rob.nester

Seriously, why does the water in Florida smell so bad?I think that the sulfurious odor of the water here might be a clue that man wasn't supposed to settle here.

On a more positive and upbeat note, the current weather is warm and sunny, which is a nice change of pace from Boston.

I'm finishing this post on Christmas Eve and I realize that this is the first Christmas that I've not celebrated in North Carolina in my life. I miss that state, more than I ever thought that I would; the place, the weather, the land, the people. I miss my family i miss friends that I could call up and just go hang out with. I miss Flaming Amy's and those wonderful burritos.

North Carolina, Merry Christmas!!

I haven't written much as of late, partially due to travelling for my grandmother's funeral and partially because I've been busy trying to do some of those resolutions I had written about. I've been reading more, and working on crocheting some hats.

I also joined a gym. I'm glad that for the past two days, despite feeling under the weather, I've still made myself go and walk two miles as well as lift. I came to the conclusion that I had to start doing something to lose some weight. As an aside, why is it that older folks love to point out when you've gained weight?

But I digress. I have updated the site to Wordpress 2.1 and updated the necessary components so that it all works.

On a tangent for a moment, I found out that Wordpress has a multi-user distribution which provides for setting up numerous blogs under one domain. I'm glad to see this development because it make me remember one of the things I've wanted to do for a long time - make a social art/music/writing site. (Yes, I'm sure it's been done ad nauseum, but hey...)

You will be missed

Clara Lucille Nester
02/23/26 - 01/23/06

The phone call from my parents came early, relating the passing of my maternal grandmother's father, with questions about helping to book a flight. I accompanied the assistance with a request to pass on my condolences. I don't do well with death in all honesty. I don't mean that I break down and cry and weep and moan for days - usually there is a brief period of weeping if it was a close relative. Otherwise, I'm, for lack of a better word, cold about it.

I think it stems from the fact that I'm not very religious, while a good majority of my family is. I don't really have much to say about the whole heaven or hell thing, and often they talk about the deceased being in a "better place", which I hope is true. It's just that I never really know what to say other than, "Yeah...".

But I called my grandmother today, figuring that since the funeral was yesterday she might want someone to talk to. We spoke for a few moments about how she knew her father was in a better place where he didn't hurt anymore, to which I replied, "Yeah..hopefully so" in my usual manner. Her thoughts and words quickly turned to her mother however and she became saddened. We shared the unspoken knowledge that, most likely, it wouldn't be long until she passed too; the combination of cancer and the loss of her husband of sixty years taking its toll.  She said that her mother couldn't imagine living without her husband. My grandmother remarked that she knew a bit about that feeling. She does too. She came home one day to find her first husband the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. My grandfather, her second husband, died this past year on Good Friday of complications from diabetes (his kidneys had shut down). She commented that although she hadn't been married to him for sixty years, it was almost impossible to continue that first day after. My grandmother commented that my grandfather's death had left a whole in her heart; her father's death created another one. She said she didn't know how many more holes she could endure.

I should have told her that she had to endure them because I lost enough family members last year and so far this year wasn't shaping up much better. Maybe that's being selfish though, who knows.

Edit:
I thought about this post some more and in light of the fact that my paternal grandmother is in the process of dying as I write this, I realize that I don't have a problem with death, as I said above I'm ok with it. However, I have realized that the process of dying is what hurts the most. I hate to know about the suffering.

Unlike last Thanksgiving, I was able to go visit my parents and brother this year. The trip home was something that I was looking forward to since it had been a while since I had been home. With thoughts about how nice it would be to stay up all nice hanging out with my dad while smoking turkeys (no, that's not some sort of code, it's in reference to a way of cooking a turkey, and it's delicious).

Ya know that whole cliché about how you can't go home again? I think whoever came up with that was spot on. I mean, I was home, but it felt foreign. My parents still love me, that's something I don't doubt, but still, it was just kind of surreal.

I think it was compounded by my brother. As of late he's been having more violent fits, and I know it's weighing heavily on my parents.

As if that wasn't enough, the day before Thanksgiving brought news that my grandmother was being hospitalized, yet again, for a blood transfusion. Apparently where other people's bodies recycle their blood, my grandmother's body just loses it. So eventually she has to be hospitalized and transfused with blood. The net result is a few more month of (continually declining quality) of life. It also results in my father spending every evening going to see her. It's not that this is a bad thing, it's a noble thing to be honest. The problem is that it's yet another in a series of weights my parents have shouldered.

Went back home to visit the family this past weekend. It was nice seeing Mom, Dad and Hampton. Saw my grandmother on Saturday, twice.

First time was ok, took some photos of her (she's getting old and I don't have any pictures of her taken by me), brought her flowers. She's in a nursing home now. It was somewhat surreal being there. Dad and I waited outside her room while some caretakers were doing something to/for her in her room. An elderly lady sat in a wheelchair with a padded foam cushion over her legs that hooked into the frame of the wheelchair near us in the hall. I wasn't sure if the cushion was actually a cushion or if it was to keep her from standing up and either a) exiting the wheelchair or b) promptly falling down. My father left for a moment while we were waiting in the hall. The lady in the wheelchair looked at me empty eyed and asked if I had a key to "unlock this thing" referring to removing the cushion I think. When I responded that I didn't, she hung her head, her eyes looking even sadder; I didn't think it would have been possible, but I was wrong.

But Grandma...

Grandma was pretty good the first time, she was happy about her flowers. I think it picked her up to have her picture taken. We chatted for a while before we had to leave. We promised to bring back a milkshake later (ok, not really a milkshake since my Grandmother is diabetic, but a Glucerna, which my father calls a "milkshake" to get my grandmother to drink it).

The second visit to the nursing home was nowhere as pleasant.

We walked in and my grandmother immediately asked my father why she was "in this prison" in the most pitiful broken voice I've heard in my life. He explained that she wasn't in a prison, that this was a place where people could do the things for her she needed. She wanted to know what she had done for her to be put in there. I have to say that I have finally reached the age where I could realize the hardship my father was going through.

Since his father died in December of 1968 he has been taking care of my Grandma... Grandma had a nervous breakdown and Dad took care of her. He was only nine when he started. A cousin of mine, who was the same age as my father and who he had went to school with once told me that by middle school my father was smoking a pack or so a day of cigarettes from the stress of taking care of my grandmother.

But back to Dad; Dad has basically spent his whole life taking care of my Grandma who, in this moment, was asking him what she had done and why he had put her in "this prison". The look in his eye conveyed the heartbreak he felt.

I patted him on the shoulder and suggested he go smoke a cigarette. I sat in there why my grandmother quizzed me. Why was she here? What had she done? Why did she have to come here? Who said she had to come here? I took the time to answer each question in turn, sometimes resulting in circular conversations until we finally arrived at the simple truth of the matter.

She is old, frail and in the last stages of her life.

Cold and calloused I suppose, but I delivered it with the utmost of charm and good nature I could muster. How easy is it to really tell someone that "this place" is the place where people can "help them" when "help them" is a euphemism for "making it comfortable while you're slowly dying"?

I did my best to explain to Grandma what was going on with her, why she was there, why she didn't remember why she was there, etc. I couldn't help myself and I told her that all of those questions, the time when she cried to my father about being there because it was a prison, killed him. She said she never meant to blame him and that she knew he was a good boy. She meant it I think.

She had finished the Glucerna, so I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her. She told me to come back soon, before she was gone. She started to cry.

I cried a little too...

Walked down the hall, past the rooms of people who were at varying points on a path and walked out into the evening sun.

Told my father I loved him, and went home.