To Each His Own

This week, Adelaide's "own" was new glasses,

which she seriously loves, as do the rest of us.  They arrived just in time, as her cheaper, stand-in pair were literally falling apart every time she tried to do extravagant things like wear them on her face.

Derek's own, I think, was re-adjusting to Iowa temperatures after being in Florida for most of a week.  It's very strange to see him uncomfortable with the cold as he's usually the hardiest of us all, but something about going from shorts in 70-some degree weather to a snowstorm in 14-degree weather was a bit of a shock to his system.  Those of us who had remained in Iowa were very sympathetic to his plight:  "Uh-huh.  Here's your coat."  Not to worry, the hero worship commenced as soon as the kids were awake enough to realize he was back.

Caedmon's own was being a bit under the weather for a day, just long enough to stay home from preschool on a morning where Derek just so happened to also be home.  After a morning spent with Daddy, he used the "I'm siiiiick" excuse to stay in his jammies all day and spend naptime snuggled up next to me.  He claimed the poo pillow made him feel better.  

My own was falling for the first time on a run this winter.  Given how clumsy I am, I have no idea how I made it this long.  It was a minor fall, just slipping on some ice, then on down onto my hands and knees, after which I flopped onto my back to catch my breath and assess any injuries, which aside from a sore foot, were none!  I somehow managed to get mud on my face, and my fall was in front of a couple store fronts and in plain sight of a bunch of houses, so I can only hope my little stunt provided some kind of entertainment for those stuck indoors, endlessly waiting for spring.

War paint

Atticus's own, more than anything, was the death of my mom and Mark's cat, Ed.  We got Ed when I was in high school, so he lived a long life full of victorious crusades against the local vole and rabbit population, which he very thoughtfully left on Mom's front step on a frequent basis, and in his later years, he enjoyed a quiet life monopolizing Mark's lap and being king of all he surveyed, except when the grandkids came to visit and he paid for his otherwise peaceful life by suffering from an abundance of overly physical love.
I broke the news to the kids last night, and while Adelaide and Caedmon were sad at the news of Ed's passing, Atticus was the most upset, which I had expected.  He cried and wanted to spend plenty of time close to me, asking questions about how he died and why he died and whether or not cats go to heaven.  We told stories about Ed, mostly gentle ones from the kids, with a saltier one thrown in here and there by me, such as the time Ed lulled us all into complacency by sweetly sleeping next to the tank where Steph's teddy bear hamster lived, then shocking us all- particularly Steph, who was the first to stumble upon the scene- by one day removing the head of dear Harry Potter Price from his fluffy little body.  (Now, as a mother, I'm wondering how my mom got all that blood out of the blue carpet, because I remember there being a lot of it- both blood and carpet.)
This charming anecdote cheered Atticus more than anything, and he then put in a formal request for Grandma and Mark to get another cat immediately.  He is generously giving them two names from which to choose:  Either Ed, or Pooch.

And now, a gallery of Ed Photographs, because that's what you do when someone dies.

Ed being stalked by one of many enthusiastically affectionate grandchildren.

A typical scene when the grandkids came a-callin':  Children: "ED!"  Ed: "Kill meeeeee."

You Should Only Read This Book if Anyone You Know Might Die Someday

Sometimes, when you feel too strongly about something- say, a book- you lose all power to speak coherently about it.  If I like something just okay, I'll be able to tell you all about its story arc and author and what I believe is its inherent message with a certain degree of fluency.  But if I love it and really believe in it?  Oh.  That poor book.  Instead I'll show up at book club and announce, "HERE IS THE NEXT BOOK YOU'RE GOING TO READ," or I'll text you random quotes from it, or, if you have the misfortune to be married to me, I'll bring it up over and over and over again, telling you about what's wrong with nursing homes and how choice and a degree of autonomy should often still be allowed to trump safety as we age, and how little doctors are trained to deal with a tiny thing like death, and why conversations about our choices concerning the end of our lives are hard but so important, and the virtues of palliative care, and on, and on, and on.  (And on.  Just ask Derek.)

But you see, when you first hear about a book, and you dutifully enter the library queue(ueueue) for it, but the virtual line appears to be unmoving, as if it will never be your turn, and you begin having flashbacks of elementary school and standing in line for the water fountain after enjoying another boiling 90-degree Fahrenheit recess, and that one kid that always took his sweet time gulping down mouthful after mouthful of cold water, and only being able to curb impatience for so long before finally hollering, "SAVE SOME FOR THE FISH, MICHAEL!" which, naturally, only made him remain bent over that dang fountain for an additional desperate ten seconds, during which you almost die of thirst...

Well, it was taking me a really long time to get my hands on this book, is what I'm trying to say.

But then, as if sensing my desperation (or perhaps gleaning it from a Facebook comment), a certain hospice nurse not just sent me a copy, she sent me her own copy, pausing in her own reading to lend it to me across state lines, like some kind of Florence Nightingale/Andrew Carnegie hybrid.

So what we have here is:  A nonfiction book about death and dying and medicine's relationship with the same by a surgeon who is no longer satisfied by what he sees both in his field of work and in our culture, written with compassion and wisdom and urgency and a desire to fix things that are broken, endorsed by a hospice nurse, and recommended by little, book-reading old me, who has been kept up a number of nights now, unable to put this book down, reading and re-reading sections and trying to figure out how I'm going to use some of this knowledge to change my dialogue going forward.

Read it so we can tug at our hair and clench our teeth and raise our eyebrows and babble things at each other like, "Being Mortal, it's just- it's so- and that part about the elderly- and hospice- and paternalistic vs informative vs interpretive- and everything- and GAH, I KNOW!"

Being Mortal.  Atul Gawande.  Write it down.