Traveling to Idaho -
I'm back. Spent Wednesday through today in Boise, Idaho. My father had made it clear that my grandmother, who has been diagnosed with terminal emphysema, probably would not around much longer, and he wanted all his children there to see her one last time.
For those who know me, (especially DeadPoet83) I admit I have been very uneasy about this trip. I don't like sick people. I have this inherent prejudice toward older people, which I don't like, but it's there.
And, standing outside the baggage check in at LAX, another fear of mine came rising up to the surface.
I have not flown in over five years.
Not out of paranoia or anything; I just haven't had the money to travel, and anytime I did was by car. But it took a little bit of time to adjust for the security line that stretched about a quarter of a mile outside.
Also, I remembered how nervous I get about the actual flying process. When the plane's packed to the gills, and you're sitting there in the window seat,
looking at the line of incoming passengers, waiting to see who picks you as their seatmate. It's the dumbest feeling, really; akin to being picked for sports teams in elementary school. But, somehow, on some base level, I want the hip, attractive, interesting women or men to choose me. And it's always the used car salesmen or the quiet, middle-aged men with pet hairs all over their dark sweaters who flock to me on planes.
And, of course, there comes the endurance of landing and takeoffs. I will admit to you something I've never told anybody. Whenever I'm in a plane as it takes off, I close my eyes and imagine I'm lifting the plane up. Like I have some control over the aircraft and its conditions. Same thing with landing. I imagine I'm smoothing out the descent. It's insane. This artificial sense of control while I'm sitting here, vulnerable, up in a little metal tube, scared.
I arrived in Boise, Idaho, which has got to be the most lax airport imaginable. Sure, the entire place gleams and shines like no airport I've ever seen. But nobody was there to check at the baggage claim area that I was taking only my bag. I could grabbed the whole damn tray of bags and whistled out of there. The airport spent all this money on a panorama of men fishing, but not security? Odd.
And my father picked me up. Drove me to my grandmother's. He seemed tired, but tried to cover it up by talking about this new idea he has for writing books about buying tax liens and building your own home. My brother and his fiancee were driving into Idaho, and hadn't arrived yet. My sister and her
boyfriend were't due at the airport until ten at night.
Grandmother surprised me a little. Sure, she's exhausted. Severe back spasms, lots of pain, the oxygen tank and the tubes that run all through the house. Breathing treatments normally taken twice a day she ends up taking every four hours (the maximum allowance allowed) just to clear her lungs. But she still had her independence, her sass.
The rest of my siblings and their loved ones arrived, and Grandmother took us out to dinner. I kept asking so many questions I'd always had; banal ones, to some, but they were questions I'd had my entire life. Mostly about images I'd seen in her houses since childhood - the Bavarian cuckoo clock given to her by her brother returning from World War II, the baseball bat which was her prized possession as a girl in Kansas. And she enthralled me, as did my father, who shared stories with us, and fed her questions, too.
No matter how crazy, and unstable my relatives on my Jones side can be, they always have a knack for telling a good story. My father does it well, as does my Grandmother.
The next morning, we Jones children and their loved ones ate breakfast at this folky little place called - I kid you not - THE CRACKER BARREL, where my brother and I played checkers on an actual cracker barrel. Hank Williams on the speakers. Every breakfast meal served with mandatory grits. I ate from the lunch menu.
We returned back to my grandmother's house. Grandmother knew about how I played guitar; she wanted me to look at a guitar she'd kept in her cabinet for decades. I tried getting it to tune, but the spare high "e" string wouldn't keep in place.
Grandma turned the tv on, and the national drama of the week was being bandied about. Terri this and Terri that, and life versus choice versus money. But it felt uncomfortable, watching the news while my grandmother straightened the oxygen tubes, and her machine, always in the background, wheezed and gulped. So I talked to my grandmother about it. What she wanted in her life if ever on life support or permanently disabled. And she told me she did't want that kind of life. She's not going to be the sort of women who dies in a senior citizen's home. It's either autonomy or rest.
And despite the unneeded circus that is trumpeting at this moment in time because of Terri's case, I am thankful that it gave me a chance to talk with my grandmother about the quality of her life, and respect for her wishes.
The family played cards the rest of the evening. This may seem innocuous to some, but on my father's side of the family, playing cards is a religion. We must have played for six hours. Texas hold-em poker (four dollar ante, I busted first, and my dad beat my brother only because his straight was a higher straight) Then other games with names we made up. Hand and Foot. Gimme Five.
I said goodbye to everyone. Dad took me back to the airport today. He asked me what I thought of Grandma's condition. I told him that she needs something to do, besides watching tv and sleeping. Grandpa died over a year ago, and it's left her without a rhythm. I ever noticed her calling dad by my grandpa's name a few times. During my trip, Dad showed us grandfather's garage, left untouched after his death. Two completely restored tractors are parked there. Dad never really got along with his father, but I knew he was proud that Grandpa rebuilt those tractors from scratch. Not a lot of functionality, mind you (they live in a suburb cul-de-sac) but pretty impressive.
There isn't much plot to all this. I'm very tired and lagged at the moment.
But I do want to live, as much as I am able, and am able bodied. I don't want to be a financial bankruptcy to my family because my only way to live is a prisoner in a hospital. I am a simple little human, and when I am no longer able to think and feel, I need to go. When I get married, or older, I'll make my living wills, make my thoughts known. (By the way, I am an organ donor, pass it on)
My love and well wishes to all - talk to all of you soon.
For those who know me, (especially DeadPoet83) I admit I have been very uneasy about this trip. I don't like sick people. I have this inherent prejudice toward older people, which I don't like, but it's there.
And, standing outside the baggage check in at LAX, another fear of mine came rising up to the surface.
I have not flown in over five years.
Not out of paranoia or anything; I just haven't had the money to travel, and anytime I did was by car. But it took a little bit of time to adjust for the security line that stretched about a quarter of a mile outside.
Also, I remembered how nervous I get about the actual flying process. When the plane's packed to the gills, and you're sitting there in the window seat,
looking at the line of incoming passengers, waiting to see who picks you as their seatmate. It's the dumbest feeling, really; akin to being picked for sports teams in elementary school. But, somehow, on some base level, I want the hip, attractive, interesting women or men to choose me. And it's always the used car salesmen or the quiet, middle-aged men with pet hairs all over their dark sweaters who flock to me on planes.
And, of course, there comes the endurance of landing and takeoffs. I will admit to you something I've never told anybody. Whenever I'm in a plane as it takes off, I close my eyes and imagine I'm lifting the plane up. Like I have some control over the aircraft and its conditions. Same thing with landing. I imagine I'm smoothing out the descent. It's insane. This artificial sense of control while I'm sitting here, vulnerable, up in a little metal tube, scared.
I arrived in Boise, Idaho, which has got to be the most lax airport imaginable. Sure, the entire place gleams and shines like no airport I've ever seen. But nobody was there to check at the baggage claim area that I was taking only my bag. I could grabbed the whole damn tray of bags and whistled out of there. The airport spent all this money on a panorama of men fishing, but not security? Odd.
And my father picked me up. Drove me to my grandmother's. He seemed tired, but tried to cover it up by talking about this new idea he has for writing books about buying tax liens and building your own home. My brother and his fiancee were driving into Idaho, and hadn't arrived yet. My sister and her
boyfriend were't due at the airport until ten at night.
Grandmother surprised me a little. Sure, she's exhausted. Severe back spasms, lots of pain, the oxygen tank and the tubes that run all through the house. Breathing treatments normally taken twice a day she ends up taking every four hours (the maximum allowance allowed) just to clear her lungs. But she still had her independence, her sass.
The rest of my siblings and their loved ones arrived, and Grandmother took us out to dinner. I kept asking so many questions I'd always had; banal ones, to some, but they were questions I'd had my entire life. Mostly about images I'd seen in her houses since childhood - the Bavarian cuckoo clock given to her by her brother returning from World War II, the baseball bat which was her prized possession as a girl in Kansas. And she enthralled me, as did my father, who shared stories with us, and fed her questions, too.
No matter how crazy, and unstable my relatives on my Jones side can be, they always have a knack for telling a good story. My father does it well, as does my Grandmother.
The next morning, we Jones children and their loved ones ate breakfast at this folky little place called - I kid you not - THE CRACKER BARREL, where my brother and I played checkers on an actual cracker barrel. Hank Williams on the speakers. Every breakfast meal served with mandatory grits. I ate from the lunch menu.
We returned back to my grandmother's house. Grandmother knew about how I played guitar; she wanted me to look at a guitar she'd kept in her cabinet for decades. I tried getting it to tune, but the spare high "e" string wouldn't keep in place.
Grandma turned the tv on, and the national drama of the week was being bandied about. Terri this and Terri that, and life versus choice versus money. But it felt uncomfortable, watching the news while my grandmother straightened the oxygen tubes, and her machine, always in the background, wheezed and gulped. So I talked to my grandmother about it. What she wanted in her life if ever on life support or permanently disabled. And she told me she did't want that kind of life. She's not going to be the sort of women who dies in a senior citizen's home. It's either autonomy or rest.
And despite the unneeded circus that is trumpeting at this moment in time because of Terri's case, I am thankful that it gave me a chance to talk with my grandmother about the quality of her life, and respect for her wishes.
The family played cards the rest of the evening. This may seem innocuous to some, but on my father's side of the family, playing cards is a religion. We must have played for six hours. Texas hold-em poker (four dollar ante, I busted first, and my dad beat my brother only because his straight was a higher straight) Then other games with names we made up. Hand and Foot. Gimme Five.
I said goodbye to everyone. Dad took me back to the airport today. He asked me what I thought of Grandma's condition. I told him that she needs something to do, besides watching tv and sleeping. Grandpa died over a year ago, and it's left her without a rhythm. I ever noticed her calling dad by my grandpa's name a few times. During my trip, Dad showed us grandfather's garage, left untouched after his death. Two completely restored tractors are parked there. Dad never really got along with his father, but I knew he was proud that Grandpa rebuilt those tractors from scratch. Not a lot of functionality, mind you (they live in a suburb cul-de-sac) but pretty impressive.
There isn't much plot to all this. I'm very tired and lagged at the moment.
But I do want to live, as much as I am able, and am able bodied. I don't want to be a financial bankruptcy to my family because my only way to live is a prisoner in a hospital. I am a simple little human, and when I am no longer able to think and feel, I need to go. When I get married, or older, I'll make my living wills, make my thoughts known. (By the way, I am an organ donor, pass it on)
My love and well wishes to all - talk to all of you soon.