Serial Killer Fruit

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Allergies, like so much data collected on medical visits and admissions, are checked off, put on a bracelet, and then filed in an uncaring computer. Usually, a diligent pharmacist or nurse will notice drug allergy data, but what about food allergies?

Yes, I know; you put your food allergies on the form. Do you think someone actually reads those answers on the forms? A few years back, I filled out a form that asked  Sex _____ (meaning gender.) I wrote “No, but willing.” Didn’t get any action on that one, and I’m guessing most of what you provide goes unnoticed and unused. A couple of times, it nearly cost my husband his life. He had numerous hospitalizations, procedures, and ER visits, and the fact is, he needed someone at the bedside 24/7 to guard him. Exhausted, worried family members should not have to fear taking a break, but the truth is they should be fearful. If a nurse and a communications professor cannot get important information across, heaven help the rest of you.

I worked in a busy hospital. I am more than sympathetic to the frenzied pace and high demands on staff, so when my own family encounters a problem with service, I strive to approach calmly, (at least on the first 4-5 tries.) Medical people can be pretty obnoxious as family members, so I almost always urge improve the system, not worry about what happened to us. This approach has been effective, at least until the Serial Killer Strawberries episodes.

“You gotta have a CABG. Now.” We were not in the produce section looking at cruciferous vegetables. We were in the cardiologist’s office, and he was sending my husband off to have triple Coronary Artery By-pass Graft surgery –a CABG–in our small community hospital. “Now,” he repeated.  Three of the four major arteries carrying oxygen to the heart were clogged and needed to be reamed out or replaced.

CABG is not a minor life experience. Some or all of your heart must be stopped while new vessels are grafted on and nasty ones removed. I was a nurse. I knew it was serious. Still, nothing could have prepared me for the sight of my husband in ICU. For one thing, the nurse had to tell me that it was my husband. He was flat on his back and immensely swollen with fluid. I counted twelve IV bags hanging around the head of his bed. The man had tubes in every natural opening on his body. He also had tubes in some openings they had created just for this occasion. Some fluids were going in and other draining out. His chest had been split down the middle like a roasting chicken, but ever cheerful, he opened one eye and said, “That was fun.”

He tolerated some ice chips, then water, and now it was time for a treat. A young man came shuffling into the bay, his long hair was smashed inside a white hair net. He plopped a little tub of red juice on the overbed table and turned to leave.

“Wait!” I said. “What is that?”

“Juice,” he said.

“I meant what kind. He’s allergic to strawberries. Very allergic.” I pointed to the red wristband that said so.

“It’s punch. I don’t think it has any strawberries,” he said, reassuring absolutely no one.

“Willing to bet my husband’s life on that?” I asked, trying to quash my inner nurse.. “Could you check on the ingredients?” He decided to take it back.

He was probably right: fruit punch likely has no fruit of any kind. But, this was not a minor itchy allergy we were worried about; this was a throat-closing, hives-like-pizza-sauce allergy. It was deadly. Once my husband tested it out in case it had gone away. (He was not a scientist.) He touched the very tip of his finger to some strawberry cream cheese and then to his tongue. Pink as Porky Pig within minutes.

Soon, our enthused servant returned and placed a bowl of Jell-O on the table. Care to guess what color? I grabbed the little tub and headed for the kitchen. The dietary office was down some basement hallways past the morgue and rooms with nuclear warning signs. The only person in the kitchen said the dietitian was not there. I said I’d wait, and when she did return, I explained my concerns.

“I’ll make sure his record has his allergies,” she said and headed toward her desk.

“It’s all over his records and on his wrist band, which was not checked, by the way.” I told her I was not there to get any individual in trouble, but wanted to know what they would do to prevent this from happening again (maybe to someone without an armed guard at the bedside.) She had no answer and looked aggravated.

“If my husband had an allergic reaction which stopped his heart,” I asked her, “how do you think CPR might affect those vessels newly stitched to his heart muscle?” There was no response.

Two days later, I arrived at lunch time and my husband held up a white bowl. I didn’t even need to look. I thought about the TV ads telling us how this little community hospital was so caring. Caring and murderous, as it turned out.

My husband survived his CABG and the equally dangerous dietary service and was discharged. I wrote a long letter to hospital administration. It was not strident, but asked how they would fix their system. I pointed out that had he been alone, confused, sleepy on anesthesia, had dementia, or been a child, he might have eaten those berries. Again, there was no response.

Two years later, in a state far away, in a larger community hospital with a top-notch reputation, my husband was being prepped for an outpatient heart procedure. I taped a sign to his bed indicating his allergy. The nurse gave me a “duh-we got that covered” look and pointed at his allergy bracelet. He did well during the procedure and recovery, so I went home to catch a little sleep. They brought him strawberries a few minutes after I left. I talked to the dietitian who had been taught to listen attentively and appear concerned. She must have skipped the afternoon session at that in-service, the one about actually solving the problem after one listens.

On to a fancy private hospital for a hip replacement. The room and menu rivaled the best New York City hotel. This hospital was top o’ the line, so it took a full two days to serve the strawberries.

Soon thereafter we had an ER visit. The nurse asked if my husband wanted a snack; he’d been there several hours and was diabetic. I told the nurse about our experiences with strawberries, and we all shook our heads. He ordered ice cream. The little cardboard container arrived within minutes. Who even eats strawberry ice cream? The nurse returned, took one look, and was horrified. They decided to admit my husband that day and while they packed up his things, I took a red felt tip pen and wrote “Allergic to Strawberries!!!” right across his forehead. This surprised the nurse who admitted him upstairs, but it was effective. It continued to be effective long after discharge; turns out it was a permanent marker.

Back to the previous hospital for a serious heart issue. This time, I took a roll of paper about ten inches high and wide enough to span the doorway to the room. I wrote in 6-inch high red letters “NO STRAWBERRIES. ALLERGIC! VERY.” I drew some berries as a border. I taped it across the doorway at eye level. Doctors, nurses, and visitors had to limbo their way into my husband’s room. His first lunch was served by a tall young fellow who ducked under the sign and placed a silver dome on the table. Like a fine waiter, he whipped off the cover. There sat a fist-sized strawberry, pressed into his pasta. I pointed it out. He said, “it’s just a garnish.” I ripped off the sign, picked up the berry, and started out of the room. As I exited, I heard my husband say, “Uh oh.” I passed the nursing station at a good clip, holding up the berry and the sign. To my surprise, several nurses said, “Go get ‘em!” I gathered they had an on-going beef with dietary.

Again, to the basement. (Perhaps they should bring these people up into the sunlight.) The receptionist said the head dietitian was in a meeting and would be done in an hour. She nodded toward a conference room across the hall.  I walked right that room holding up the sign, then the fruit. She started to blame the poor guy who had delivered the tray.

“Seriously? He’s in charge of vital allergy data and quality control here in dietary, not a professional dietitian?” She abandoned that tactic. When I returned to the floor, the head nurse suggested I call a patient representative.

The patient rep was terrific. Within a few weeks, she called and caught me up. She had presented our experiences to hospital administration. She met with dietary from top to bottom. Later, we received a detailed letter on actions that had been taken, including omitting strawberries as a garnish, since many people are allergic.

Weeks later, I called a national organization for dietitians and detailed our three-year fruit war. I asked if there were people doing research on managing allergies, on hospital system breakdowns, on communication about food allergies, staff training, etc. They said no. I did not believe them. I said surely there were grad students in dietary programs looking for research projects; how might we suggest this topic to them? The response was utter disinterest.

There are wonderful, responsible, knowledgeable people working in medical institutions. But, I am guessing many of them would not leave the bedside of a friend or relative. I know I wouldn’t.

MOVE OVER, BEST BIRDS

“Use what talents you possess; the woods would be very silent

if no birds sang there except those that sang best.”

                                                                 Henry Van Dyke

A well-meaning and beloved teacher of mine gave me this advice: Find one thing that you are very good at; become the best at that one thing. Great teacher, but for me, bad advice. I am a sampler. I like to try lots of different things: careers, hobbies, styles, animals, hairdos. Life is too long to be forever stuck on something just because you’re good at it. I am very glad that some people do take my teacher’s advice. A neurosurgeon, for example: please get very, very good at one thing. Genius composers: Beethoven, do not waste time in the kitchen. Car mechanic: concentrate on my struts. Focus. Be the best. But, it’s not my thing.

I could sing, not amazingly, but passably. After high school choir, my singing largely took place in the car. Sometimes the hospice staff serenaded folks at our volunteer dinners. Then, a few years ago, at a wonderful holiday concert by the Longmont Chorale, the director invited audience members to join the group for its next concert. Who, me? That concert had been terrific, well out of my league, I thought. Still, something in me was intrigued, especially since he said there were no auditions. If auditions were required, there is no chance I would have considered it. How could they produce a sound like that with unauditioned singers? I was curious.

I went to the next rehearsal. Within five minutes, I was singing out, being encouraged by those around me, being amazed at how much fun everyone was having. The director clearly loved this group and these people. They loved each other. There was laughter, there were tender moments wrapped in music. A hundred people–high school to nonagenarians. Music pros and car crooners like me. What a sound! What a feeling.

I went home and announced to my husband: “You are coming next week. If you don’t like it, I will never mention it again. But, if I have to hogtie you, you are coming next week.” He came, he sang, and he, too, was conquered. That chorale is so important to so many. It helped people weather tragedies and celebrate triumphs. It provided moments between singers and audience members that were visibly powerful. Carmina Burana, Ola Gjeilo, Mozart.

That chorale was very hard to leave. Seemed silly to try again and just too hard to reattach.  But, something made me override myself. Something dragged me to an actual–gulp!­–audition. And, here I am in a smaller group but having a very familiar experience. Fun people, dedicated people, skilled people, wonderful music.

You do not have to be a canary or a nightingale. Come on, you sparrows and crows, you finches and woodpeckers. Try choral singing. For you left brained people: singing will cure what ails you; it’s proven to improve vital signs, mood, and cognitive function. For you right brained people: you already know it will work. You just have to find the rehearsal.

You have a song in your heart. Is it time to let it out and let it work its magic on you?

INTERSECTIONS

PART 2

No, I Didn’t Have Favorite Patients, but . . .

When I was little, my mother told me I had to stay at the table until I ate at least one piece of liver. I tried logic, I tried facts. I explained to her that the liver is the body’s filter for toxins, so eating that would be akin to licking the lint filter on the dryer. She didn’t buy the scientific approach. So, I told her I would rather grow up  sitting at the kitchen table than eat liver. Perhaps my natural contrariness explains my affinity for the more cantankerous patients; I could meet them where they were–railing against the situation, the injustice, the fear. I have more railing in me than Burlington Northern. Some patients could be a titch difficult, but I was perfectly aware that I was going to be just like that. Those “do not go gentle into that good night” folks have a special spot in my heart. One was Hazel.

Hazel was referred to hospice. When she opened her door on my first visit, I took one step forward and two steps back. I suggested we chat on her front porch. She had several cats and no litter boxes. Her overstuffed chairs had served as litterboxes for years. Trash was taken out by her son, maybe now and then. I don’t mind clutter, but  the air in her home was unbreathable. Still, I learned to deal with it.

Hazel, like many in her age group, was firm in her resolve to remain in her home. She was a tiny, wiry woman, clearly not related to the Wallendas; she careened around her house, rebounding off door jambs and furniture. There are lists of risks professionals use to assess the likelihood that a person will be able to remain at home alone. Hazel lit up all those indicators and a few more. But, those list-makers did not know Hazel.

One weekend, I was on call and received a call that Hazel had fallen and cut her forehead. She greeted me at the door with a red slit from eyebrow to hairline. It wasn’t bleeding much, but clearly it needed stitches. Hazel was wearing her nightie and one small post earring, and she wasn’t about to go to the ER until she found the other one. You could throw a tiny earring into the crowd at a football stadium and have about the same chance of retrieving it, but we gave it a go. Tore her bed apart. Fearlessly looked under the bed. After half an hour, I told her we really needed to get her head repaired. I sat on the edge of her bed to help her get dressed. She took off her nightie, handed me her sweat pants, and stood before me. And there it was! One gold earring, imbedded, sharp little  post pressed well into her bottom. Ouch. Hazel was a long way from The Princess and the Pea. I retrieved the earring, she put it on, and off we went.

A young, newly-minted doc examined Hazel and stitched her up. I think he may have been doing French knots because it took him forever. Finally, he looked up from her chart and practiced his best doctor-patient tone.

“Hazel, I see you’ve had a few falls. I think it’s time we think about a nursing home.” She sat up, leaned in, and put her face inches from his.

“Young man,” she said, using her best you’re-a-little-whippersnapper tone, “there’s worse things than stitches.”

She hopped off the table, and we left.

There’s worse things than stitches, alright. Liver comes to mind.

INTERSECTIONS

or

"How can you stand to be a nurse?" 

Part 1

 People often acknowledge nurses' good service and compassion. Few, however, understand the education required, the technical skills, the knowledge of human behavior and family systems, the ever-changing technical skills, the knowledge of hospital and insurance systems and politics. They seldom grasp the utter exhaustion, the patience required to work with people in terrible circumstances, the lack of respect by some colleagues.

When I became a nurse at age 40, countless people asked me, "How can you stand to be a nurse?" What these people seldom glimpse are those rare moments when the lives of a vulnerable patient and a truly available and skilled nurse intersect. Sometimes, right in the middle of body fluids, rudeness, bad news, meaningless documentation, and automaton administrators, the bare wires of two souls fall across one another. Caregiver and patient intersect in a deep place. My guess is that few people experience such connection in their work–perhaps the teacher at long last reaching a student or a composer who finally breathes life into his or her symphony for the first time. For nurses, it often happens when someone stands at the edge of life, truly facing mortality. For just that moment, you do not let that person stand there alone. Life on the surface falls away.

Memories of these moments make me want to ask, "How can you stand not being a nurse?" 

I am grateful to patients and their families who let me into their lives, tolerated my shortcomings and moments when I was not fully present, acknowledged my successes, and trusted me with unimaginable generosity.

Now and then, I will write of these intersections, hoping to honor some memorable patients–their heroism, their fight, their grace in not fighting, and the worst life can throw at a person. I will anonymize their identities and circumstances beyond recognition, but share their spirits. I also hope to honor my nurse colleagues who, even while scraping things off their shoes and trying to stay awake through another in-service, know exactly how they can stand to be a nurse.

Nice try, life (or death;) you did not win!

Ten Sales Pitches That Won't Work on Old People

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1.   It has a lifetime guarantee!

          At this point, the cottage cheese in my fridge pretty much               falls into that category.

2.   It adds to the resale value of your house!

          My next move is in an urn. The kids can worry about resale              value.

3.   You can purchase an extended warranty!

           Why? Is it gonna break?

4.   You'll feel like a new person!

          I do not need someone else to worry about.

5.   Your friends won't recognize you!

         We're darn near there already.

6.   As seen on TV!

          So is Sean Hannity.

7.   Your friends will envy you!

          See #5 above.

 

8.   Two for the price of one.

          Why? Is the first one gonna break?

9.   Money-back guarantee!

          Unlikely I'd be the one collecting that.

10.  The last one you'll ever have to buy!

          True of almost everything I can see from my recliner.

Revenge on a Sierra Club Bicycle Trip  🍷🚴🍷🚴🍷🚴             🚴

One by one, participants in our Sierra Club bicycle trip gathered at the campsite. They ranged from burly to buff to gnarly. One young rider could have reached around and set his water bottle on top of his calf. Then, my sister and I arrived. We ranged from doughy to squishy. The others fine-tuned their derailleurs while we struggled to pry the staples out of the airline bicycle boxes. We were there to coast across Maui, breathe in the scent of tropical flowers, stop for pineapple drinks. Clearly, the other participants were there to conquer Maui, humble it, bring it into submission. It was a fine way to celebrate my thirtieth birthday.

We pitched our tents on the black sand beach and walked to the water’s edge for our first plunge into the Pacific Ocean. I jumped right into the crashing surf, while my sister settled on the beach. After coasting underwater, I stood up, back to the ocean, and was chatting with her when suddenly, her face froze and her gaze moved up past my shoulder. About then, I was smacked down by a huge wave, rolled right up the beach, and deposited at her feet. When the water receded, my sister looked­­ like someone who’d seen a body sit up in a coffin. When she was sure I was breathing, she comforted me by noting, “You look like a big breaded shrimp.” It was true. I was covered in sand, inside and outside my bathing suit. My long hair was a sand mat. A variety of medical and dental specialists would discover sand during future examinations for a long time to come. Back home, you’d pay good money for a full-body exfoliation like that. It was not the last humiliation on this trip for this far-from-serious bicyclist.

In the morning, we crawled out of our tent to watch the sun rise over the beach. The trip chef put large griddles on the fire and made the most delectable breakfast I have ever had–macadamia nut pancakes with coconut syrup. Most nights, we had Mahi Mahi on the grill. I gained ten pounds in two weeks biking around Maui.

Good days were those with the crosswind at your back; you could put your feet up on the handlebars and ride the breeze. (I’d have to cut off my feet to do that now.) It was less fun when a semi-truck loaded with pineapples sped past and blasted us with hot, fruity, exhaust fumes. On tough days, we rode into the wind, and on the toughest day of all, we rode up Haleakala, the volcano. It took 8 hours going up and half an hour coming down. We were embarrassed when a 70-year old participant easily passed us. “Same steady pace, up or down,” he called out. Near the top was a little plateau. That was a relief as the rest of the trip was straight up riding; you pedaled or you slid back down the hill. We dismounted and caught our breath in this meadow, surrounded by a large herd of cows. Lots of cows. And two bulls, one black and one brown. (Bulls are humongous when viewed from a bicycle.) Riding behind me, my sister called out, “If I were you, I’d stay away from that black bull.” There were about 30 black calves and just two brown ones.

We reached the top, very proud of ourselves. A row of outdoor showers looked so good in that tropical sun. As I stood under the cool water, my eyes adjusted their focal length. On every ledge in the shower was some sort of lizard. Their eyes were bugging out and their tongues wagging, no doubt gossiping about my helmet hair.

There was one big mystery on this two-week adventure: no matter how far we rode and no matter how small the backpacks, when we gathered for dinner, one of the other riders always produced a bottle or two of wine from home and some plastic glasses. All the other riders were from wine country, either California or Australia. We hailed from Michigan and Iowa. Before, during, and after the meal, they talked about the wine, argued about the wine, and as the evening wore on, surrendered to the wine. We were disinterested, but polite. After a week, we were bored stiff with their wine obsession. We surreptitiously rode to Hasegawa’s General Store on the Hana Highway. We were plotting– not murder–but our last meal. And, what a delightful meal it was! After dinner, we told the others it surely was our turn to treat as they had been most generous with their wine for the past two weeks. I presented our bottle, wrapped very professionally in a white towel, label well hidden. I stood before them and said, “We are so impressed with your wine expertise, so we are going to have a taste test. Let’s see who can identify this wine.” We poured a glass of pale pink wine for each bicyclist. They sniffed it. They held it to the light of the setting sun. They swirled it. Finally, they drew a small amount into their mouths and swished it all around–teeth, tongue, tonsils, and gums. Finally, down it went. “It’s a nice Rose’,” one said. “I agree. Very nice,” said another. “I don’t know. Maybe a Riesling.” “Definitely Napa Valley.” “Fruity.” “Fungal.” “Feisty.” They all agreed on one thing: it had a lovely bouquet and an especially good finish. More like finish remover, we were thinking, because we had rescued one of their nice wine bottles and filled it with Boone’s Farm Strawberry wine. No amount of fancy bike riding would neutralize their humiliation. And, no amount of humiliating riding could dampen our satisfaction at our own little Maui conquest.

Just Another Night On-call

Ice storms are no deterrent to an on-call hospice nurse, and I did the half-hour drive into town in 20 minutes flat. The telltale porch light identified the only house where anyone was expected at this time of night. The elderly woman had died before the family called, so I was here to comfort, tie up loose ends, and see to the body being picked up.

Their long, icy sidewalk sloped up to the front door, so I put the handles of my bag over my shoulder and grabbed onto shrubs to pull myself up the slick sidewalk.

Hadn’t been to this house before and had never met this particular family, but I’d done this for a while and was pretty unflappable. I’d faced crying families, laughing families, and a son with a gun who said, “You’d better not let my mama die.” I’d cared for people in mansions, in the basement of a fast food drive-through, and in creepy motel rooms. Sometimes people called when they were profusely bleeding and sometimes when they were profoundly lonely, both emergencies in hospice world. If you want to do this kind of work, you’d better wear your mental tap shoes and be ready for anything, especially when you’re out there alone on call in the middle of the night.

A middle-aged gentleman opened the door. His wife and two small children looked on from the dining room.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Nothin’ we didn’t expect,” he answered, his tone ending the conversation like a guillotine. “She’s upstairs.” He nodded toward the stairway in the corner of the rather che’che’ living room. It was clear I was going up alone.

The thing is, this wasn’t just any stairway. It was one of those self-contained steel columnar jobs, tall and narrow with triangular steps that wound around and around and finally delivered one into the upstairs hallway through a hole in the ceiling. I popped out into the upstairs hall like whack-a-mole, hospice edition.

Grandma was, indeed, dead. She was a round woman, short and full-figured, and she rested under a lovely homemade quilt. I called the funeral home so they’d be on their way, did what had to be done, then picked my way back down the stairwell to the living room. The family declined my offer to spend time with grandma before the funeral home folks arrived, so we waited silently.

Finally, the doorbell rang, and I greeted the man from the funeral home, but it wasn’t the usual guy.

“Omigod, the ice,” he said. He was a skinny needle of a man, red faced and twitching nervously. I guessed he wasn’t used to making middle of the night runs for bodies, that he likely worked in some other capacity, likely a desk job. I poked my head out the door, looking for someone else. Usually they send two guys. 

“Had to come alone,” he said. “Busy night.” My back started to throb at the thought of just the two of us carrying Grandma. We stepped inside, and he took off his black topcoat. Now what do you suppose he had in his coat that would make the situation even more fun? He had one arm. Not one arm and then the other arm. Just one arm. So, I’ve got an inexperienced skinny guy with one arm who’s mouth breathing after coming up the walk from the street.

“Where’s the gurney?” I ask.

“Right here,” he says. I hadn’t even noticed the skinny poles he was holding. Turns out, he’d brought the kind of stretcher made of two poles with a piece of canvas in between. I hadn’t seen one of those since my brother was a Cub Scout and had to practice rescuing our pissed off dog from the woods.

I pointed at the staircase and led the way. Once upstairs, I peered back down at Don Knots trying to get those two long poles up the circular staircase. He banged them on every rung, hit himself on the forehead a couple of times, and finally got everything dead sideways, so I had to go down and help dislodge him. We walked down the hall to the bedroom.

“Oh, my,” he said when he saw Grandma. We rolled her to the side of the bed, and I held her there while the emaciated one unfurled his canvas and laid it on the sheet. I gently rolled her back, and the canvas disappeared beneath her. Don’t know what kind of wood those skinny little poles were made of, but I surely hoped they were going to support this woman all the way to the funeral home station wagon without incident. We covered her with a sheet, fastened two wide straps to hold her to the stretcher and then took our positions on each side of the bed. I grabbed my pole tightly with both hands.

“One, two three,” I said and we lifted. Nothing happened.

“One, two, three,” I repeated. And, we achieved lift-off, just enough to clear the edge of the bed. We inched our way out of the room, then down the hall. Funeral man is beet red, grandma is pure white, and I’m looking at the circular staircase before us.

I hoisted my end of the stretcher onto my right shoulder, holding it there with one hand, freeing up the other one to hold tightly to the rail. I took one step down. This put Grandma at about 10 degrees off horizontal. I moved down another step. 20 degrees off horizontal. Third step-you get the ratio. Now it was funeral man’s turn to take his first step down. He hoisted the stretcher onto his shoulder and held it there, having to lean his hip against the rail for support.

We proceeded downward, my knees shaking, buckling under the full weight of Grandma, the stretcher, and for all I knew, funeral man, all balanced on my shoulder. Now, there was absolutely no reason at all to think that these poles would go down any easier than they went up. We got snagged on every little wrought iron detail. Halfway down, our load was now vertical. Grandma was virtually standing above the living room, something none of us had anticipated at this stage of her life.

And then I began to wonder. How well had we fastened those straps? My mind conjured  up those old movie scenes when a sailor died mid-journey and they carried him to the rail on a plank under a blanket to give him a burial at sea. I envisioned Grandma shooting out into the living room and landing right at the feet her family.

It had been a strange evening, all right, skirting chaos and mayhem, but we made it downstairs without traumatizing the children and moved toward the front door. I began to think about that warm, soft bed waiting for me at home. As we stepped onto the front porch, covered with it’s thick layer of glare ice, the three of us began moving down the sidewalk toward the black station wagon parked out on the street. But, by moving, I do not mean walking. No, we were sliding downhill--me, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Grandma––picking up speed as we went, racing toward the curb like a 3-man luge team from hell while the family watched from the doorway. We hit the side of the car, and funeral man went flat on his back behind me. Next came Grandma on the stretcher falling right on top of him. Then I, the third domino, also fell backward onto Grandma because the stretcher had smacked me in both Achilles tendons. There we were, a human triple-decker sandwich, halfway under the funeral home car, half out in the elements looking up at the falling snow. but at least we’d stopped. And, the snow was pretty. Eventually, Grandma was tucked safely inside the car, funeral guy got behind the wheel of what I sincerely hoped was his automatic transmission car and waved.

“Thanks for coming,” I said.

While driving home, I dialed the report line to let the day shift know how the night had gone.

“Mornin’, guys. Mrs. Leopold died at 2:00 am. Otherwise, a pretty quiet night.”

Writing on the Wall

Welcome to my blog. Ask me what I weigh, but don't ask me what genre describes my writing. I am happy to write about the news, write a promo to shame you into attending a concert, write a children's story, or capture my favorite hospice moments. Here I will share some of those moments in my life that have driven me to the keyboard. At this point in my life, constraints are not welcome. I will write right now or exhume some older favorites. Feel free to throw tomatoes (that's all they're good for) or flowers. Happy to hear from you.
Wendy Gilbert Gronbeck