Finding the Perfect Story

A few nights ago, I made myself dinner at home. I decided to eat at the dining room table, not off a TV table in my living room. I needed to nurture myself. Since early December, my eighty-nine year-old mother has needed some extra attention, and I felt like my time was getting stretched too thin. I broiled a niece piece of salmon which I served with a salad, buttered peas, and glass of sauvignon blanc.

At some point during my meal, I went to the kitchen to get something and looked back at my plate. The tender coral colored salmon fillet was gone. Only stray greens and pieces of red onion were left of my salad. But my plate was still full of peas.

When I was around three, I wasn’t too fond of peas, but my mother, as any good mother would, wanted to get some green foods in my belly. Green beans, for me, became more palatable folded into a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup and topped with breaded onion rings. Broccoli spears were like miniature trees and seemed to taste just fine under a blanket of melted cheddar cheese. (I guess I was born with the philosophy that with enough gooey, melted cheese, almost anything could taste good.)

But peas – oh please! Nothing seemed to make them taste better.

My mother had to devise some other strategy for getting me to eat peas, one that didn’t simply involve adding fat.

She began to put frozen peas into clear, beef broth. She would tell me to look at the peas swimming around in the liquid. Sometimes, the peas would float around individually. At other times, they seemed to gather in clusters. My mother would load several onto a spoon, holding the spoonful under the surface of the colored water then tell me that the peas were skin divers and that they were going to explore deeper depths of the ocean. She’d raise the spoon, at which time I would open my mouth, and she would make some sort of remark about the skin divers swimming down narrow passages to get to my stomach. It was all sort of silly; why, after being so clear about not liking to eat a particular food, it suddenly became all right to me. The best way I could understand my child psyche at the time was that I related the peas, as skin divers, to the TV show, Sea Hunt, starring Lloyd Bridges. I thought Lloyd Bridges was terribly cool and nothing could be better than watching green-suited, oxygen tank enabled adventurers push aside oddly animate shapes to explore the world under the waves. Mom was on to something. I ate the peas.

Over the last few months, my mother has been depressed and very disengaged with life. Her right hip, which was merely painful at times, was giving her an extreme amount of trouble. The topic of hip replacement surgery came up and my sister and I encouraged my mother to do it. At this point, she had pretty much stopped walking on her own and, if for no other reason than to alleviate pain, it seemed that surgery was her only option.

While prepped adequately for the procedure from the surgeon’s perspective, the anesthesiologist felt more cautious about keeping my mom’s 89 year-old organs humming while the crack cutter did his thing. She was in the surgical schedule twice within a four week period and was canceled minutes before being rolled to the operating room on each occasion. The gas passer kept finding some small deviation from range in her latest test results that he considered reason enough not to continue. She’s been at home, with 24 hour a day care, mostly napping or sitting in her wheel chair as my sister and I have been trying to line things up with a different surgeon and larger hospital.

My mother’s leg and hip muscles have been atrophying. We arranged to have physical therapy for her a couple times a week, but I have been trying to get her to exercise a little bit each day, if only to raise her legs from her chair. Unfortunately, she has made “I can’t” her mantra. My sister and I are not sure how to respond to this. When she says, “I can’t,” does it mean, she’s not physically capable? Or, does it mean she’s in pain and we need to manage pain meds better? Or, does it mean she doesn’t want to?

The other week, I found myself trying to tell her a story from her life in hopes that she would commit to making either result (rehab after surgery or the rest of her life with limited mobility) as livable as possible.

“Remember when we threw a birthday party for you, for your eighty-fifth birthday? You put together the guest list, and Barbara talked over the menu with the caterer, and I brought your favorite mocha cream cake from Café Selmarie?” My mother smiled. “It was a nice party,” she mumbled quietly.

“It came together wonderfully,” I went on, “Because we ALL did our part. You have to do your part now and put in some effort to make your body stronger. You have to do your part,” I repeated.

She didn’t say anything in response to me. Maybe she’ll come around to the idea of taking on physical therapy with more commitment. I don’t know. I don’t know if this was the right story, but it was a story about her, about something she loved. And, as I looked at the peas still on my plate, I wished I knew the perfect story to tell her, a story that could turn refrains of “I can’t” into a chorus of “I can” and “I am,” a story like the one she told me about peas being skin divers. I know there is a kind of magic in the right story that can change everything, that can change anything, even a firmly made-up mind.

Finding the perfect story to tell is no small thing.

You're a Winner

Several months ago, one of the largest grocery store chains in the area ran a promotion. They offered customers a sticker, a smaller than postage-sized stamp, for every $10 spent in purchases. Customers could collect these stickers, using a cardboard grid to help keep an accurate count, and redeem their collection for professional grade cookware. Different pieces required different numbers of stickers. The 10” fry pan required 70. A Dutch oven required a different number, and the roaster with rack required a humongous amount. Patrons could redeem cards of stamps throughout the duration of the promotion and up to two weeks after cashiers stopped handing stickers out.

For the most part, I am not a big shopper. I live alone and cook in proportion to the number I have to feed. I am not a Girl Scout troop leader, nor do I fill any other role that would lead me to buy bulk of anything. I don’t even like shopping at this store. (They were the first in Chicago to install self-serve check-outs, something I consider to be a threat to human interaction and civility.)

But I liked the idea of basically free (You had to pay a penny a piece when you turned in your stamps), quality cookware. Adding some non-stick pans to my assortment of kitchen ware became a mission for me, and I knew I had to enlist help.

I asked several people if they shopped at Jewel. If they did but weren’t planning to collect stickers for themselves, I asked them if they could put some stickers to the side for me. I had I assumed the task of doing my mother’s shopping for her some time ago. Knowing that I would be collecting stickers each time I shopped for her made the task feel less like a dreaded obligation.

I redeemed my first card of stickers around Thanksgiving, thanks largely to my sister’s contribution of 28 stickers, propelled by her need to shop for holiday meals. For 100 stickers (and a penny), I got a great stir fry pan with clear lid. A month later, thanks to Jim who had all the cookware he needed and Adam, who bought thirty cans of soup when they were on sale so I could boost my collection, I turned in 70 stickers (and a penny) for a 10” fry pan.

I really had to hustle a little extra for my third piece as the time left on the promotion was running out. I was the benefactor of a couple small check-out line miracles. One day, while shopping for my mother, I had just finished glancing at the tabloids they place near the register so you don’t think about how long you’ve been standing in line. I read about Tom and Katie’s marriage problems and Bradgelina’s last fight. I was in a sort of meditative mindset; alert, but not focusing on anything in particular, when the man two places ahead of me just finished his transaction and announced to everyone within earshot that he wasn’t collecting stamps and would give his away. I quickly volunteered to accept his largess (eight stamps). “There’s a non-stick fry pan out there with my name on it,” I declared. Moments later, the woman directly in front of me gave me hers too.

The other week my friend Jim, with a final contribution of 15 more stickers, helped me pick up my third pan. Not exactly a wreath-wearing thoroughbred after the derby, we took photos of me in the Winner’s Circle, I.e, by the deli counter, to mark the occasion.

Thanks to my friends for saving stickers for me. Thanks to unexpected gifts from the universe (on more than one occasion a check-out line clerk slipped me a few extra). Now I can sauté, simmer, and stir fry in style. And I never thought I would say this, but thanks to Jewel for running the promotion. They made something I had to do fun to do. Of course, it’s extra fun to feel like you’re getting something for nothing, even if it’s only a kitchen item.

Feeling like a winner is no small thing.

Triple Thanks

Oh how helpless I feel…when I need help.

That sounds sort of stupid to say, but that about summed things up a few weeks ago when my car died maybe thirty feet from my front door. (Ah yes, the proximity of its visible inertia was immediately recognized as a small blessing.)

I pay Triple A $75.00 a year for the privilege of small discounts at hotels and car rental agencies and for “roadside service,” should it be required. Of course, my mind dwells on the “roadside service” aspect of this arrangement as the few times I have needed this kind of help, I am not sure how else I would have gotten out of a jam.

My relationship with my car is funny. I guess I identify with it in many ways. It is older than most cars I see on the road (a ’95 Civic), but it looks deceptively ageless. Even after racking up 110,000 miles on the odometer, I know its engine has life in it yet. Even though I use public transportation a lot, psychologically, having a working car and feeling free and independent seem intertwined. My car gets me where I want to go, and not having it in working order, and all the implications of car-less-ness, makes life seem difficult.

The car didn’t stall or idle or make an odd assortment of noises prior to it becoming immobile. I ran my non-mechanical mind over my driving history of the last couple days, as if I could diagnose what the problem was, pinpoint when it began, and then formulate some simple solution. (I.e., one that didn’t involved towing). I sat behind the wheel. I turned the key. No cranking noise. Nothing. I sat quietly in the car for a few minutes. I tried again – with no different result. I got a new battery less than a year ago. I was pretty sure my alternator was okay. I went inside my apartment and busied myself for several hours, perhaps trying to convince myself that if my car had enough time to gather itself, the engine would just turn over. Working from home was fine today, I thought. But, the next day, I had places to be and the following day there were places I had to be that I had to drive to.

I dumped out the contents of a zippered compartment of my purse and looked for my Triple A membership card. I called the 800 number for roadside assistance.

I got a very helpful call center specialist. I think she was from Iowa, definitely not the Philippines. She introduced herself and took down my phone number. She asked where the car was and had me describe the problem. She asked several reasonable questions, like whether the car had gas and what kind of noise it made when I turned the key. I explained that I didn’t want the car towed now, but rather, I wanted to have the car towed first thing in the morning, so I could get it to my mechanic as soon as they opened and then get on the subway so I could go to my office. They didn’t take orders as reservations for service at specific times, Lateesha explained. Instead of simply directing me to call back in the morning and report the problem again, she gave me a call ticket number and suggested a time when I should call back so I could get the car towed to my mechanic just as they were opening shop.

I called, as advised, at 6:45 AM. I referenced the call ticket number and the dispatcher had all the details from my previous night's call in their computer. At 7:30, the truck was in front of my building. The service man politely asked me to fill out a few forms as he connected my car to his truck. “Could be a distributor problem,” he told me as I rode in the truck’s cab with him to Chicago Import Service. He deposited the car near their entrance and helped Alex and his crew move it out of the way of traffic. He smiled as he crawled back into the cab. “If Triple A sends you a little survey in the mail,” he exhaled, “Be sure to tell them I did a good job.”

Yes, Joe, thank you. Thank you, Lateesha. Thank you Alex. ( Alex had it ready for pick-up at the end of the day.)

Getting the exact kind of help you need, when you need it, without any feeling of judgment is no small thing.