13 loyal readers

I used to routinely say that I appreciated my 8 loyal readers. For reasons I can not explain there has been a small uptick in readers. I mentioned in December that it looked like I would end up with more readers in the last month of 2012 than any month of the year including the first two when I was busy telegraphiging my imminent candidacy for Congress. The numbers in January and February no doubt included a small hive of politicial junkies eager to find out what kind of mayhem I could bring to a race that was wide open with nine months to go.

The numbers dropped off as I got wrapped up in other misadventures and eventually stopped all talk of throwing my hat in the ring. There is a new normal however, I think I will have to start referring to my 13 loyal readers. Even with a miserable 2 posts in the first four days of 2013 I’m on a trajectory to improve even on the December 2012 numbers. I’ve got new readers in Japan apparently. It can’t be my snow sculptures. Mine pale compared to Sapporo’s.

I have hinted at a new Quixotic adventure – running for the Duluth School Board. That may have a few partisans of the Red Plan nervously reading. Maybe the uptick is simply a reflection of there being more people on the Internet with too much time on their hands.

This post will include a little catch up on the last couple days of personal reflection. I’m only doing it because my visit to my Mother was cut short this morning as staff in her wing of the Alzheimer’s unit rushed toward me with their face masks to hustle me out because of an outbreak of influenza. As I exited they assured me my Mother was OK. This was ironic on a couple scores.

Claudia and I were out running new year’s errands yesterday when I pointed out a huge sign offering flu shots. We both got shot up. The pharmacist said, “Hi Harry” when I showed up. I didn’t know him from Adam but my local infamy frequently proceeds me. The shots won’t offer me protection for a few days so its just as well I was hustled out. That’s irony one. Irony two. My Mother’s condidtion is such that all of her children agreed many years ago to give her caregivers a DNR. This means, that in the event of her illness there is a Do Not Resuscitate order. She can be given palliative medicine to keep her comfortable but not to revive her should she begin to fail rapidly. The irony here is that a month ago I was informed that one of the staff members routinely gave her a flu shot along with other people in her wing. This went beyond the palliative medicine regime and when asked before hand if she should be given a shot I said “no.”

When the staff discovered its mistake and admitted it to me I shrugged it off. It was an accident and well intentioned. My family discussed DNR’s with my Mother a decade or more ago when the mental difficulties were beginning to emerge and she was fully supportive of a DNR when she was capable of such personal planning. She (the woman of ten years ago) would be bothered to see herself today. Her condition eventually led to a falling out between family members which has not yet been healed.

I got an unexpected letter from a sibling who visited Mom for the first time in three years since I transferred Mom to Duluth. It was a short but generous letter that suggested that there might be hope for the rift’s repair.

I wrote back and mentioned how when I was in grade school fifty years ago Mom had confided to me her own anguish that her Mother was undergoing mental senescence. From that day on Mom worried that she might follow suit. Her fears came to pass after a generation of improved medicine and healthcare guaranteed that her enduring heart would would keep her alive for many years of incomprehension. She would not have wished this, but as I wrote to my sibling, she does not suffer and can no longer be troubled by the fate that has befallen her.

There is yet another irony in this. I now visit Mom far more often once every four or five days. When I began my visits she was in the Twin Cities and I had to complete a five hour round-trip drive for every hour and a half visit. For that first year I could talk to her. It was mostly by monologuing. Then I got a wonderful and unexpected gift. My beautiful daughter, who was herself studying vocal performance, gave me four hour-long voice lessons for Christmas. The teacher lived not far from my Mother’s new residence and after the small embarrassment of taking each lesson I discovered I could sing to my Mother when my monologue fell silent. Mom could sing with me such songs as: “I’ve been working on the Rail Road,” “Mairzy Doats” and the favorite of all old folks homes, “You are my Sunshine.”

I got my first set of lyrics from a pianist who played for nursing home patients (I can’t read music but I have a good head for familiar old melodies) and I’ve been adding more lyrics for the past four years. I’ve probably ammased close to 2,000 of them by now and I keep adding to them. I sing all sorts of songs to Mom and it doesn’t matter to either of us whether she knew or even liked them. I belt out songs sung by Tennessee Ernie Ford (Sixteen Tons) Jim Croce (Leroy Brown) as well as her Father’s favorite Civil War anthems. Sometimes I preform for her whole wing and its a lovely uncomplaining audience that almost makes me forget my vocal limitations.

In short my Mother’s malady has become an unexpected blessing at least for me. It helped me discover how much I like singing which, come to think of it, isn’t all that surprising for a fellow who loves the sound of his own pontification.

This is not a new subject for me. I wrote about it once early in my Mother’s institutionalization as a columnist for a local tabloid in town. I’ve even posted about my singing before.

Back when I wrote for the Reader Weekly I had a potential of 10,000 eyes but I probably had the same eight regular readers I still have even with a billion potential eyes on the Internet. To all eight, er thirteen, of you I say: Thank’s for stopping by.

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