The Same Old Song

As we entered the Senior Living Facility, a visiting musician was wrapping up his mellow piano playing.

"Why don’t they ever play anything lively?" asked Mary.  All the residents were either already sleeping in their wheelchairs, or nodding off.  “These people need some stimulation.”

She received no disagreement from me.  But the comment unleashed a spark. In a flash, a vision of a better future appeared!

The Hardly Rockin’ Nursing Home!  Oh, wait. I mean the Hardly Rockin’ Senior LIVING Center.  Yes, let's play out the string with Warm Socks and Drugs and Rock and Roll!  It’s a natural progression, serving the same demographic that currently frequents the similarly named cafes in every major city.

There'll be performers in every public space.  But not sleepy-eyed harpists. Rockers! Get the residents up and moving, and if we can't get up, get us Rockin' and Rollin' in our wheelchairs.  "Get with the program, Mister," says the aide, "Snap your fingers!" Which is also excellent physical therapy. "Now Twist and Shout!" Yes, flexibility augmentation is unquestionably good, and repetitive shouting is aerobic.

Speakers in the hall belt out “Truckin” to help you do the wheelchair shuffle.  And what better band than the Grateful Dead to make you grateful you’re not quite dead.  

You’ll be glad you’re alive when you make it to the dinning hall. We'll be eating all the foods we know and love. Don't worry about any negative effects, because...well, you know.  It'll be great to chow down on those pureed nachos with cheese, de-boned minced wings (extra mild), and all those other mystery purees. And don't forget the ever-present mashed potatoes with your favorite gravy of choice.  Yum!

There will be multiple Elvis impersonators!  If this ain't the Heartbreak Hotel, no place is.  Strains of Love Me Tender fill your room when family comes to visit.  Jailhouse Rock will be a go-to favorite, because everyone in the facility is always saying how they just want to go home.

If it’s getting to the point where you’re no fun anymore, spend a night in the Judy Blue Eyes Suite .  Relax to the strains of Crosby, Stills, Nash and no longer Young. Adjust that attitude!

Park your chair in the Asbury room.  Vision issues? No problem. You’ll be Dancin' in the Dark.  Rejoice in the fact you were Born in the USA, and kibbitz with friends about your Glory Days.  Yes, those were the days, my friend. We thought they’d never end.

Let what's left of your hair down and listen to Beatles covers while you and others wait for bloodwork results in the Liver Pool.  Can you hear the strains of “When I'm 64?” Nawww...much too young. Gotta update that one.  Maybe 84.

Colored lights that hypnotize will sparkle in our aging eyes.  Laser light shows and spotlights will shock us out of our stupor.  Floor to ceiling video screens will be better than real when the grandchildren Facetime us.

The fact that you are Still Crazy After All These Years is not a problem.  It’s just another facility-wide theme! Similarly, all of us with Alzheimer's or other types of dementia will be required to attend daily "Who Are You?" sessions where you'll work on the lyrics if facial identification is no longer within your reach.

We’ll turn up the heat so we don’t get cold,

Cause it’s too late to die ‘fore we get old.

Got a problem?  Take a pill! Or for depression, let's use the original Coca-Cola formula.  "Coke Adds Life!" And just so we don't add to the downer mood, we’ll avoid playing songs like "Dust in the Wind," or "Is That All There Is?," or Harry Nilsson’s anthemic “I’d Rather Be Dead, Than Wet My Bed.”  Or maybe not.

For pain, there’ll be Medical Marijuana - but no more smoking.  Smoking is bad for you, and this is a smoke free facility.

"Mr. Fredlund, you seem to be uncomfortable today.  Here, have a Gummy Bear."

I hear strains of James Brown singing "I Feel Good."

And if all this gets the blood flowing again, and we elderly are invigorated, Viagra can be used for more than just preventing the old men from rolling out of bed!

"I still don't want to end up there," said Mary.

“Yeah, me either.”

And now for one final tune from the Spiral Staircase. Sing along! (If you don't remember the tune, click on the link for a refresher.)

More Today than Yesterday

I don't remember what day it is.

I never notice what time it is

All I know is that help is overdue

And if you ask me what is new,

I'll say "Who the hell are you?"

Every day's a new day, when you have dementia.

With each day I must say, "My brain is in absentia."

Every time I lick my lips my mind starts to wander

And if all my dreams come true,

You will change my diaper soon

Oh, I stumble more today than yesterday

But not as much as tomorrow

I bumble more today than yesterday

But, dammit, not as much as tomorrow

-------------------------

On Top of a Small Portion of the World

Kane is one of the nearby mountains.  It has appeal beyond just the workout it takes to get to the top, since there is a fire tower that provides an opportunity for a good visual assessment of the lay of the land.

Mary and I donned our snowshoes and signed in at the trailhead.  We might have done without the shoes since the trail was unexpectedly well packed, but experience informs that using the shoes unnecessarily is far superior to getting halfway in and needing them.

On a "why didn't I think of that?" note, there were tracks all the way from the top where someone had used a saucer or some other type of lightweight sled to make short work and great fun of the descent.  A descendent of a bobsledder, no doubt.

Just outside the Center For Vandalism and Graffiti, formerly known as the Ranger Cabin.
Upon seeing the dwelling, and conjuring how it appeared in bygone days,
 one can't help but ponder the lifestyle of these hardy souls.

Mary moves to better appreciate the lakes spread out below.
Due to the lack of obscuring foliage,
the view is a treat for those disliking the height of the fire tower.

The way the lakes wrap around the mountain is invisible during warmer months.

Not so bad at this low level,
the ice completely covers the steps and handrails
as one climbs higher.

Do not worry, icy wires will retain you.

At the top, the tower provides magnificent views.
Look to the north across Pine Lake to the rugged country beyond.
100 feet short of the "High Peak" designation,
Snowy Mountain is in the distance on the right.

Beyond the ice-clad branches, one can see the dual ridges of Camelhump to the East.

The southernly look shows more of the hand of man.
Beyond Green Lake, shrouded on the left,
and the southern reaches of Canada Lake below Sheeley Mounain
lies the distant Mohawk River Valley.

Coincidentally, West lake is on the right this western view.
Dolgeville point separates it from Canada lake.
Small Mud lake is in the foreground, and Lily Lake farthest away.

Though the snowmobiles race across Canada and West Lakes, 

the channel is open downstream into Lily Lake and again at its outlet.

Beyond, the channel winds around behind the ridge to the right,

obscuring the location of our abode.

Central NY shows through the haze, with Minnesota just beyond.

 

The tower also provides philosophy.

It's always an ice storm on the mountaintop.

But the icy trees can't stop Mary.
In fact, the icy barrier makes Mary merrier.

Time to head down!

Some Enchanted Evening

Mom has always loved music.  

At the family homestead, there were plenty of LPs on the shelf near the big old console stereo.  The turntable played 78, 45, and 33 RPM disks, and was fully automatic. At the end of each record, the mechanism would sense the position of the heavy gray tonearm with the eye-dots that made it look like a snake, and pick the needle up off the disk to return to the rest position.  

In addition to stopping after playing a single record, it allowed loading a bunch of records on the tall spindle. When one record finished playing, and the tone arm was retracted, the next record would flop down atop the first, provided the catching mechanism was doing it’s job and the whole stack didn’t come crashing down.  Not only was it a mechanical marvel, the tubes from the electronics provided the side benefit of heating the living room.

After my Allan Sherman period exhausted itself, and I declared myself the DJ for the family, I began placing my own records on the player for the educational benefit of the entire family.  The Tijuana Brass was followed by Blood, Sweat, and Tears, which was followed by initialed bands like CSN and ELP (REM and UB40 came much later, and AC/DC and ABBA were never appealing, for completely different reasons.  Totally missed MC5.) and many others with actual names.

Can’t say that there are many memories of actually hearing it played, but the record that was most often replaced when my superior recordings were about to be heard was the South Pacific Soundtrack.  I’m sure Mom was fond of the tunes.

That record and console are now just memories (Or maybe not.  That’s another long story that won’t be told right now). But old music never dies.  

The two last qualities of life that Mom has been able to at least partially enjoy are food and music.  Her appetite remained healthy until just recently, even with pureed selections filling the menu. But with that in the past, the last vestige is music.  One can’t be sure how much is getting through, but while music is playing, she breathes easier.

The Hospice Music Therapist brought his guitar to play and sing for Mom.  He sat in the chair next to her bed, and asked, “What do you think she would like to hear?”

“Maybe something from South Pacific,” I said.  “She likes that.”

“Hmmm...How about ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’?”

“That should work!”

The Therapist launched into the familiar tune.  “Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger….”

He provided a very soothing and melodic rendition.  But the lovely finish caught me by surprise. At the last word, seeing my mother lying in bed so close to the point of departure was more than I could bear.  I walked out of the room to unsuccessfully manage my emotions.

“Never...let...her...go...”  

Sometimes, you have no choice.