March 31, 2010
Wednesday, 8:13 P.M.
Home
Our Lady of Consolation Nursing Home did without the services of their Nursing Administration assistant today. I took a mental health day. Of course, I didn't tell them that; just said I didn't feel well, but the truth is, I have a lot of things weighing on my mind these days. Every once in a while, I begin to feel overwhelmed by the circumstances surrounding me, can't turn off the rambling thoughts in my head and realize that it is time to get them sorted out and determine what my future actions should be. Then supreme effort goes into editing that down to what those actions actually will be. Very often, they are not one and the same. And very often, night will fall and the way still is not clear. This is one of those nights. I am completely aware of what I should do but I know I won't do it. Or maybe this time I will...
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Character Building
March 30, 2010
Monday, 7:00 P.M.
Home
If I appear to emphasize my mom's homemaking and mothering in the next couple of posts, the reasons will become clearer as this tale progresses. I remember her on her hands and knees, with her big pregnant tummy inches from the floor, holding a rag in her hand applying Butcher's Wax to all the oak floors in the house, upstairs and downstairs. She would get up, grab her waxing machine with the brushes attached, brush the wax in, then change the brushes for buffers and buff those floors to a slippery shine. Many were the hours that we kids spent in our sock feet sliding across the hall floors from one bedroom to another. Mommy would call us in for baths and clean clothes before Daddy came home from work, so we would all be nice and fresh when he got there and we sat down to dinner. Dinners were pretty simple fare, nothing fancy except on Sundays and we were never allowed to have soda with our meals. As a matter of fact, for some reason, we didn't even get our milk until after we finished eating. Nobody dared ask to leave the table before Mommy and Daddy were finished eating. Then you were able to ask, "May I please leave the table?". We could never just say, "I'm finished" and get up and go. As I have mentioned before, manners were very important in our home.
As I look back today, I can see a couple of harbingers of things to come from back in the "good days" of our family. At that time, I just thought of them as the way we were expected to behave. For instance, my brother, Jimmy, (pre Jim days) hated peas, I mean really hated peas. My whole family knew how much Jimmy hated peas and yet, my mother would insist on serving those damn peas. Every time I saw we were having them for dinner, my heart would go out to my little brother. He tried everything; mixing them with the gravy or mashed potatoes, swallowing them whole, holding his nose, you name it, he tried it because we were not allowed to leave the table with anything left on our plates and we were not allowed to refuse anything that was served on them. Jimmy would be forced to sit there, sometimes for what felt like hours, until every last pea was gone from that plate. His little body would spasm with the gagging and the tears would slide down his cheeks as he tried to force them down. He suffered this fate silently, but I knew how very much it was hurting him. Our character was being built...
Monday, 7:00 P.M.
Home
If I appear to emphasize my mom's homemaking and mothering in the next couple of posts, the reasons will become clearer as this tale progresses. I remember her on her hands and knees, with her big pregnant tummy inches from the floor, holding a rag in her hand applying Butcher's Wax to all the oak floors in the house, upstairs and downstairs. She would get up, grab her waxing machine with the brushes attached, brush the wax in, then change the brushes for buffers and buff those floors to a slippery shine. Many were the hours that we kids spent in our sock feet sliding across the hall floors from one bedroom to another. Mommy would call us in for baths and clean clothes before Daddy came home from work, so we would all be nice and fresh when he got there and we sat down to dinner. Dinners were pretty simple fare, nothing fancy except on Sundays and we were never allowed to have soda with our meals. As a matter of fact, for some reason, we didn't even get our milk until after we finished eating. Nobody dared ask to leave the table before Mommy and Daddy were finished eating. Then you were able to ask, "May I please leave the table?". We could never just say, "I'm finished" and get up and go. As I have mentioned before, manners were very important in our home.
As I look back today, I can see a couple of harbingers of things to come from back in the "good days" of our family. At that time, I just thought of them as the way we were expected to behave. For instance, my brother, Jimmy, (pre Jim days) hated peas, I mean really hated peas. My whole family knew how much Jimmy hated peas and yet, my mother would insist on serving those damn peas. Every time I saw we were having them for dinner, my heart would go out to my little brother. He tried everything; mixing them with the gravy or mashed potatoes, swallowing them whole, holding his nose, you name it, he tried it because we were not allowed to leave the table with anything left on our plates and we were not allowed to refuse anything that was served on them. Jimmy would be forced to sit there, sometimes for what felt like hours, until every last pea was gone from that plate. His little body would spasm with the gagging and the tears would slide down his cheeks as he tried to force them down. He suffered this fate silently, but I knew how very much it was hurting him. Our character was being built...
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Manners, Grammar, & Posture
March 28, 2010
Sunday, 8:54 P.M.
Home
I maintained my status as baby of the family for all of eleven months and five days. Gail Eileen came into the world, on November 8, 1952, five days late, allowing me to retain my very own Birthday. Jim, Jill, Colleen, Robin, and Tracey followed in fairly rapid succession behind us and we were a family to behold. People we would meet would always say, " One is prettier than the next." I always took this to mean that I was the least attractive of the bunch because I was the oldest. It was okay though, 'cause I really loved my siblings and they were all beautiful.
My memory is fuzzy on early homes. I was born in Queens Memorial Hospital in Jamaica, New York, so it's safe to assume we lived in that vicinity but I'm not sure. As a very little girl, I remember living in Levittown, apparently in a rental home. My parents bought their first house in Massapequa Park, a four bedroom ranch with a basement for five thousand dollars. Imagine that! I started kindergarten in this town, so the year was around 1955. I was one of those kids who had a late birthday, so started school at four years old. Life was good, Jill and Colleen were born in 1956 and 1957, respectively. My dad worked at Republic Aviation Corporation in Farmingdale and my stay at home mom kept a beautiful home with very well behaved, polite children. We were the only kids on the block who addressed our neighbors as Mr. and Mrs. So and So, rather than Aunt and Uncle. Our manners, grammar, and posture were very important to my mother back in those days. All of those have served me well to this day.
Sunday, 8:54 P.M.
Home
I maintained my status as baby of the family for all of eleven months and five days. Gail Eileen came into the world, on November 8, 1952, five days late, allowing me to retain my very own Birthday. Jim, Jill, Colleen, Robin, and Tracey followed in fairly rapid succession behind us and we were a family to behold. People we would meet would always say, " One is prettier than the next." I always took this to mean that I was the least attractive of the bunch because I was the oldest. It was okay though, 'cause I really loved my siblings and they were all beautiful.
My memory is fuzzy on early homes. I was born in Queens Memorial Hospital in Jamaica, New York, so it's safe to assume we lived in that vicinity but I'm not sure. As a very little girl, I remember living in Levittown, apparently in a rental home. My parents bought their first house in Massapequa Park, a four bedroom ranch with a basement for five thousand dollars. Imagine that! I started kindergarten in this town, so the year was around 1955. I was one of those kids who had a late birthday, so started school at four years old. Life was good, Jill and Colleen were born in 1956 and 1957, respectively. My dad worked at Republic Aviation Corporation in Farmingdale and my stay at home mom kept a beautiful home with very well behaved, polite children. We were the only kids on the block who addressed our neighbors as Mr. and Mrs. So and So, rather than Aunt and Uncle. Our manners, grammar, and posture were very important to my mother back in those days. All of those have served me well to this day.
Hospice
March 28,2010
Sunday, 8:22 A.M.
CarolAnn's house
Hospice. The word sends a shiver through the heart and brings a tear to each eye. You need only hear it to know how very close to the end of a story one has come. Renee, the Hospice lady, was here to visit with CarolAnn, her sister, Geri, brother-in-law Larry, and me yesterday. Me, mainly because I seem to have drifted into a major care giver role. This is not a pleasant, sip a cup of coffee, snack on a cookie kind of visit. This is serious, straight faced, box of tissues stuff.
Renee knows her job and I guess she does it well. When she left, she has a signed health proxy in her bag assuring that CarolAnn's wishes will be carried out by her sister (which I secretly fear will not be the case), a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) Order, and a synopsis of CarolAnn's personality. She told us that if CarolAnn doesn't want to eat, don't make her, don't even let it bother us. This often happens when people are taking this journey. She asked Geri about CarolAnn's finances (which are nil, so she doesn't need a will), disposition of her personal belongings (find out what things she wants to go to whom), and funeral arrangements (which would be so much easier for the family if they do them in advance). She told CarolAnn that everything will be done her way because that is how they want to ease her from this life, with no loose ends and no questions as to why noone paid attention to her wishes. She made an appointment with CarolAnn just to talk, on Wednesday at 11:00, left the traditional packet of information, (CarolAnn has a lot of those these days) and went on her way. Take care, Renee, wish I could say it was a pleasure.
Sunday, 8:22 A.M.
CarolAnn's house
Hospice. The word sends a shiver through the heart and brings a tear to each eye. You need only hear it to know how very close to the end of a story one has come. Renee, the Hospice lady, was here to visit with CarolAnn, her sister, Geri, brother-in-law Larry, and me yesterday. Me, mainly because I seem to have drifted into a major care giver role. This is not a pleasant, sip a cup of coffee, snack on a cookie kind of visit. This is serious, straight faced, box of tissues stuff.
Renee knows her job and I guess she does it well. When she left, she has a signed health proxy in her bag assuring that CarolAnn's wishes will be carried out by her sister (which I secretly fear will not be the case), a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) Order, and a synopsis of CarolAnn's personality. She told us that if CarolAnn doesn't want to eat, don't make her, don't even let it bother us. This often happens when people are taking this journey. She asked Geri about CarolAnn's finances (which are nil, so she doesn't need a will), disposition of her personal belongings (find out what things she wants to go to whom), and funeral arrangements (which would be so much easier for the family if they do them in advance). She told CarolAnn that everything will be done her way because that is how they want to ease her from this life, with no loose ends and no questions as to why noone paid attention to her wishes. She made an appointment with CarolAnn just to talk, on Wednesday at 11:00, left the traditional packet of information, (CarolAnn has a lot of those these days) and went on her way. Take care, Renee, wish I could say it was a pleasure.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Anticlimax
March 26, 2010
Friday, 5:57 P.M.
Home
To most baseball fans, October 3, 1951 was the day Bobby Thompson, of the New York Giants, hit the "shot heard round the world" against the Brooklyn Dodgers to win the World Series. To one diehard Giants fan, it was the best thing that ever happened in her life. To hear her often tell it, over the course of the years, the birth of her first child one month later, on November 3, 1951, was an anticlimax to the Thompson homerun. So marks my entrance into this world on a stormy fall morning. It took some time to pick a name. My mother was torn between the name, Gail, because of the raging storm outside and the name, Dawn, the alias of a prostitute she had met years earlier. So enamored of the name, she planned that one day, should she have a daughter, then Dawn she would be. This resulted in, I found out many years later, my Birth Certificate reading Dawn Gale Slattery rather than my christened name and the one I use to this day, Dawn Kathleen. There would be many things I would find out many years later, another of them being that I was the daughter of an unwed couple. For most of my childhood, till I was around sixteen or seventeen, we had all been told my parents had married on October 13, 1950, but in truth, it was 1951.
Friday, 5:57 P.M.
Home
To most baseball fans, October 3, 1951 was the day Bobby Thompson, of the New York Giants, hit the "shot heard round the world" against the Brooklyn Dodgers to win the World Series. To one diehard Giants fan, it was the best thing that ever happened in her life. To hear her often tell it, over the course of the years, the birth of her first child one month later, on November 3, 1951, was an anticlimax to the Thompson homerun. So marks my entrance into this world on a stormy fall morning. It took some time to pick a name. My mother was torn between the name, Gail, because of the raging storm outside and the name, Dawn, the alias of a prostitute she had met years earlier. So enamored of the name, she planned that one day, should she have a daughter, then Dawn she would be. This resulted in, I found out many years later, my Birth Certificate reading Dawn Gale Slattery rather than my christened name and the one I use to this day, Dawn Kathleen. There would be many things I would find out many years later, another of them being that I was the daughter of an unwed couple. For most of my childhood, till I was around sixteen or seventeen, we had all been told my parents had married on October 13, 1950, but in truth, it was 1951.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Somebody Else's Story
March 25, 2010
Still Thursday, 10:54 P.M.
Still Home
The night brings a plethora of thoughts that, in turn, trigger emotions which trigger more thoughts, triggering more emotions and round and round it goes. At fifty eight years old, though not decrepit or expecting to look death in the eye tomorrow morning, I am confronted by the fact that the major portion of my life here on earth is behind me. It is strange, in this place that I have come to, that so much of the last fifty eight years feels like somebody else's story. The childhood that I know belonged to the woman typing these words, has become lost in another lifetime, separated from the woman I have become. The people who played major roles in the scenes of my youth have taken on an image that seems conjured, fictitious, unreal, dreamlike. The memories, most of them heartbreaking, are scattered and can't be put in their proper order. It is time that I face this life I have lived, time to take it out in all its tarnished glory, view it through the eyes of the person it has formed, and chronicle it in some form that will hopefully take shape and make sense as it goes along. Each step I have taken has brought me, for some reason, to this place. Where am I going from here and will it seem to be somebody else's story when I'm through or will I recognize the heroine as myself?
Still Thursday, 10:54 P.M.
Still Home
The night brings a plethora of thoughts that, in turn, trigger emotions which trigger more thoughts, triggering more emotions and round and round it goes. At fifty eight years old, though not decrepit or expecting to look death in the eye tomorrow morning, I am confronted by the fact that the major portion of my life here on earth is behind me. It is strange, in this place that I have come to, that so much of the last fifty eight years feels like somebody else's story. The childhood that I know belonged to the woman typing these words, has become lost in another lifetime, separated from the woman I have become. The people who played major roles in the scenes of my youth have taken on an image that seems conjured, fictitious, unreal, dreamlike. The memories, most of them heartbreaking, are scattered and can't be put in their proper order. It is time that I face this life I have lived, time to take it out in all its tarnished glory, view it through the eyes of the person it has formed, and chronicle it in some form that will hopefully take shape and make sense as it goes along. Each step I have taken has brought me, for some reason, to this place. Where am I going from here and will it seem to be somebody else's story when I'm through or will I recognize the heroine as myself?
Life Savers
March 25, 2010
Thursday, 8:53 P.M.
Home
Topics for the blog are endless when I am at work. It seems that every action and reaction of people in that facility is fodder for this venue. I tell myself to remember these instances and use them, then I get to this point in my day and all the fodder has turned into a forgotten jumble. I simply must carry a pen and paper with me at all times to write down the ideas as they are formulated because I have come up with some good stuff! Writing is cathartic for me, always has been. I have poured my heart and soul into writing for years and have never saved a one of them. (I lie, there is one saved one, maybe I'll put it here sometime.) But I digress. The point is that writing is part of my being and my tears of joy and tears of sorrow have found their way on to hundreds, maybe thousands of pages in my lifetime. Each time I have been a better person for having put the words to paper. I have been freed of restraints, I have traveled from here to eternity and I will be forever grateful for being blessed with two innate talents; one to form ideas that translate beautifully to words and the other, to form words that translate beautifully to music. Both, at one time or another, have literally saved my sanity and my life.
Thursday, 8:53 P.M.
Home
Topics for the blog are endless when I am at work. It seems that every action and reaction of people in that facility is fodder for this venue. I tell myself to remember these instances and use them, then I get to this point in my day and all the fodder has turned into a forgotten jumble. I simply must carry a pen and paper with me at all times to write down the ideas as they are formulated because I have come up with some good stuff! Writing is cathartic for me, always has been. I have poured my heart and soul into writing for years and have never saved a one of them. (I lie, there is one saved one, maybe I'll put it here sometime.) But I digress. The point is that writing is part of my being and my tears of joy and tears of sorrow have found their way on to hundreds, maybe thousands of pages in my lifetime. Each time I have been a better person for having put the words to paper. I have been freed of restraints, I have traveled from here to eternity and I will be forever grateful for being blessed with two innate talents; one to form ideas that translate beautifully to words and the other, to form words that translate beautifully to music. Both, at one time or another, have literally saved my sanity and my life.
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