Dorothy at 76

She lives in a trailer on the side of a highway five miles from the poorest county in the United States. She lives alone on property where her family has lived for 7 generations. You might see her in grubby sneakers and a man’s sweatshirt on the five acres between the highway and the woods.  Her garden had more weeds than vegetables and she cuts five acres of grass in the shapes of ovals, circles, figure 8s, or paisley prints.

Not yet 80, she lives her life as she chooses, rebelling against the schedules she obeyed   before she retired. A good book may keep her reading until 3 am because she knows she can cut off the alarm and go back to sleep until 10 am.

When she and her friends go out to eat, people peer at their table to see if their gaiety is caused by alcohol. The group may range in number from 3 to 25, but they obviously love each other’s company whether playing games, singing hymns, or joining hands in prayer around a dying neighbor. None have to be alone unless they so choose.

She has fond memories of colleagues she taught with for 25 years and tries to stay in touch as much as a busy retirement schedule allows, the schedule SHE decides. She was most proud of being a member of the best faculty in Alabama and bragged about it to all she met at state meetings.Their sisterhood shifted  and increased with retirements and deaths, but a core of twenty supported each other through life changes, desegregation, overcrowding, and years of working toward SASC accreditation. No matter how fiercely they argued over policy decisions, they formed a united front in enforcing them. They shared stories of their children’s illnesses, their struggles with teenagers, and the sadness of caring for ailing parents. They went to each others’ kid’s weddings and  cried at the wakes of their friends parents , knowing that their time of sorrow would come.

 She has lunch regularly with friends of 60 years ago. They take turns sharing news of other high school classmates who survive. Then they share pictures of grandchildren and look for likenesses to the middle generation.  Sometimes they cry together and other times they giggle like the 15 year-olds they had been. Every 5 years they invite the whole class to a homecoming party and end the fun remembering those who already have gone on.

She’s always starting something.  A senior group, a library, and meals on wheels program. She helped organize a volunteer fire department. She became a nationally certified firefighter at 62.  Even though she’s  far too fat to go in a burning building, she’s lobbied for funds, baked cakes, kept the minutes,

comforted victims,  and even stomped out grass fires. She published a department newsletter and collected data on residents for emergency calls. She was awarded firefighter of the year at the county awards banquet.

Her unsuccessful attempt to get all the community reading left her with thousands of books in the 16x24 foot addition to her home. She donated 400 books from her private collection to the new high school and collected enough to complete her vow of 1000.  She reads 2 to 5 books a week and is always handing someone a book, “you ought to read’.

She tries to learn some new skill each month, but good enough is good enough. She is not a perfectionist in any one of them. She painted summer clouds on a bedroom ceiling and trees along the walls.  Her kitchen, where all her entertaining is done, is repainted every year or when the feeling strikes, or if she finds a cool paint cheap.

She has a new project, writing for newspapers and blogs online.

Alabamapioneers.com. She loves to say,” just GOOGLE ME”, as if she is a real author. No money yet, but many articles in print to establish a resume’.

She has cut 1000s of silhouettes of children freehand and is delighted when people come up and say, “My mom still has the silhouette you did of me 40 years ago.” Every class had the experience either for Christmas, Valentine’s Day, or Mother’s Day. Her years of cutting for charities have past, but occasionally she cuts for a family gathering. Somehow the ones done of her own children finally dropped from the refrigerator door into the waste basket.

After eight years of caring for her beloved husband who had both strokes and Alzheimer’s  she volunteered with Hospice and helping dying patients and their families. These experiences helped when she was hanging out with her mother through declining years.

Four biological children became six with stepdaughters, one found in the months before her husband’s death who was warmly welcomed into the Gast bunch. This process was added to the family history. Now there are six children, fifteen grandchildren, and sixteen great-grandchildren.

She is alone, but never lonely. She has prints by Monet, and Van Gogh, movies and music at hand, many internet friends, and more family  than she can afford birthday, graduation, wedding, and Christmas gifts for. She has known sorrow and grief, pain and disappointment, but   found the ridiculous to laugh in all of them.  Her silly grin implies she is an innocent of world’s troubles, but she has faith that the God who took care of her in the past is still able to do it in the future and will someday escort her HOME.

She’s in her bonus years and would just as soon be gone, as doing her own thing here. Although she envies those organized enough to put tomorrow’s to do list on her night stand, she’d rather wake up and ask, “LORD, what are we going to do today.”

She loves to feed people. Not the stiff formal china, crystal, silver, centerpiece on the table kind of entertaining, but the “Hey I just made a pot of chili and some cornbread, come over in an hour” call. “And bring your dominoes”. She’ll probably try to send food home with you. Especially if you wash the dishes.

Her ambition is to live a long time without growing old and has the genes for that. Her greatest fear is losing her usefulness, of being storehoused like an out of date book taking shelf space from the newer additions. So she stores her thoughts and memories in words, as  bits and bytes of data. Maybe  she’ll leave tracks on hearts and minds  that share a common vibration. Soon books themselves will no longer be useful.

No more migraines from trying too hard, she has chosen to be transparent. If you visit and her house is a mess, just scoot the newspapers out of a chair and sit down. If you want a cup of coffee, help yourself. You can even make it if the pot is not on.

 She might let you help rescue a preloved bear for a toy drive, or wrap gifts for a Sunday School class. You can help plant a garden or paint your own creation on her wall beneath van Gogh’s Starry Night. She doen’t try to pretend that she is pretty or smart or even organized.. She’ll just be herself and let you be you. She’ll think you are wonderful anyway.   

By Dorothy Gast   December 19 2011

Ddgast1@aol.com

Or GOOGLE Dorothy Graham Gast

Changing Hats

Last night it snowed. Only an inch accumulated, but I celebated with a cup of hot Russian tea and pleasant memories. I’m sure you remember the good imes our families have had.

            After almost a month in hospital after O. J.’s fall  and the necessary hip surgery, we are home and far behind in our correspondence. A trip to Walmart on Sunday, December 3, wound up with his fall in the parking lot and a long stay away from home. When I had wished for an expense paid trip with meals, laundry and entertainment provided, I did not expect the answer to be at hospital. With gratitude for its availibity I must confess dissatisfaction with the hospital food and the narrow cot that I had to sleep on. Do the rooms on a cruise cost $425 a day?

            We narrowly escaped a stay in a nursing home by convincing doctors, nurses, and therapists that we can manage at home. After counting the hospital staff that trooped trough our room each day and noting their specialization, I took stock of our routine.

            The schedule at home is hectic. The housekeeper starts coffee and brings in the paper about 6 am. The nurse wakens O. J. checking vital signs and gives him a glass of juice. An aide then bathes, dresses and diapers the patient. The housekeeper changes the bed puts the clothing and bedding into the  washer.

            The dietitian prepares breakfast, determines the nutrient dense menu for the day, and makes the shopping list. The nurse transfers the patient to a wheelchair, transports him to the kitchen table and spoon feeds him.

            The nurse dispenses the after breakfast medicine. 

            The physical therapist moves him to the living room and leads the prescribed exercises, sometimes manually moving limbs no longer controlled by the patient.

            The social director sets the patient up in from of the television to listen to videos since patient can’t see while the bookkeeper handles financial affairs, mediates with Medicare, and interprets the snowstorm of insurance paperwork.

            As the video ends the therapist rolls the patient into bedroom, removes wheelchair footrests, and side handles, lifts patient to stand wobbling on good leg, then pivots him next to the bed and gently lowers him to a sitting position. With arms under patient’s shoulder and knees she pivots him into prone position on the hospital bed. She tucks him in, turns on he baby monitor, and closes the blinds to darken the room.

            Housekeeper takes bedclothes and pajamas out of washer put puts them in the dryer. Then she starts a load of sweat clothes for her and the patient.

            Dietitian prepares food for patient and staff then sets the table for use after patient’s nap.

            Housekeeper vacuums, folds and puts away laundry.(she no longer irons sweat suits or sheets.) and answers  phone. Therapist reverses transporting process, and delivers patient to the table where nurse administers  other medication before lunch.

            The afternoon shift repeats the processes.  The work is not as bad as changing hats all day long.

            Ten years ago a life like his would have sounded like a prison sentence, limited and frustrating. Somehow in this challenging lifestyle there are many frustrations like answering the question, ”Who are you?” and the demand, “I want to go home” 100 times a day, and the constant weariness of 24/7 responsibility.

            Yet, I find moments of pure joy when he seems to recognize me, and hours of peace going about the necessary duties, and even days of contentment simply doing a variety of jobs menial to sophisticated with all my heart. Sounds stupid, I know.

            There are a few times when we have home health care professionals who make home visits following critical episodes like strokes, heart attacks or hospitalizations. I learn from them, but I also teach them. I teach LPNs to warm towels lotions, and clothing before putting them on the patient, and that they must always talk him through the procedure even when patient doesn’t seem to understand the words.

             I have taught physical therapists how to devise equipment from available materials to meet the special needs of the patient. We’ve each found that my active participation in every procedure not only teaches me, but ensures the best care from paid caregivers.

            Yes, I know that O. J. could die at any time. The aortic aneurysm has increased to 6.5 centimeters. We have faced the fact and discussed it and made specific legal and financial provisions.  During the time we were served by Hospice when doctors had given up last year, I researched the process of preparing for death by patient and family caregivers. I share what I have learned with all I work with.      

     Some professional have suggested that I write magazine articles or books on subjects researched, and implemented. Somehow dissecting and reassembling information, processing it into daily case management turns a time that might be morbid into a creative triumph of the human spirit. At least it changes the location in my brain to a less subjective emotional activity and relieves  my anxiety.

      I have learned that  the grace of God covers my shortcomings and gives me strength day by day. I'm learned about care-giving and being able to accept myself when I know that I'm sometimes cross, sometimes forgetful, and always weary. But I am here and willing and loving and also thankful for the privilege of caring for the one I love.