately fifteen thousand emails in the last week about wifi passwords, how the Anderson windows in my room open, where the summer duvet is, which shower to use and so on) and, having known about the visit before I left Becket to come back to England, I'd put three big family-size dinners for them all in the freezer, which I reminded Bonnie about the night before Gary & Co's arrival.

"Er," she says, "you'd better discuss it with your mom. I think she's got dinner all planned for them."

"But I made the chicken pies! And the pot roast! So she wouldn't have to fuss! Christ. What's she doing!"

"The onion soup? With the orange marmalade and the mayonnaise?"

Well, turns out Bonnie had forgotten to say onion soup mix and also that chicken thighs figure in there somewhere. But still. Why does this piss me off so much. Why can't Peg feed her guests any throat-closing mixture she wants to? Why do I think this nasty recipe reflects on me? But I do. How sad is this. How sad and intolerant and not to mention what a waste of time, me in England fretting about people I don't know three thousand miles away eating chicken with fucking onion soup mix and, let's face it, probably liking it better than they'd like my chicken and leek pie especially after Gary having said in an email that he's never even tasted or seen a leek before, not being big apparently in Oklahoma, at least in Cree or Creek households.

Right. Off now to my own kitchen to prep a dinner do for 8 tonight. Olives. Cannelini bean and sundried tomato dip, endive spears. Asparagus dipped in olive oil, wrapped in parma ham, sprinkled with fresh parmesan and fresh thyme, baked for 12 minutes. Followed by smoked haddock lasagne. Salad. Fresh bread from the Anchor. Followed by fresh peach cake with vanilla creme fraiche, sprinkled with chopped almonds. And of course onion soup mix.









Tuesday, May 27, 2014

SITUATION NORMAL OVER THERE (AFU)

Peg rings, in tears. "I've spent four hours looking for it. I've been up since 3:00! It's not anywhere! I'm just sick."

"What isn't anywhere, Mother?"

"My address book! What did you do with it!"

Well, as it happens, I did nothing with her address book, except bring it in to her in the nursing home three times, each time she'd asked me to, not that she ever looked at it there except when we went through it together, me with a red pen, to cross off dead people and circle those still hanging by a thread (including me). 

"Mama, I'm sure it's around. Maybe it's still at Laurel Lake. Call them." 

"Laurel Lake?" she says, then it hits her. "That man no one can find--who came in and just threw a blanket on the bed when I'd said I was cold. He took it. I know he took it. He was very interested in it." 

She is referring it seems to some orderly at the nursing home who comes from the Ivory Coast, or maybe the Ivory Coast was the "darling little girl" (aged 40, easily) who brought breakfast and helped with the TV changer and this is the guy from Macedonia or was it Moldova--anyhow, after further mother-daughter discussion, it turns out that Ivory Coast/ Macedonia/Moldova Man was in fact not thumbing through her address book, which is in a red loose-leaf binder, but looking at her Blue Book, one of her scrapbooks. And was most likely doing so at Peg's invitation. And I'm sure didn't shove either book under his sweater on the way out. Even though, as we all all know, there is big money to be made out there on the black market selling names and numbers of Old Time Radio enthusiasts, Norwegian relatives, and the opening hours of the Becket General Store.

Twenty minutes later, about the time it takes to say "Mama, no one is going to steal an address book, your handbag maybe, but not your (stupid) address book!" six million times, Peg's still convinced she's been robbed. It is only when Terri, the member of staff doing overnights at the house until I decide we can't afford her any longer, calls the nursing home, at my behest, and sure enough, the red address book is discovered safe and sound at Laurel Lake. At which point my mother's mood instantly brightens and I'm about to move onto far less interesting subjects for her, such as How Is My Father Doing, when Peg says what a relief it is, not just knowing all her addresses and phone numbers are intact, but that her money's safe too.

"Money?" Yes, money. She'd glued some cash inside the address book. How much cash? She didn't say. Or why she hid it there. Or felt the need to glue it. Now, she's been slipping five or ten or twenty dollars between pages of books all her life, for "mad money", "in case", in case what, I don't know, I guess in case the banks fail or the mattress doesn't work out--anyhow, we know never to give any books of hers away without first flipping through them to see if any bills flutter out, but her address book? hm, I find suspect: a) because we'd gone through the bloody thing three times, meticulously marking it, I'm pretty sure I would have noticed two pages cemented together with a big cash-shaped lump in the center; and b) because she didn't have any glue sticks in the nursing home, certainly none that I brought her, and Bonnie, I guarantee, would have mentioned the procurement of such in her Weekly Parent Blotter email, Details R Us. And sadly, I will not be there to grab the book and tear it apart when it eventually comes through the door. Possibly under the arm of Ivory Coast/ Macedonia/Moldova Man because you can be sure she's invited him for dinner, along with every other employee of Laurel Lake.

So. Questions That Nag At Me Three Thousand Miles Away:

Is my mother losing her mind completely or has she always been this way but it's now become worrying rather than (kind of; occasionally) endearing? 

Will I have to go over to the States sooner than I'd like to or that Denis would like me to? 

And, now that my son has officially chosen to stay and work here at the Anchor all summer rather than in Massachusetts where the idea was was that he was going to be the Compos Mentis Sleeper-Over Presence looking after his aged grandparents, what might be the chances, one wonders, of Ivory Coast/Macedonia/Moldova Man moving in to throw blankets on Peg's bed permanently? As long as he works out dinner-wise. I'd give up my room. He could look at blue books, red books, any color at all books all day long if he likes. Plus keep any cash that falls out or needs steaming out of them, with which to import as many relatives as he wants. Which brings me to my last two questions: am I going insane or am I there already?



Wednesday, May 21, 2014

FIRE DEPARTMENT, ALREADY

The Big Transfer back to Becket from the nursing home went swell, thanks to Bonnie and Outside Bob. They'd all been home an hour, tops, when Odd decides he needs the loo. 

My phone rings. Peg.

"Your father can't get off the toilet. He's having one of his breathing things. Attacks." 

"Mother, I'm three thousand miles away. Tell Bonnie to give him oxygen, Maalox, and an Ativan." 


[CALLING] "She says give him a--Ana--[TO ME] What's it called?"


"Ativan. Mother, Bonnie knows what to do."


"Hang on--[CALLING] What? [TO ME] I can't talk, the Fire Department's here."

So. It seems, what with the Becket Fire Brigade to the rescue, Donna the Visiting Nurse who had arrived to do some rehab on Peg, Bonnie With The Ativan, HandiWipes, Lysol, surgical gloves, clothespin for nose--between them, they managed to get Odd off the toilet. And very cozy it must have been in there too, in the loo the size of a postage stamp.  

Odd was returned to his chair in the den, where he felt better almost immediately. The firemen and Donna think the strain of "evacuating" in turn put a strain on his heart, causing the breathing issues. Personally, speaking wholly as an internal medicine expert halfway across the world without having seen the patient, I think my father ate too much lunch and that plus the excitement of being home again, set him off. 

Saint Bonnie later reported that Odd was fine, and napping, that Peg had gone down for hers, and that the loo was once again spic and span.
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I was awake most of last night, on edge, and when not on edge, was having a dream I couldn't get rid of and that put me even more on edge: about CarolAnn the collie breeder arriving in Becket to return the dog and she looked great, as Peg had reported, had indeed lost weight, but her hair was alive with bugs--all kinds--which she kept swatting at whenever one approached her ear or eyebrow, but not mentioning--and instead kept suggesting we go for lunch. I don't know what dreams like this mean.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

UPDATE FROM ACROSS THE POND

Spurn-Me-Not Angel Honeybear, aka The Great Stainer of Carpets aka The Collie Who Never Wanted To Come to Becket To Begin With, I am pleased to report is still loving every second of being back with her friends at the breeder's, the breeder who is in fact trying to breed her, which my mother had refused to allow even though it was part of the original contract, an event which would in fact please me no end, if it takes, because we are entitled, again according to the contract, to the proceeds from one of her pups, which would be $1000, which would cover five days of my father being at Laurel Lake nursing home.

However, I imagine the first thing Peg and probably Odd will ask as soon as they are released next week to come home is "Where's the dog?" so, Honeybear will have to be wrenched away from Pine Plains NY and transported back to Becket where, after saturating the rug on the porch, it will make a beeline for the one in my bedroom then get busy barking when you turn on the kitchen tap, leaping 12 feet in a panic when you get up from your chair too quickly, before finally setlling itself in front of the freezer in the back panrty by the dog door, through which it can scarper with roadrunner speed when you come at it with anything terrible, like dinner. What a find, was this dog, an absolute treasure and, I think you'll agree, well worth the $3,000 Peg shelled out for it.
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The thing about re-habs, I notice, is that while they'll tell you they want you, the patient, to recover, they don't add "as slowly as possible", and that what they really really want is for you to stay there and pay them $500 a day for as long as possible. See, you're only given an hour a day, max, of physical therapy. It would be good, yes, preferable even, if you were allowed to practice a little by yourself in your own time but that's frowned upon, indeed not allowed, because if they think you are the least bit unsteady on your pins you are prevented from going anywhere on your own, even to the bathroom. They put alarms on you that go off if you try to get out of bed or your chair; in my mother's case, she's also tied to wherever she is by her velcroed catheter bag. The problem here--and I'd like to think that If I Ran The Nursing Home (new Dr. Seuss book) I would not be so greedy as to let this basic notion escape me: you do not get stronger by lying in bed searching for the call button or Turner Movie Classics. Really. As Ian McShane's wife once said, in all seriousness, and I know this because I asked her twice to repeat it: "Honey, what can I say, it's just a real Catch 23 siutation". 

There is not one iota of doubt in my mind that as soon as Peg gets home she will get stronger. On the other hand, I'm sure  Odd will have regressed since he's hardly been working up a sweat clunking about in his walker. Not sure how fabulous an idea it was putting him there, even for a few weeks to be near Peg. Apparently they have new curtains in their room which are very attractive. Just passing this on.
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STAFF NEWS:

Bonnie and Outside Bob arranged for a Sirius XM radio hookup so Peg and Odd and I imagine the entire staff of Laurel Lake and anyone visiting their grandmother that day was able to listen to The Couple Next Door, Peg's comedy series from the late 50s, when it was relaunched last Sunday.
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Peg has a Cherokee Indian fan, Gary, from Oklahoma, arriving with his wife and daughter about 5 days after The Return From Laurel Lake (new Nancy Drew book). I put two family size dinners (chicken and leek pie; pot roast) into the freezer before I left and sorted out what sheets for what beds. This is an ongoing thing despite the fact that I thought I simplified matters ten years ago by keeping only the sheets for that room in the bureau in that particular room. Nevertheless. I arrive back there, each time, to find all awry in the bed linen department. Last visit, for example, one tulip duvet cover, which clearly goes in the room with the tulips on the wallpaper, indeed a room referred to by one and all as The Tulip Bedroom--was in a drawer in the Leopard Room, so named due to the animal print fabric of the drapes and upholstered chair--and the other matching tulip duvet cover was missing entirely. Who steals a twenty year old twin tulip duvet cover? And I don't know how any of this happens. It couldn't be simpler: tulip with tulip, moss green and ecru with leopard, lace-edged and brown stripe with Early American floralprint wallpaper back room, red paisley single and 2 matching cases in what was Odd's office, now Alex's room, and white eyelet on my bed in the summer and wedgewoody blue and white flannels with the heavy duvet in the winter. By around Iceland now I start worrying about what sheets I'm going to find on my bed in Becket when I arrive. And of course, the more insane I get over it all, the more insane I look, so have learned to obsess more quietly, which doesn't stop me from disappearing upstairs for great lengths of time, scurrying from bureau to bureau like Mrs. Tittlemouse, tutting and harumphing at the ineptitude of housguests or staff who can't tell a tulip from a leopard spot.
Well, we'll just see how well this Gary & Co do, won't we.
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Speaking of fans, I became an instant David Sedaris one on April 11th, the day Peg was rushed off to the ER by ambulance and I thought we'd lost her. I came home, shattered, dealt with Odd's breathing issues, got into bed, took a pill, reached for my book, realized I'd finished it the night before, so hauled myself out of bed, annoyed, and headed downstairs to the former livingroom now parents' living quarters, with flashlight, tiptoeing so as not to wake my father and god forbid need to feed him--looking for something to read, which sounded easy, Peg's whole life, not counting needlenosed pea-brain collies, being devoted to not only amassing books but also Staples bookcases in which to hold them. However, I found myself, at one o'clock in the morning,  somewhat overwhelmed by choice. My eyes lit on my friend Shep Nuland's book of about twenty years ago, How We Die, which I've read--grim, but fascinating--and next to it I saw a title, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by a David Sedaris, who I am ashamed to say I had never heard of, but which I quickly bypassed with a shudder as, being right next to How We Die, I assumed it was about cremation. But then, after twenty minutes being crouched in a nightshirt with glasses and torch and only coming up with Sir Osbert Sitwell or New Yorker Book of Dog Cartoons or a book on eels, the Sedaris' toppled over and I glimpsed the word "humorist"on the cover or something indicating it might be a lighter read than I'd first imagined, so I yanked it out and scared the dog and crept off upstairs saying "Funny, are you? OK. It's been a pretty crap day, mister. Amuse me, asshole." And the next thing you know I was in bed laughing out loud, really laughing, which is a rarity, at least when I'm reading. 

I stayed up being amused by his world until at least 3:00 AM, another rarity, considering I'd taken an entire Zopiclone at midnight. I was even smiling when I turned out the light. The next morning I downloaded four more books by David Sedaris on my Kindle and he got me through not only an awful night but three more weeks then across the Atlantic. I am now enjoying him in Suffolk. What gets me is everyone seems to know him except me. How could I have gotten this old and not have heard of him?? 

These, and other important questions, such as where the fuck is that other tulip duvet cover, to be answered, hopefully, in time.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

STILL ALIVE (THEM, AND ME)

But other than that, very little to report. Peg tells me how much she misses me (when I get through, often the phone rings and rings) in a sad little voice which makes me feel bad,  and has no recollection of saying to me the other day "there's something strange going on here!" 

She's fine, basically.

Odd is the one not having a good time. He apparently is not allowed out of bed without a nurse or aide, and has one of those alarms attached to him like he did last October when he was in the nursing home and couldn't navigate unaided or without a "contact guard", which sounds a bit football-ish for money but in fact means someone walking behind you ready to catch you, which is ridiculous anyway because no way could I ever stop him from falling, or catch him, even Alex couldn't. Anyhow he's becoming shirty and irritable and frankly I don't blame him but Peg sounds like she's had enough of him. I'll have to speak to the nursing staff. Probably "house rules" which I can't do anything about but will try. At the moment if he's got to go to the bathroom he has to tell Peg who then pushes HER buzzer because he can never find his, then wait till someone ambles in half an hour later...well. We know the rsults of that scenario I think. I wager they'll learn to step on it.

Peg's comedy show, The Couple Next Door--4 episodes (out of 752) will be aired on Sirius FX radio RadioArchive channel this Sunday. A nice Mother's Day treat. Have had to tell her 12 times. Finally she's getting excited. Sort of. 

Bonnie and team have things under control so I am able to sit here contentedly scarfing Ben & Jerry's Blonde Brownie Core on my own since my husband and son have buggered off to London for the night (Alex's night off work, DK for work). I am trying to pretend I am enjoying myself. The day began with a mammogram, followed by dog walk in the pissing rain. (Listen to her, will you? Home hardly four days and already complaining).

Monday, May 5, 2014

HOME BUT NOT AWAY

Just spoke to Peg, now sharing a "lovely room" with Odd at Laurel Lake, the "best in the place, they just painted it". 

I feel I should check in with them every day. It would be, yes,  easy, very, not to mention enjoyable, to have got off the plane yesterday in England and said Right! Home now! Sure hope the 'rents manage without me! 

But everything that happens with them or their house or their finances or staff still is my problem, whether I'm down the road or three thousand miles away. (Which is one of the more serious drawbacks of making oneself indispensible, let this be a lesson: never volunteer to do anything good for anyone anywhere, ever.) I may have put Plan A in place, see, but I still need to be able to launch Plan B or C or God forbid Z at a minute's notice. Very simply, there will be no getting away from it, any of it, until they die, or I do, or I change my address and phone number. 

"Hi, Mama. It's me."
"Hi! [SOUNDING PLEASED] Who is it?"
"ME. Your daughter. How many other people call you 'Mama'?"
"Listen. [LOWERS VOICE] Something's going on here."
"What do you mean? Are you ok? Is Daddy ok?"
"Yes yes yes but-- [EVEN LOWER VOICE] I can't talk about it now. I'll tell you later."
"Are you being mistreated?"
"No no, there is just something very very peculiar going on here..."

Thats all I've got to go on, she started talking to whomever was bringing in Odd's quiche that she didn't know whether to wake him for. So I can now have a peaceful night thinking about THE CRUEL EVIL AND VINDICTIVE STAFF AT LAUREL LAKE only to find out tomorrow or next week or whenever she remembers she was upset that it was all about no crackers with the soup or something equally heartless.
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Sunday, May 4, 2014

HOME WITH A CAPITAL H

Home and unpacked and garden watered and deadheaded. 
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TRAVEL HIGHLIGHTS:

- All sterling flatware, distributed amongst four pieces of luggage, arrived safely. Ditto Chex Mix, Snyders Honey Mustard pretzels, 2 pecan rolls from Balducci's, Kretzsmer's Honey Wheat Germ, and two boxes (Dare and Trader Joe brands) Maple Leaf cookies--all intact despite notes left in all cases by Border Patrol to say the cases had been opened.

- 2 glasses of perfect-just-hit-the-spot Villa Maria Sauvingon Blanc in Virgin lounge at JFK. Accompanied by Duck Roll in Bibb Lettuce, Cheese Toastie, Chips with Curry Dip, and a bowl of radishes with pesto-salt. While reading the Daily Mail, not allowed over the threshold on Mr. King's orders, so,  a rare treat. Bliss.

-Spoke to Peg, spoke to Odd. Peg didn't have her teeth in but, I think, thanked me for all I'd done, causing me to drop the phone onto the carpet via the curry sauce. Odd seemed to think I was at JFK en route to Becket, not London and said how nice it was going to be to see me again.

- Spurn Me Not Angel Honeybear, well-known Pissing Defecating Collie, formerly of Becket, Massachusetts, is happily ensconced in Pine Plains, NY,  frolicking with needlenosed buddies. Happy as Larry, is the report I got. Also that she threw up in Bonnie's back seat on the way to the rendezvous at Four Brother's Pizza in Great Barrington. Peg insisted on accompanying Bonnie, so Bonnie, still with vertigo  (and the one who should have been throwing up) had to drive to Lee to collect her and then back again to deposit her, even though Bonnie lives near Great Barrington. I haven't spoken to Bonnie about this, am scared to, don't want to hear she's too sick to get Odd into the car today and installed at Laurel Lake in the bed next to Peg's.
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In the Red Dot Airport Transfer mini van from Westport to JFK which had a "CHANGE OIL" reminder siren that went off about every four feet, and a van which I believe must have lost all four shock absorbers somewhere along the line, possibly Norwalk (nothing but First Class for me), I struck up a conversation with the only other passenger, a woman about my age, possibly older, on her way back from Connecticut to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where she lives and runs an Italian deli with her husband. Her son, 34, is in a specialist hospital up in New Britain. Brain damage, after a car accident eight years ago. Fell asleep at the wheel. Was trying to wean himself off heroin. He can move his eyelids, that's it. She doesn't know how much he understands, if anything, but when the nurses say "Your Mother's on the phone" his eyes shoot open. They hold the phone to his ear. It costs the state $33, 000 per month to give him the care he needs at the hospital. The state, after eight years, is now trying to move him to a nursing home, where it will cost less than half of that, and where, according to his mother, he will pretty much lie there forgotten. There are no specialist hospitals in South Carolina, hardly any nursing homes. In South Carolina if a family member falls ill, you care for them at home. This is impossible. The mother is beside herself. 

Looking after a couple of occasionally smelly forgetful folk in the nineties doesn't really compare. 

Still, give me a few days, and I'm sure I'll find something to complain about, even three thousand miles away. 

Friday, May 2, 2014

ESCAPE FROM STALAG 13 AND A HALF

Have made it as far as Connecticut with no sign of bloodhounds or bounty hunters waving Depends, no Medecins Sans Frontieres bearing down with nebulizers--so starting to think I may have truly made it out of town. Annie and I celebrated with Chinese food for forty at Little Kitchen in Westport followed by salted caramel soft-serve at Carvel, and am now relaxing with a glass of Whispering Angel rose in front of America's Test Kitchen, learning about never-fail pasta carbonara, and olives. I've eaten more in one night than in my whole two month stay in Becket.

I have three large suitcases and four carry-ons. I have the Royal Danish sterling flatware for twenty, three silver serving bowls, a hard-to-wrap Norwegian pewter hunting horn drinking stein thing, three plates, two paintings in frames, seven crystal water glasses, tea cups, a set of king size sheets, two large throw pillows with crabs on them from Home Goods, dog toys (lots) for my dog Mabel and her boyfriend Stan the Border Terrier, Great Aunt Elise's black cashmere swing coat with mink collar and cuffs my mother gave to a housekeeper about three staff-changes ago and who I had to then email to bring back and which weighs more than I do after this meal tonight--plus all my normal stuff. I watched David Jenkins, my chauffeur to Connecticut, heaving it all into the back of his pick-up, wondering how long he was still going to want me as a friend.
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STAFF ON CALL:

Dominick, entertaining Peg at the nursing home
Terri, Odd-sitting from 1:00 PM until tomorrow morning at 8:00 when Bonnie arrives. When I hope Bonnie arrives. She rang today saying she woke up with vertigo so was staying in bed. My feeling about vertigo is that though undoubtedly disconcerting, especially when, say, behind the wheel, it should never prevent one from driving erratically over the mountain from Monterrey to attend to 95 year old Norwegian gentlemen whose daughter has scarpered.
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Difficult saying goodbye but doable. It's time. It's a good time to leave, while I'm still feeling fed up. Daddy's eyes filled. Promised I'd be back in a few months but--could be sooner, could be later. Like dogs, he has no sense--or very little--of time passing. What seemed to upset him most was the news, which in fact was not news, since I've told him any number of times--that the dog would be leaving on Saturday to go back to its breeder while he and Peg were at the nursing home.

"She'll never survive it!" he said, surprisingly passionately. I explained that not only would she survive it, she would thrive there with all her doggie friends. The plan is for Bonnie, vertigo or not, to rendezvous at 5 PM on Saturday with CarolAnne the breeder, coming from Pine Plains, NY, halfway, in Great Barrington, at Four Brothers Pizza House on Rte 7 South. Well known collie transfer station.Peg now wants to ride down with Bonnie for the "handover". I wash my hands of it.
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Having said a tearful goodbye to Peg yesterday afternoon, today I was informed, early this morning by phone, that she didn't know I was leaving for England, she just thought I was leaving to give Tory her Saab back. I don't buy this but--she's my mother. Her voice breaking, she asked me to please stop and see her on my way out of town. So I did, while David tied luggage down under a rain tarp. She was busy talking to Dominick and quite chirpy. I hugged her and kissed her head told her not to die until her website got up.
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LEAST ENJOYABLE PART OF DAY NOT COUNTING FEELING GUILTY ABOUT FEELING GLAD TO LEAVE :

The discovery that Peg's credit card--which, with her permission, I am entitled to abuse as I see fit--was not in my wallet. Went to dig out accumulated receipts for Bonnie, plus return card. Not there. It is ALWAYS there. I am careful; I am not dizzy. I phoned Babalouie's in Pittsfield to see if I'd left it last night. Got some cleaner on about the five hundredth ring who said the office was locked but anyhow the restaurant had had a break-in last night so maybe best I cancelled the card. Called Bonnie to see what kind of card it was. Got out the "Chase" file. Found an invoice, found a phone number, then got stumped by: "Now enter the first three letters of the main cardholder's mother's maiden name". I put in about thirty-five wrong combinations until finally a real person came on the line. Because I was calling as Margaret Ronning, not her daughter, and I figured since my father's name was listed first on the bill, it must be his mother's maiden name they were after, which was Westby. Seems not. Seems by "maiden" they really meant "first", which prompted a lengthy discussion on how in my opinion Chase needed to wise up and perhaps rethink it's recorded message and MaryAnn, speaking on behalf of Chase, had not the faintest idea what I was going on about so I dropped it. Anyhow she cancelled the card, new ones to be issued and sent by UPS tomorrow.

So. They are there. Peg and Odd. And I am not. They will be well looked after at Laurel Lake for two weeks and if all goes according to plan, which it never does, they will come home on May 20 at which time Terri will move in for a week or until things get back to normal, whatever that is. Peg will go back into Blue Book Mania, Odd will continue to tell her she's marvelous and beautiful every three seconds, need hosing down once or twice a week, and Spurn Me Not Angel Honeybear will come back from the breeder's pregnant and deliver 12 collie puppies hopefully on my bed and use my shoe closet for a bathroom.





Thursday, May 1, 2014

IN A DAZE

Feeling a tad shell-shocked, been going going going since 8:00 AM and only just home: 9:30 PM, not counting a flash visit back here at 3:00 to sign employee checks.  

And, I have just sneezed twenty-eight times in a row. Eyes watery, nose dripping onto keyboard. Not a cold, this has been going on for about a year, maybe just under. Allergic to something methinks, but what? Dust? Dogs? Depends? Anyone over 90? Will look into this when I get back to Suffolk. Meanwhile going through a box of tissues per hour, singlehandedly keeping Kimberly-Clark afloat. 

Feeling tired and dull and "full of catarrh" as my husband would say.
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STAFF ON CALL:

Bonnie 8:00 - 5:00 PM.
Terri:  5:00 PM to 9:30 PM.
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Ellen the Hospice nurse paid a visit while I was home signing checks. She was checking on Odd in general, as she does every week, but especially his left leg: is it more swollen or less swollen since he started the double dose of Lasix? I  nodded and tutted and made the right noises as Ellen spoke, but it dawned on me today that I don't care about my father's left leg. I know that's terrible to say, but I don't. Sure, if it suddenly looked like a tree trunk and had stuff growing on it or was hanging by a thread, well, maybe. But no, in general, I have to say, the leg does not concern me in the slightest. I think this is because so many other people are concerned about it, people who are far better equipped to be concerned about it. So my reasoning is to let them get on with it, and I will get in with what I do well (dinner, Blue Books, boiling chicken tenders for the dog and so on)

A Hospice Nurse Practitioner arrived after I'd gone to assess Odd, to make sure he still qualifies for Hospice. Medicare insists on an evaluation, I think every three months. I was nervous about this. I think Daddy must have passed muster or I would have heard about it, but might spend some time in bed fretting about it anyway.
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Four hours in the Northampton area with Cousin Tim, Peg's website designer, who, against his better judgement, was looking after his wife's friend's Papillon, "Leafy", for the day, a dog the size of an L L Bean snow sneaker. I took Leafy for a walk while Tim downloaded something (also because Tim refused to be seen in public with it) and it was like pulling a handkerchief along, a handkerchief with a rose tucked onto it's collar and wearing a pink marabou jacket. I was fascinated by the size of this dog's rectal emissions--found myself comparing the two or three rabbit pellets to the COLLIE SIZE VARIETY, seen recently on the den rug doing an Everest impersonation, and will now be pushing for Papillons if this deranged collie of Peg's, for any reason, bites the dust.
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The Borrowed Saab, cleaned and full of petrol, has been returned to Tory in West Stockbridge, it's one key intact (whew). Tory, with whom Jenkins and I partook of a delicious pizza and salad at Baba Louie's, in Pittsfield, with her charming friend James. I remember when I used to go to the Ivy, and Sardis.
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I said goodbye to Peg today at the nursing home. Felt a bit more upset than I'd imagined I'd be. We managed to record a couple more Mother-Daughter dialogues for her website (she is SO professional, and good, STILL, at 97) and afterwards I wheeled her back to her room. She insisted I leave, that I was tired, said that she loved me more than anything and that have always been the most important thing in her life. Today I chose to believe this. I kissed her head a few times, gave her a hug, and off I went  How many years have I been playing this scene! Have lost count. Every time I leave, I imagine what it will feel like to never see her again, and that's it, my eyes start. But as I said, could be this weird allergy I mentioned.

And now, because I can no longer focus and want to disappear upstairs before my father wakes at midnight saying "What are you doing up so early, Cutie Pie?" and I try not to sound irritated when I say  "IT'S NOT MORNING DADDY, IT'S STILL NIGHT  FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"---I am turning out the lights and turning down the heat to 60 and collapsing onto my bed after putting on my $24 eye cream. And then   dreaming of England and my husband and my son and my dog, though not necessarily in that order.