Is That The Shirt You're Wearing

by Kristen Brakeman

  But after my father-in-law passed away from his brief illness, and my mother-in-law died just two weeks later, Chopper was left alone. My brother-in-law stepped up to take care of him for the short term, but then found an apartment that conveniently did not accept pets. Chopper was orphaned once again.

  We tried to find him a home. I posted a picture of him on Facebook, but I think my description was a little too accurate and scared off any would-be takers. Friends suggested that it might be best to put him down. After all, they said, he was quite old and had lived a long full life. But my husband and I couldn’t do it. We didn’t think that he was in pain and felt it would be wrong to put him down just because having him would be inconvenient. Also, my kids were still getting over the loss of their grandparents and Chopper was the last connection they had to them.

  Perhaps that’s why we took that painting too - the depressing one of the guy trying to get to the outhouse. Neither my husband nor his brother wanted to have it hanging in their homes, yet neither wanted to get rid of it either. It’s a connection to their parents that they weren’t ready to part with.

  When I look at that painting I wonder what my mother- in-law could have possibly seen in it. She had such a positive outlook on life, and to me that depressing painting didn’t fit.

  My husband suggested that maybe she liked the dreariness of it. Maybe when she was feeling low she could look at that bleak painting and say, “Well, life could be worse. I could be this guy having to walk outside in a pounding rainstorm just to get to the toilet.”

  And maybe that’s what they liked about Chopper? As the years took their toll and their list of ailments grew, they could look at him with his even longer list of problems and figure he had to feel worse. “Here’s a dog in worse shape than us. We love him!”

  Hopefully, I’ll grow to embrace our new dog Chopper somehow. I have to admit, it is hard to look at him with his one eye and his shaking arthritic legs and not think, “Life could be worse.” The fact that he’s still eager to chase a ball boggles the mind.

  I wonder sometimes if my in-laws are staring down at me now and having a hearty laugh at my expense. “So you wanted us to get a dog, did you?”

  End of Week Two

  When I got back from having lunch with my mom and sister, I found a pile of socks on the kitchen floor.

  “We were putting them on the animals,” Samantha explained.

  “It turns out they don’t like that very much,” Peyton added.

  I didn’t get angry. I figured the cat scratches on their

  arms was punishment enough. Also, I was glad they were doing something together. Samantha’s knee must be feeling better. She’s still on crutches, but if she’s harassing the pets then the pain must not be that bad. This hasn’t stopped her from the endearing habit of calling or texting me from the next room when she needs something.

  On Friday we’re going to another softball tournament for Peyton, this time a couple hours from home so we have to stay overnight. We’re leaving Chloe here because she’s performing in a play all weekend in a real theater in Los Angeles.

  Of course I wonder how big the party will be. I’ve told her not to have one and she was pretty convincing when she said she wouldn’t, but still, I have my doubts. It’s possible she was . . . acting.

  Sometimes now I can’t tell if she’s being sincere or patronizing. Like when I give her my parental words of wisdom now, she doesn’t argue or debate. Instead she patiently listens and says, “Uh huh” and then goes on her merry way.

  The “Uh huh” thing is so much worse than teenage backtalk. It’s diminishing and dismissive. Like my words are of no consequence. It’s bloody genius is what it is, because it’s so completely infuriating.

  So now I purposely needle her, like when she’s leaving for work I’ll say, “Don’t speed. Better to be a little bit late, than a lot dead!”

  I try hard to get a rise out of her. But,“Uh huh,” is all I ever get in return.

  How MUMPS Like Me Ruined Facebook

  Teenagers have abandoned their Facebook pages quicker than they flee when someone yells, “The parents are home!” at a backyard party.

  But where have they gone? Did they suddenly pick up bat and ball, take to the great outdoors, or have a renewed interest in their studies?

  No! They’ve simply moved to other social media sites like Instagram, Snapchat, or Twitter.

  But before we get too worried about the size of Mark Zuckerberg’s retirement account, fear not - teens have not deleted their Facebook accounts. Instead, according to experts, teens now treat their Facebook page as a chore, something you have to do every week or two like clean your room, make your bed, or finish your chemistry homework.

  One wonders what motivated teens to leave, and why now when Facebook stock is finally desirable and the company is so close to its goal of worldwide domination.

  Analysts believe that teens left because of MUMPS like me: Massively Uncool, Middle-aged Parents. It seems we took to Facebook like preschoolers take to Pixie sticks, cyclists take to HGH, or sorority girls take to bourbon. We “Mommed” it all up, by posting pictures of our kids sleeping, tagging shots of them as naked babies on Throwback Thursday, and bragging about their drama awards, school dances, and soccer trophies. What’s worse, we encouraged Grandma to join.

  But why did we do it? Is it because we, as parents, have to ruin everything?

  No, it’s because the experts told us to. They said we needed to stay connected and monitor our teens on social media. These experts scared us into thinking that if we didn’t track our child’s every move then we’d lose them to creepy 45-year-old “Catfishers” who would lure them to the nearest Greyhound bus station, or our kids would post pictures of themselves in revealing bathing suits, or even worse – announce to the world that our family has gone away to Maui on vacation.

  Our motivations were pure. We were protecting our kids. But then, something happened: we got hooked. We became Facebook addicts ourselves, and we ruined it, just like we parents often do by getting over-involved in our child’s activities.

  Of this, I’m guiltier than most.

  My eldest daughter showed an interest in fashion so what did I do? I signed her up for sewing, fashion sketching, and fashion design. I even enrolled her in this over-the-top art college course where they did a professional runway show, complete with petulant, coffee-spilling, barfing models. Then, you guessed it; she lost all interest in fashion design.

  I did the same thing with ballet, art, and softball. It’s a very predictable cycle: she showed a little interest, I became over-involved, and then voila! Her interest waned.

  We are a generation of parents who helicopter, interfere, and micromanage. At my daughters’ high school, the membership of the choral parent support group practically outnumbers the chorus, there are more athletic boosters than qualified athletes, and the number of volunteers at the elementary school Jogathon often exceeds the runners.

  It was so different when we grew up. Other than Open House night, my parents never set foot on my school’s campus. My husband’s parents only rarely attended his baseball games, and when I went out with my friends for the evening – now brace yourselves - my parents really had no idea where I had gone.

  Even though we Americans pride ourselves on our ingenuity and independent spirit, our generation seems hellbent on creating a generation of overly dependent, submissive drones.

  Well I, for one, am going to do my best to stop. I’m going to step back and let my kids do their own thing for a change. I’m gonna let their interests grow on their own, or fizzle as they may. I’ll remove the tracking device from their necks, drop the Smart Limits from their cell phones, and I’ll stop showing up at every single event at their schools.

  Who knows, I might even log on to Facebook and “Un- Friend” them!

  Week Three

  The floors were a dead giveaway.

  I washed them three times and they were still sticky. Chloe did
n’t technically have a party, she had only a “few friends over to swim,” she said. We came back home to cracker crumbs covering the couches in the living room, and open bags of chips on every counter in the kitchen.

  “If you’re gonna have people over you should at least clean up!” I told her.

  “But I swept the floor,” she said.

  “The fact that there is enough of a mess that you have to sweep tells me there were too many people here. And here’s a hint, parents can always tell how many people have been over by the floor. Sticky floor equals crowd.”

  I probably shouldn’t have revealed that parenting secret. Now her younger sister will file it away for the future. At the last minute, I let Samantha stay home with Chloe because she’s still on crutches and she would have just been stuck in the hotel room all weekend.

  I told my older sister that I left the two girls home alone, but also told her not to tell my mom. My mom would think I was completely irresponsible leaving them, and I didn’t feel like being reprimanded, even half-heartedly.

  In the last couple years I find that I talk more to my sisters than my mom. Like when Samantha got out of surgery it was my sister who I called right away. Sometimes I have to force myself to call my mom. I do it by thinking, “What if I don’t call and then today is the day that something bad happens?”

  It’s not just her hearing that makes it a struggle to talk with her. She’s just so different now.

  One week after my father-in-law was diagnosed with a brain tumor and a few days before my mother-in-law collapsed from the stroke, my mom was rushed to the ER with a horrible headache and nausea. They gave her medicine and it seemed like after a few days she was improving.

  But instead she suddenly got worse and when I was in the hospital room with her one afternoon, I could tell that she had no idea who I was. She started fighting the EEG technician who was trying to attach electrodes. Then she couldn’t form words and started snapping at the air like a turtle, her mouth bleeding from biting her tongue. I told the nurse that something was wrong, but the nurse just tried to comfort her like it was normal behavior because she was old. Then a doctor came in, took one look at her, and said she was having a seizure, and shouted some orders for medicine.

  Days went by without any improvement and we were worried she was forever mentally gone. I remember telling her at the time that my kids were already losing two grandparents that month and that she couldn’t die too, that it wouldn’t be fair to them.

  But she just stared at me blankly.

  What made things worse was that with her hearing mostly gone and the mystery illness making her act so batshit crazy, the nurses continued to treat her like she was senile. We had to keep explaining to them that only a week earlier she was completely lucid and fairly active for an 85-year-old. “This behavior isn’t normal for her,” we kept telling them, over and over, but they wouldn’t listen.

  Finally, a couple weeks later, the doctors figured out that she had encephalitis, maybe from West Nile virus. WTF? How could she have gotten West Nile Virus? She almost never goes outside and no one ever opens a window in her house. In fact it’s so hermetically sealed, that she’s probably breathing the same air that’s been in there since they bought the place in 1962.

  It took a month for her to recover in the hospital, and then another month in a rehab facility before she was coherent and strong enough to return home. But for months after, she couldn’t remember what had happened or what was real during her hospital stay. “I still don’t understand why Ben was in that boat outside my hospital window,” she would say. No matter how many times we told her that my brother-in-law had not hauled a boat to the parking lot outside her hospital window, she wouldn’t believe it.

  When she was really sick, I told myself that if she ever got better, I would never tell her about the turtle snapping incident because I knew she’d be embarrassed. But one day when she was back home, I realized that she was completely oblivious to just how nutso she had been and for some reason that really annoyed me.

  So I told her, complete with my own snapping-turtle reenactment.

  It’s not easy to get something like that out of your head, having your mother bite at you like a carnivorous blood-thirsty snapping turtle, and I was still a little bit angry with her because of it.

  I don’t ever want to see that shit again.

  Don’t Hate Me Because I Can’t Hear You

  “We cran do your earwig pest cow,” the nurse said. “What?” I asked.

  “I said, ‘We can do your hearing test now.’” Uh-oh.

  Over the last few years, my hearing has gotten bad. I’m constantly asking people to repeat themselves. At restaurants, I have to lean in and strain to decipher the conversation, and at home, my kids regularly tease me about how far off I am when I guess at what they’ve said.

  So, it was no surprise when, after finally working up the nerve to get a hearing test, the results were grim. Part way through the test, the audiologist stopped, looked at me as if I had only a few months to live, and said, “You have a significant hearing loss, and it’s likely degenerative. You need to start wearing hearing aids now.”

  I was shocked, blindsided by the news. Even though I had long suspected I had a hearing problem, for some reason, having it medically confirmed made it so much worse.

  I had inherited my mom’s cookie-bite patterned hearing loss, so named because it affects the mid-range where most human conversation takes place. Unfortunately, it’s one of the most difficult types to treat.

  After a childhood spent taking advantage of and teasing my mom about being hard-of-hearing, I realized that payback was indeed a bitch.

  What’s worse, I knew the future that lay before me. As a kid, I often had to act as my mom’s interpreter so I saw first-hand how people with hearing loss were treated. Even when told about my mom’s impairment, salespeople or waiters would still act impatient or downright rude. I’ve seen doctors and nurses talk down to her like she’s a child, and in the last decade with her hearing almost completely gone, they assume she’s senile as well.

  I barely listened as the doctor went on about my various hearing aid options, extolling the virtues of the new technologies. She even went so far as to describe the newer models as being downright sexy. Really, are they part of the new Victoria’s Secrets’ Sexy Support Hose and Hearing Aid line that I’ve heard so much about?

  Armed with brochures, I negotiated my way through the sea of walkers and wheelchairs in the waiting room, smiling at the elderly patients as I left. These are my people now.

  But I didn’t want them to be my people, damn it. I’m not ready.

  I don’t want to wear hearing aids. I don’t want to have to take them out to swim or shower, or worry about them getting caught in my glasses, or have to change batteries every month or week or whatever it is. And I don’t want another thing that makes me feel old.

  After letting the idea sink in for a few weeks, I hosted a dinner party where I broke the news about my need for hearing aids to our friends.

  I waited for their consoling words. I waited longer for pity. But none came. Instead, for a solid hour my dinner guests teased me with every hearing and age joke they could think of. “What’s that you say, Grandma? I can’t get this spot out. Yes, it sure is hot out!”

  Ha. Ha. Ha.

  I played along, but afterwards I was hurt and, I’ll admit, a little angry.

  Why is losing your hearing so funny? Why is it treated differently that other disabilities? We don’t laugh at people who are missing a leg or tease someone for being in a wheelchair. No one is rude or impatient with the blind, “Hey mister, watch where you’re putting that cane already.”

  Maybe people assume hearing loss is simply a minor indignity of age, on par with getting reading glasses, or perhaps because one can’t tell what the hearing-impaired are missing, it’s easy to get frustrated and harder to be sympathetic.

  After our dinner party, it took a few months for my brui
sed ego to recover – well, twelve months to be exact. Then, after reading new research about how untreated hearing loss can lead to loss of brain function, and also learning that hearing aids can actually preserve speech recognition, I decided it was time to stop the self-pity and take action.

  I had to get over myself and just “own it” already. So, I went back to the audiologist, and placed the order. Not for a subtle, hair-matching aid either. I figured if I’m gonna do this thing, I’m not gonna hide it.

  I ordered the pink.

  Middle of Week Three

  Holy crap it’s a good thing I don’t have a gun. Here’s why:

  (1) that lady at Ross, (2) the b-word lady that works at Ross, (3) the b-word lady that works at Ross that I would have murdered had I owned a gun.

  “Do you want the discount?”

  “What? Sure. Is something on sale?”

  “No. The senior discount. Do you qualify?” “Um, no.”

  “Okay, well, have a nice day.”

  Really? How is that possible now, Ross lady?

  I know. I shouldn’t worry about aging. I should embrace it. After all, the alternative is much worse. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Right.

  When I hear people say that they don’t mind getting older, I’m convinced that they’re lying. Either that or they are still young; young enough that their body parts don’t hurt in the morning, young enough that they’re not regularly shocked by what they see in the mirror, and young enough that the world still treats them as if they matter.

  Yes, I should be grateful that I’m healthy and alive and I know that it’s vain to care what I look like.

  But I do. I just do.

  We Can’t Let the Duck-Faced Women Win

  I lived my life thinking that my thin lips were completely acceptable – attractive even - but the style conscious in America have made it clear that they are not. Over the last decade, virtually every woman on television or living on LA’s Westside has injected some sort of gooey stuff into her lips to make them look fuller, consequently making the rest of us feel like we should be embarrassed by our thin lips, making the rest of us feel like thin-lipped freaks.