To all mothers of the bride, just say, "I do!"

There's no question about the stress. It's a party, it's important, you've spent a lot of money and you want your child to be deliriously happy. Having just thrown a party, an important one that cost a tiny fortune and made our child deliriously happy, I wanted to share some hard-found wisdom. The correct answer after every question is, "I do!"

1. Do I really need to wear Spanx? If you're old enough to be the mother of the bride, you're old enough to need some help somewhere. Spanx has become a billion-dollar industry thanks to us. Congratulate yourself on contributing to Sara Blakely’s success as SpanxMeister and buy one. They are not as painful as the old girdles we wore before panty hose and they add a little firmness where some may be lacking.

2. Do I really have to buy wardrobe tape? If you're a clever girl--and we know you are--yes, a thousand times, yes. You'll congratulate yourself. Someone will need it, and in this case, it was me. I neglected to try on my Spanx with my outfit. Fortunately, I did remember the wardrobe tape (search for that in Amazon or Google “fashion tape”) and that took care of it, with the help of one of the bridesmaids. Be sure to remove it post-wedding or you will stick to the sheets when you go to bed.

3. And SuperGlue? Do I need that? You'll thank yourself. I don’t think anyone should go anywhere without it, especially if you’re wearing the strappy little sandals that your shoe store salesman said you should never wear again. You know why he said that? Because you have no arches but you do have bunions. There’s pretty much nothing you can do about the arches if you’re in sandals, but if you find sandals wide enough (and you can, on Zappos or FootSmart, God love them, and they’re festive), you can accommodate the bunion. The problem, ladies, is this: The straps may sit on either side of the bunion thus drawing attention to the ugly little protrusion you sought to disguise. The solution? Wardrobe tape (see above) on the bunion, SuperGlue on the underside of the strap that you want to stay in place squarely over the bunion. Be careful not to spill the glue on your foot or you will be wearing the strappy little sandals for life.

4. Do I need to take a laptop or a tablet? Yes, and you also need to curse yourself for not being a better geometry student. At some point you will turn to YouTube for something like “how to create a trifold pocket square.” If you look at the wedding pictures, you will see that Carl’s pocket square is a puff and here's why: One set of instructions involved six folds and turning the square at a 90-degree angle. I know that Capt. Hyde, my 10th-grade geometry teacher, is nodding somewhere in heaven and saying, “She didn’t understand it in 1970, and she hasn’t improved with age.” OK, Capt. Hyde, you’re right. And it was wrong of me to make my skirt shorter when I knew I needed help to avoid getting that dreaded C in your class because I still cannot figure out how to do the angles that will create the folds. The good news is that there is a very instructive video on how to do a the perfect puff. Final tip: Don’t do this the day of the wedding. This took me two hours, including ironing time.

5. Do I need a minder? You might not think so since your job is to oversee the bride (in our case, it helped that she was a little older and that she knew this was completely the right thing), but someone needs to oversee you and it can’t be your husband. Yes, I know you are strong competent women, but even we have a breaking point. I never got completely to mine, thanks to my sister Vicki. Seven weeks ago, she received a brand new hip. Seven weeks later, she was on a plane to the wedding. Seven weeks and two days later, she was helping me with my hair, telling me how beautiful I looked and dancing in the conga line. I did not ask her to do this. She did it because we are sisters and she knew. If you don’t have a sister, ask a friend.

6. Do I need to stay hydrated the day of the wedding? Definitely. Just not with martinis—not till well into the wedding evening. I switched from water to vodka the minute the vows were over. Fortunately, the bride and groom’s signature drink was fruity and tasty and mixed nicely with quarts and quarts of water that were already sloshing around.

7. Do I need to follow tradition? Of course. But only when it suits you. Defy convention if you want, doing so gracefully. I know it is traditional for the bride’s father to give the toast, but he detests speaking in public and I do it often enough that I no longer vomit before doing it, so why not? Plus I am much funnier than he. And we were able to reinforce the notion that this was our party, done in our own, special, unconventional, California way. But you can still frown when others involved in the wedding refuse to follow convention because you know the rules. After all, you made them up.

Take this old lady and shove her? I think not

Recently, while interviewing someone about a company's labor problems, the interviewee said it was time for the Baby Boomers to step aside and let Gen Y, all bubbly and enthusiastic, take over.

Objection.

It’s been only recently that the age thing has become a thing for me. I am not 57 year old woman. I just play one on TV.

On second thought, I don’t know many 57-year-old women on TV so my attempt to be lighthearted has merely provided another avenue for my seething resentment.

Because here’s the thing: Gen Y, Gen X, Gens R-Z, you need us.

We are your moms. I don’t care how wicked your mom is, you still need her—or an idealized version of her. If it’s not the woman who raised you, find another one. We’re everywhere, and we will care about you.

We are your voice of experience. The first time you need a root canal, we can coach you through it. Or you get hit with an unexpected tax bill. Or someone decides to steal from you. Been there, and, unfortunately, done that. We learned from our mistakes and, we hope, you can learn from our mistakes. We may not have wealth, but we do have a wealth of experience.

We are your compasses. Most of us, by this age, have found our true north. You may not have found yours. We’ll share. And give you a map--a personalized one, if you want it.

We are your protection. We hate it when our kids are hurt, and most of you are our kids or could be our kids. We’ll fight like tigers to keep you from harm. That might make us a little over protective, but think about overprotection in terms of being on a precipice: Would you rather we almost caught you?

We expect so little. We aren’t expecting you to fall all over us. We expect you, oh, I don't know, to return a phone call or a message. We expect the occasional thank you.

And we don’t ask much. Just don’t be mean. Because someday, someone will tell you to get out of the way, and you can take comfort in knowing that you were kind.

Because it’s one thing to be shoved out of the way, and it's quite another to be ushered to the next stage in life. Which one would you choose? That’s what I thought.

No longer Hamm I am

After 57 years, I am no longer Catharine Hamm.

It feels strange to write this and felt even stranger to have done it. I was more nervous at the DMV and Social Security than I was on my wedding day, as evidenced by the fact that I screwed up the DMV form twice. It’s such a habit to write “Hamm” under “Name” that I did that. Of course, the DMV thought it was a little odd that I was changing my name from Hamm to Hamm and pointed out that I probably needed to write “Skolnik” under the name.

I did, and, for some reason, promptly ripped up the form. (In my defense, I thought I was ripping up the incorrect version.) Yes, I was rattled. But so was the DMV clerk when I pointed out she had erred by forgetting to put my motorcycle license classification on the form. She looked at me and at my old license and then flounced off. How dare I be an old lady on a motorcycle? But I digress. (You'd be surprised if I didn't, wouldn't you?)

The license and Social Security are just the start. Next will be the passport, the deed to the house, my trust, my mother’s trust, my credit cards—the list is staggering.

Which raises this issue: Why do it at all? It’s such an old-fashioned notion to take a spouse’s name. After all, when I had the chance to change it on my marriage license, I didn’t. Now it’s almost four years after the fact.

One easy but not simple answer is my husband’s daughter’s wedding—my stepdaughter.

The fact that I’m calling her my stepdaughter says something about how far our relationship has come in eight years—from sniping and snotty to solid and caring.

She is getting married in April and is leaving her maiden name behind.

But until that date, we are Carl and Catharine and Jessica Skolnik. We are a united front against all forces that would seek to make this less than the happiest day of her life.

And although Carl has seen repeated demonstrations of this, I wanted him to know with certainty that I also stand with him and by him in all circumstances, except for maybe when he is declaring the Three Stooges the funniest act ever and his absolutely wrong-headed views on the death penalty. (By the way, don't mention this change to him just yet. He doesn't know--won't until the holidays are officially here. It will either be the worst gift ever or a lovely surprise. In either case, I want to see his face as he tries to absorb this.)

I’m not leaving Hamm behind completely. I will still be Hamm professionally—maybe because there’s no form to fill out that says, “I used to be known as this and now I’m this.” I’m still CatHamm on Twitter. Heck, this blog site is still Hamm Party of One. I mean, just because Tide takes on a few new ingredients in its detergent mix, it doesn’t leave its old name behind. And as my digitally savvy friends point out, your name is a brand. (Alas, Hamm happened to be a brand—of really bad beer. Maybe I should rebrand…No, no, too much to think about.)

Leaving Hamm makes me a tad wistful. I was the last one in the family; there are no kids to carry on the name. But other than the novelty of it, there is no particular nobility in being that party of one in a family that included more than its share of scandals and scoundrels and sad stories. Not that the Skolnik side is much better. We are families, after all. It's part of the package.

Besides, what families are without troubles? As I reflect at this time of the year on the Holy Family, I am awed by their unity in times of joy and times of trouble.

So this Irish German Catholic girl has cast her lot with the Russian Hungarian Jews. We are the Skolniks. United we stand.

RIP Our Blue Byrd of Happiness

Blue Byrd Hamm Skolnik, a Dalmatian, died Friday after a long battle with degenerative arthritis. She was, well, pretty old for a big dog but no one was really sure.
Blue was adopted by Catharine Hamm in February 2004. Her previous owners used her to capitalize on the popularity of Dalmatians after the 1996 remake of "101 Dalmatians." When her mothering purposes were over and her family moved, she was kicked to the curb and ended up with Dalmatian rescue. Catharine Hamm found her online--"we should have called it D-Harmony"--and it was love at first sight. The deal was sealed in Santa Monica, where Catharine took the unimaginatively named Perdita on a walk that would be like many of their walks--very slow because no blade of grass remained usniffed.
As part of the agreement with SavetheDals, the renamed Blue--for her blue eyes--had to participate in obedience training. In a class of 10, she graduated No. 10.
"She was a little conflicted," said her teacher. "She wanted to please, but she wanted to do her own thing. When I told her she couldn't have it both ways, she decided to have it her way. She essentially learned nothing, but she did enjoy the car ride to the park."
Blue soon gained three roommates--Maridith Ramsey, Catharine's niece, and two cats, Golde and Brigitta, in addition to the cats Bella and Beau who were already in residence but who preceded her in death. She showed a genuine statesmanship by largely ignoring all of them except Mari, whom she enjoyed tormenting. Later, she (Blue, not Mari) was adopted by Catharine's new husband, Carl Skolnik.
"She wasn't very bright," said Skolnik, adding, "She couldn't have spelled C-A-T if we had spotted her the C and the T. But she had a good heart."
Besides walks, Blue enjoyed breakfast, dinner, puppy treats and naps. She was especially close to Catharine's mother, Genevieve, because they identified with each other: Both were moms who tried hard to raise their children, although Genevieve, to our knowledge, never sold any of her children. Both suffered the ravages of age, including deafness (selective or otherwise), poor eyesight and mobility issues. And both expected to be treated like princesses because, dammit, they earned it.
Blue is survived by cats Beatriz Cecelia and Barnie Louise, and a host of family and friends who all helped make the last 7 years of her life as wonderful as the first few were awful.
-30-

Embracing Your Inner Cruella De Vil

Three years of guilt, frustration and heartbreak. Three years of hating myself for being the bad guy and making her move. Three years of sorrow for loss, for what comes next, for a life grown small.

When I made the decision (with support from my wonderful sisters) to move my mother from her house to a senior living facility closer to me, she was so upset she got shingles, which are nasty and often result from stress. (And, by the way, if you are sending a picture of your mother’s butt to your mother’s doctor so the doc can get a jump on the diagnosis, remember to erase that picture so that the next time you whip out your cell phone to show a new acquaintance pictures of your cat—taken before the butt photos—you don’t accidentally moon your new acquaintance with your mother’s butt.)

After the shingles went away, I found her lying on the floor one day. Urinary tract infection but maybe a small stroke. Then came the broken hip—you know, the one where she told me her knee was bothering her and I drove her to the ER, where they gently suggested an ambulance might have been a better choice. And then surgery to replace that hip, after which she thought I was my father and announced to me, “They tell me you’ve been dead for 19 years.” I resolved to do something about that little facial hair issue and the apparent pallor issue.

Then rehab and then coming home and all the confusion and finding full time help and then the inevitable worsening of her condition—forgetting where she was or big parts of her life story or not knowing where I was born or when, which made it much easier to lie about my age and feel good about it because if your mom doesn’t know, who does?

And always, the guilt. The guilt about ruining the end of her life. My mom gave me a sweater once that had the initials DOM over the left breast—Daughter of the Millennium. It was a gentle joke—I often referred to myself that way, just to tease my sisters—but in some small way, I believed it. But once the new century began, there was no more talk of this, and I knew I was seriously out of the running for any kind of honor, except perhaps the Cruella De Vil "Rhymes With Witch" Award.

Until one recent Sunday when my mom asked me again to explain to her why she was living where she was living. And I told her the story and I said, “You were very angry with me.” And she smiled and said, “Oh, honey, I had no business living by myself anymore. You did the right thing.” Absolution. Finally. From her.

And someday, maybe I’ll even forgive myself for doing what needed to be done. There’s a leadership lesson in there somewhere, but I don’t want to think about it too much because I bet Barack Obama doesn’t cry when he ponders his tough and unpopular decisions.

****
It is opening day of baseball season. My mother loves baseball, loves the athleticism of it, loves the Dodgers. I’m disgusted with the Dodgers because of the Divorce and how they phoned it in last season, but I agree with her about the grace of the game. She asks me repeatedly during the off-season: How many more days till opening day?

Finally the day is here, and I stop by her place with a new Dodgers jersey and she is delighted. I write down the time of the game and the channel and give it to the caretaker and tell Mom to root for the Dodgers in their home opener against the Giants. She is beaming as I leave and says, “You are the best kid.” I am beaming too.

At 90, my mother has taught me another important lesson: Life, examined as a selected series of moments, can be joyful. I asked her later whether she watched the game, and she didn’t remember. But it didn’t matter—finally—to either of us.

Ten Steps to a Hotter Marriage

1. Nag your spouse about taking blood pressure
2. Refuse to speak to your spouse when he says he will not do it
3. After 36 hours of silence, congratulate yourself when he capitulates and says he will do it.
4. Do a little victory dance when he says he wants to go buy the BP cuff
5. Get the BP cuff home, try it out, actually take his BP
6. When he asks where it should be stored, suggest in the oven with the salad bowls.
7. Bask in his praise when he says that’s a great idea
8. Get up early Monday and make porkchops, which require broiling
9. Fail to remove salad bowls and BP machine from top part of oven
10. Remove smoking, melting BP machine from oven after your realize you have melted it. Serve with a nice Bearnaise sauce.

Help Me Sweet Jesus, Especially if You're a Cardiologist

Date: Dec. 9
Ring!
Receptionist: World's Lamest Medical Center. How can we not help you?
Me: I need to get an appointment with Dr. Cardiologist. My husband is short of breath, apparently is retaining fluid and is exhibiting classic symptoms of congestive heart failure.
Receptionist: What are his symptoms? Please repeat them so I can ignore you again.
Me: Rapid weight gain. Shortness of breath. Extreme edema.
Receptionist: How far is the patient able to walk without assistance?
Me: He can't walk.
Receptionist: So would that be 10 feet?
Me: He can't walk.
Receptionist: Less than 10 feet?
Me: Can't walk means zero feet. No feet can he walk.
Receptionist: So he is having trouble walking?
Me: Um, yes
Receptionist: Is he having trouble breathing?
Me: His breathing is labored.
Receptionist: But is he having trouble breathing?
Me: Yes, his breathing is labored.
Receptionist: So he's having trouble breathing?
Me: Yes.
Receptionist: After he walks?
Me: He can't walk so no.
Receptionist: So he is not having trouble breathing?
Me: Yes, he is but not after walking.
Receptionist: So he is not having trouble breathing after walking?
Me: No because he can't walk.
Receptionist: So he's breathing fine?
Me: No, he's having trouble breathing while he's stitting still.
Receptionist: But is he short of breath after he walks?
Me: Yes.
Receptionist: How far?
Me: Less than 10 feet.
Receptionist: So he can walk 10 feet.
Me: No.
Receptionist: Let me check the schedule for you.
Pause
Receptionist: The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: But today is Dec. 9.
Receptionist: Yes. The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: But today is Dec. 9.
Receptionist: Yes. The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: Anything earlier? It's kind of an emergency.
Receptionist: The earliest available appointment is Feb. 15.
Me: It's an emergency.
Receptionist: Then you should take him to the emergency room.
Me: I don't want to go to the emergency room and sit for 37 hours.
Receptionist: Then you are refusing my advice?
Me: Well, I just don't think the ER is the right place for him.
Receptionist: Then you are refusing my advice?
Me: Um, well, yes, I guess I am.
Receptionist: Well, then, I am required by law to tell you that in refusing my advice you may be putting the patient's life in danger and that this could result in harm or death to the patient. Do you understand that?
Me: No.
Receptionist: What part of that don't you understand?
Me: The part where it's my fault.
Receptionist: Refusing my advcie may be putting the patient's life in danger and could result in harm or death. Do you understand that?
Me: I understand that he needs to be seen by a cardiologist and that one is not available until Feb. 15, so I'm not sure that refusing your advice actually does that.
Receptionist: Refusing my advice may be putting the patient's life in danger and could result in harm or death. Do you understand that?
Me: Yes, I do.
Receptionist: Is there anything else we can help you with?
Me: Please, no.
Receptionist: Is that a yes?
Me: No.
Receptionist: So that's a no?
Me: Yes, thank you.
Receptionist: So that's a yes?
Me: No, that's a no.
Receptionist: Thank you for calling the World's Lamest Medical Center. Have a nice day.
　
　

Tre(s) jolie: Can you spell Ethic$$$?

“Sir, just let me take your vitals.”

The nurse—we’ll call her Priscilla—fiddled with the computer as she strapped the blood pressure cuff to Carl’s arm. She reset the computer once, twice, a third time, mumbling under her breath about how the unit wasn’t working right. Nobody else had difficulty with it in the 10 days he’d been in that room, so I instantly suspected that Prissy might be a problem. Just my wonderful grasp of the obvious kicking in again.

P woman finally got the BP and his oxygenation but forgot about his temperature. Perhaps it wasn’t a problem, even if he was being treated with large doses of antibiotics for pneumonia.

I felt slightly uneasy when I left for the night, but I felt slightly uneasy every night when I left the hospital. There was always something that seemed to go awry: blood sugars that dropped, inexplicably, into the 30s in the middle of the night (maybe they should have held off on the insulin?), breakfast trays that arrived with foods high in potassium (his potassium was so high after surgery he was moved into ICU because they feared a heart attack), test results that had been lost in the system for seven months and indicated a serious problem.

When I left, Prissy gave me her best condicloying smile (my word for condescending and cloying) because now she had the customer, er, patient to herself.

When I returned the next morning, Carl handed me an envelope on which a website had been scrawled.

It seems that in administering his medications, Prissy remarked to him about how many he took. He said he, indeed, took several meds but that he, indeed, had several medical conditions for which they were warranted.

She smiled brightly and told him if only he would try Tre, he probably wouldn’t need all those medications.

Tre, she told him, was a “biotactive nutritional essence” from GNLD. “It’s not just pomegranate juice,” she told him. It has lots of anti-oxidants and, of course, all GNLD products are “based in
nature, backed by science.”

Carl, who plays a lot of poker and has an excellent sucker detector, asked where one might get such a product.

What luck. It turned out Prissy was a GNLD distributor.

Surely, he would like some Tre, only $54.95 a bottle. He could afford it, she was certain, because he lived in those million dollar homes in the hills. (He doesn’t; he lives in a two-bedroom bungalow that could double as a bomb shelter, which I know to be true since I live here too.) So she wrote down her website.

Carl didn’t buy any Tre. And I don’t know if Prissy made her goals or got the $3,000 bonus or won that fabulous vacation to an exotic locale.

But I do know that, having seen the health care system up close, first with my parents and now with him, that I have run into a few scoundrels, including the nurse practitioner who cared for my mom and whose licensed was finally yanked for falsifying records.

I thought that was outrageous. But that was before I met Prissy.

This blog unintentionally left blank

The last two months have been taken up with caring for Carl, who has been in and out of the hospital three times.

It sounds ridiculous to say my time has been limited; I have 168 hours in a week just like anyone else. But we have spent hours and sometimes days waiting for care, a hurry-up-and-wait hamster wheel that left our heads spinning. Our time is their time and their time is whatever time they choose it to be. Here’s a little look by the numbers:
***********
18
Number of hours in emergency waiting for a bed (the first time) after admission decision
***********
37
Number of hours in emergency waiting for a bed (the second time) after admission decision
***********
4
Number of days waiting for an MRI while he was in the hospital
***********
2
Number of days waiting to reschedule same MRI because they could find no record of doctor’s orders to medicate the patient
***********
90
Number of minutes late they were in taking him for his second MRI appointment
***********
30
Nmmber of minutes the MRI actually took
*******
120
Number of minutes until he was back in his room
*********
3
Number of times the car had to be valet parked because there was not enough parking
***********
1
Number of times the valet went home without giving me back my keys (this happened to be the night of the MRI when he wasn't returned to his room until 12:15 a.m.
***********
1
Number of times I broke into the valet stand and took my keys
***********
90
Number of minutes wandering the parking garage looking for my car after I stole my own keys back
***********
3
Time in the a.m. I got home after wandering around looking for my car
***********
6
Number of items on his breakfast tray the first three mornings of his separate hospitalizations
***********
6
Number of items on his breakfast tray the first three mornings of his separate hospitalizations that are banned from his diet by dietitians who had been working with us before the hospitalizations
(white-flour bagel, juice, eggs, cream cheese, milk, banana)
***********
3
Number of times I complained about this
***********
0
Effect it had
***********
No total available
Number of times I wondered if health care reform could fix a system so broken that he emerged not as the Empowered Patient but as the Embattled Patient.

Oh, Lakers: I Love the Night Life

Five minutes remain in the seventh game of the Lakers-Celtics matchup, and I do the only logical thing I can: I snap the leash on Blue's collar and leave the house. The Lakers are down by 4 points.

"Honey, don't you want to watch the rest of the game?" Carl asks, mostly out of politeness. He's so engrossed in the game he wouldn't know if Godzilla were sitting across from him.

I don't want to watch. I don't need to. I can know exactly what's going on and still walk the dog just by listening to the air. In our weird, scruffy neighborhood, some Middle Easterners, some Latinos, some Asians, some gay, some straight, at least one cancer survivor and another person who talks to himself about the shortcomings of the rest of the neighbrhood, everybody is glued to the TV. None of us makes enough to be at Staples Center, but what we lack in income, we make up for in decibels.

"Defense! Defense! DEEEEFENSE" a little boy's voice screams as we turn onto Green Street.

He's so intense I'm sure he's shredded his tonsils, which, I am equally certain, soon will be squirting out his nose.

There's a low rumble of discontent. "Oh COME ON!" a man yells in accented English. "What are you DO-ing?"

Screwing up, apparently.

By the time I turn on to Oak Ridge five minutes later, the timbre has changed. One house on the north side of the street--a modest ranch--is practically rocking off its foundation. Young women's high-pitched shrieks blend with masculine woo-hoos which sets off a round of basso profundo barking from what has to be a Shetland pony-sized dog down the street.

I can tell the Lakers are winning as I turn onto Reynolds. Lots of clapping and hooting.

A cop car is parked at the corner, but I don't see the cop. I wonder if it's pre-emptive; earlier in the day, a friend, an LAPD detective, is on his way to Staples Center to deal with the "knuckleheads" (his word) who will be celebrating later.

We are about a block from home when I hear the first two firecrackers. At least, that's what I am pretending they are. And then more popping. It reminds me of the first New Year's Eve I spent in California: I cowered under a bean bag chair as my neighbors fired their weapons in the air.

We scurry for home, knowing that what goes up will come down. I just hope it's not in my head.

As I open the door, my cell phone twangs with a news alert: The Lakers have won their 16th NBA title.

I knew that.

Breaking stuff is hard to do: a lesson in letting go

I was annoyed when Ann broke my ceramic pie plate, none too pleased when she shattered my clay pot from Africa. I was really huffy when she broke the delicate Nativity scene and livid when she broke the handle on my Three Little Kittens coffee cup.

None of the first three items could be repaired, but the coffee cup was a clean break so I used a Superglue-like bonding agent to knit the handle back to the mug. I let it cure for a week. It felt solid.

It lasted approximately four sips and came off in my hand, drenching me, the table, the upholstered chair and my laptop with hot coffee.

And finally, I got the message: It was time to let go.

Ann was my friend for nearly 30 years. We started as work colleagues; I was her editor and she was a reporter, and it was all laughable because she was 12 years my senior and I was a newbie. A girl couldn’t have had a kinder or better mentor. And, as time went by, a kinder of better friend.

In the important matters of life, we had nothing in common. She had a wonderful husband and two darling boys. I had a few rotten-ass boyfriends and two cats. She was as gentle as a spring rain and had an easy laugh. I was earthier and practically brayed with hysteria at my own jokes.

Who knows why people become friends? I know only that we did. It was one of those rare-for-me instances when I knew how blessed I was in real time.

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, Ann appeared, unbidden, at my doorstep and comforted me. When Ann was diagnosed with cancer, I appeared at her doorstep, also unbidden, and, I hope, comforted her. I had planned to be somewhere else, but there was nowhere else I wanted to be more. I wanted to show her my engagement ring from Carl, whom she and husband Lyle had met and of whom they approved. When we said goodbye, she promised me she would call me on my wedding day, seven months hence.

It was the only promise she ever broke.

For the next six months, we talked occasionally, and I wrote letters. I sent her a teddy bear she had once sent me “to hug when other huggees are absent” and told her he was a stand-in until I could get there again and spend a week taking her to chemo, which was formulated to thwart the very aggressive cancer.

Then her son called to tell me that her system had shut down unexpectedly. The chemo was too harsh for such a gentle soul. I wept until I was exhausted, gathered myself, got on a plane and went to the memorial service. I comforted friends and hugged family and never shed a tear. I would celebrate her life, dammit, dammit, dammit.

When I got home, things began to break. That ceramic pie plate? She gave that to me. I found it shattered on the wood floor. The clay pot? Also from her. It fell over while I was dusting. Smashed. The Nativity scene? A Christmas gift from Ann some years ago. It fell out of a box of Christmas decorations and hit the concrete floor in my storage unit. Nothing else broke but that.

I had just mentioned the coffee mug to Carl a few days earlier and told him she had bought it for me for my birthday almost 20 years ago. Not more than a week later, my kitten jumped on the dining room table but didn’t quite make it, pulling the place mat and the cup to the floor, where the handle snapped off.

I glued it on. It came off.

I was furious.

But at whom? At the kitten for being… a kitten? At Carl for not catching the cup? At God for being a selfish hog who took my friend home too soon?

Yes, illogically, at all of those things. Being angry was easier than confessing that I sometimes wept secret, bitter tears that ambushed me at odd moments. It was easier than admitting that the things that had shattered were messages that my anger would only break my own heart over and over again. It was easier to be angry than it was to let go.

It was as though Letting Go 101 was a class, and I kept getting an F. I kept taking the makeup test and getting an F. Summer school? F. Remedial Letting Go? Big fat F.

I hope to do better on the next test. Signs suggest the student is improving. After making a purchase the other day at the OC swap meet, a vendor chased me down as I walked up the aisle. "This is for you. I thought you might like this," he said as he handed me, unbidden, a new coffee mug.

Spring, kittens and jeans, the best medicine

Selective seratonin re-uptake inhibitors show amazing results, but they can do only so much.

In fact, in my mom's case, I'd put spring, kittens, new jeans and song up against Lexapro any day.

My mom has always suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder, but now in her late 80s, it is getting worse. The doc prescribes Lexapro, an anti-depressant, and it helps, but as soon as we pass the autumn solstice, as soon as the sun begins slipping away by 5 in the afternoon, she will crawl into that protective shell she has fashioned for herself out of--what?--anger? fear? bitterness? necessity?--and stay there for the darkest days of winter.

The good news is that she crawls back out soon after the spring solstice.

When the roses bloom, so does she. To wit:

--Barnie Louise visited her the other day, eliciting laughter and amazement. "Is there anything as darling as a kitten?" she asked, rhetorically, although I kind of hoped she thought her three daughters were darling when they were babies. But we didn't have whiskers. (Those, of course, came in in our 50s and 60s.)

--A new outfit can put a spring in her step. My sister Vicki, bless her, found the ideal pair of new jeans. (Note to self: If I make it to 89, there is such a thing as elastic-waisted, denim pants that are tiny enough for an octo-sprite but large enough in the right places to cover protective undergarments.) Coupled with a bright yellow shirt, she looked like spring itself. "Sometimes," the octo-sprite said, "you just want to wear some jeans so you feel like a person and not an old lady."

--And even if you're an old lady, you're never too old, apparently, to call your other daughter (thank you for being there, Judi) and explain that, indeed, we had just been singing "Bill Grogan's Goat."

"Why?" she said when Judi questioned her. "Well, you know Cathy."

And I know "Bill Grogan's Goat" so I say, why not a hearty rendition of

Bill Grogan's goat
Was feeling fine,
Ate three red shirts
From off the line.

Bill got a stick,
Gave him a whack,
Then tied him to
The railroad track.

The whistle blew,
The train drew nigh,
Bill Grogan's goat,
Was doomed to die.

He gave a groan,
Of awful pain,
Coughed up the shirts,
Flagged down the train

In the spring, life is a cabaret after all.

Credit cards, personal information and saying goodbye and hello

Shred your credit card statements, conventional wisdom says. I'm going to frame my most recent one. It's a chronicle of sorrow and joy spelled out in one financial statement:

Charge: Angelus Pet Hospital, $425, veterinary services

Charge: Angelus Pet Hospital, $125, services

Charge: Cal Pet Crematory, $130, services

Charge: Ragmeister Ragdolls, $100, deposit

The incomparable P. Beauregard LeMieux (the darker one pictured above, left, with Beatriz), born in San Bernardino in 1993, lost his battle with kidney disease in early March. We knew it was coming; the first set of lab results wasn't good and the next was worse. He was a lionheart to the end, a "cat among cats," as my friend and colleague Susan Spano said.

We had Beau cremated, and we mixed his ashes with his sister's. (I had not known what to do with Bella's ashes for the last four years so they sat on the shelf with the cleaning products. In an odd way, it was the right place for Bella, the most fastidious cat I've ever had.) On St. Patrick's Day, 17 years to the day I brought Bella home, we took their combined remains and sprinkled them under two Ingrid Bergman rose bushes. They are very much like Bella and Beau: One is bigger than the other, but they're both sweet and give me and others much pleasure.

The Ingrid Bergmans were the first ones to bloom this year.

The roses got on with the business of living, so did we. But not well. Beatriz, whom we acquired some time after Bella's death, was clearly depressed. She idolized Beau. And, much to my surprise, Carl, who was not a cat person when we married, said, "We need another cat. For Bea's sake, I mean."

Yes, of course.

Two friends had acquired ragdoll Siamese from a breeder in San Diego and suggested I contact

him. So I decided to make the request as specific as possible because, if it was not to be, that would be the end of that. Did he have a blue point, mitted, girl available on April 3, when we would be in San Diego?

He did.

And that is how Barnie Louise (pictured above, left) came to live with us. She is Prozac in kitten form. She and Bea have bonded, Bea taking over the mentor role; she and Blue, the dog, are buddies. She and Carl have become so close that I'm thinking of filing an alienation of affection suit against her.

And me? Well, I still think I hear the clinking of Beau's collar; I still expect him to jump up on my shoulder when I'm working at the kitchen counter. I miss his nighttime ritual in which he would rub the inside of his lips on my face, marking me as his.

But last night, Barnie curled up around my head, just as Beau used to do, and purred me to sleep. It was the first time I'd slept that soundly in a long, long time.

Jonathan Rauch, the Atlantic, and I'm sorry but by mom makes me crazy

Sometimes, before the world wakes up, I try to catch up on my reading--Newsweek, PC World, the Signals catalog, Sunset's "100 Tips for a Great Garden" and, this morning, the Atlantic.

I almost skipped over Jonathan Rauch's "Letting Go of My Father" because I've read it before, a sort of opposite of a coming-of-age story. The deck to the headline contained the usual catch phrases "utterly unprepared for one of life's near certainties--the decline of a parent" and "crisis" and "silently strugging to cope."

Been there, doing that. Just another writer flapping his/her/my jaws (or fingers) about how impossible it is to take care of an elderly parent. Tell me something I don't know.

He did.

He told me I wasn't crazy for thinking there is no safety net, in fact, no net of any kind that's immediately apparent to the parent of a parent; that my feelings of inadequacy are understandable; that there is help but you have to know where to look; and that society treats the information you need to deal with this issue like a great big secret.

"My professional work all but stopped," he writes in the April issue. "Finding doctors for him and getting him to appointments and coordinating escalating medical needs swallowed entire days."

After one medical crisis, he writes, "I stood there with...no idea what to do, frightened by my incompetence and worse, furious at my father for putting me in this impossible situation. That was the day I realized that he could not cope, and I could not cope and, emotionally, he could take me down with him. And I discovered in myself an awful determination not to let that happen."

In his quest to save his father and his own sanity, he discovered this: "Family caregivers face elevated risks to their physical health, mental health, finances employment and retirement," according to the Rosalynn Carter Institute for Caregiving at Georgia Southwestern State University.

His solution, especially to the mental health issue, was to talk, as he calls it, in socially inappropriate settings. "A provocation as simple as 'How are you?' would educe an answer like, 'Bad, I'm at my wits' end coping with my father.' Out would come the whole story."

I blushed because I've done this over and over. At first, I thought this just a manifestation of the compulsive Catholic need to confesss, or, as my cousin Muriel says of our family, "Ask us what time it is and we will tell you how the clock was made." But this is somehow different/

Witness:

Jamie, a colleague at work, who made the mistake of asking me one day what kind of reaction I'd had to a story I wrote. The conversation made a sharp right turn to my mother. (Thank you, Jamie, for not immediately calling the employee assistance program on me.)

Mark, a new acquaintance who kindly invited me out to lunch. (I salute you, Mark, for letting me tell you, over slippery shrimp, about my trifecta of troubles--my failing cat and mother and my husband, who isn't doing so hot either. )

Lili, the hairdresser whose gentle touch somehow unleashes my litany of woes. (Bless you, Lili, for keeping my head and my hair on straight.)

And to so, so many others (including Dee the drycleaner, who gives me a ticket to talk therapy merely by asking, "How's your mom?").

These people differ from my family and friends, who are great listeners all, but they've come to expect to be on the other side of the confessional.

But these other folks, these unwitting victims of my angst ambush, never signed on for this. Please know, wherever you are, that you've probably saved my health.

And I know you've helped mend my heart.

St. Gen, we hardly knew ye

It’s just a car.

It’s just a 1998 Buick Century with less than 30,000 miles on it, sitting out in the elements, looking sad because it’s not getting enough use.

It’s just a gold 1998 Buick Century with a battered-in door that told me she probably shouldn’t be driving anymore.

It was just her car with the personalized plates that said “St. Gen,” which told us, tongue in cheek, how she viewed herself.

And now it belongs to Max, one of her great grandsons, who has earned the “great” part of that label. He told me in person and later announced on his Facebook page that he’s lucky to have the family he does or he wouldn’t have the wheels. He probably doesn’t realize how lucky we are to have a 16-year-old boy who understands the meaning of family.

“I gave that car to him, didn’t I?” my mom asks, half as a question because she can’t always remember, half as a validation that she did something good.

“Yes, you did,” I say and I smile to let her know she did, in fact, do something good.

“Well, there was no sense in letting it sit there and deteriorate,” she says. “He can make good use of it.”

Indeed he can. At 16, having your own car, even one that’s 12 years old, even a granny car, even one with a sort of bashed in door, means freedom.

At almost 90, not having a car signals just the opposite.

I wept when I pulled in the parking lot this week. Its absence speaks as loudly as its presence.

So long, St. Gen.

Just a couple of boobs out for a good time

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but who knew it would turn into a giggle fest? Mom, who survived breast cancer 23 years ago, and I both needed a mammogram, so why not Breast Fest 2010?

Maybe the weirdness runs in the family. In his first year of college, my nephew, Michael, and a friend dressed up as breasts and went to a Halloween party as a couple of boobs. My mom and I followed in their footsteps.

First, the all important check in. My mom and I have the same last name; she’s Genevieve, and I’m Catharine and not only do we not look one bit alike (she’s blonde and blue eyed), but she’s also 34 years older than I. Since I’m not a spring chicken, that makes her elderly, a word I use with great caution as my own dotage approaches. But let’s face it, friends: If Woodrow Wilson was president when you were born and Warren G. Harding became president before you could crawl, that doesn’t exactly make you Hannah Montana.

Conversely, if Ike was in office when you were born, your name could not be Genevieve Hamm. But it didn’t seem to occur to check-in chick when she asked me, somewhat conspiratorially, how long it had been since my breast cancer. It had, in fact, been a very bad day, but was it so bad that I really looked like someone whose DOB clearly said 1920?

“Bad news,” I told my mom when I returned to her in the waiting room after straightening out the confusion. “They think you’re 55, and frankly, for 55, you don’t look so hot. “

And then we both started to giggle.

I knew what was coming next. It’s an old joke between us. “Did you tell them to charge me half price?” she said. “I only have one, you know.”

More giggling.

We sobered up a bit in the undressing room. We had one wheelchair, two smocks, two purses, and three breasts that needed attention. We pushed and pulled and wiggled and squirmed. I have seen my mom’s mastectomy scar, but it has been only in the last couple of years. She was ashamed, I think. But now it’s just another reminder that she’s one tough broad. So she let me wrestle her out of her top and into her smock. Again, I knew what was coming: “Do you know my Chinese name?” she said “It’s One Hung Low.”

Giggling.

So we were both dressed in pink smocks that opened toward the front and sitting in the waiting room. And sitting and waiting and waiting, watching some DVD that looked like the Cirque du Soleil acroclowns running and jumping and leaping and twirling. It very much approximated what we had just done in the undressing room, except they had on cooler makeup.

And certainly better costumes. Our little pink numbers were a bit drafty. I was fussing with mine and realized that people were looking at me as if to say, ‘”Just because your mother is having a mammogram doesn’t mean you had to get into costume too, you attention whore.” My face flushed, and I wished for a sign that said, “I'm Having One Too.”

Waiting and more waiting. Only a couple of women had been called in the hour we’d been there, and more were arriving. My mother leaned over and said, “It’s like the roach motel. They check in but they don’t check out.”

More giggling.

Finally, they called us. Actually they called her, so this gave a whole new group of people the chance to think of me as an attention ho.

It is not easy, under the best of circumstances, to do the mammo dance. It’s kind of a cross between the Tennessee Waltz and the lambada, and if you’re 89 and you never followed directions well and now you can’t really follow them at all, well, it's more like doing the Monster Mash.

I stood behind her and held her up while they took both sets of pix. I absorbed her radiation and, then, my own. No big deal. She would have done it for me.
And as I stood there, holding this fragile little old lady, I prayed—that we’d both be fine and that, God willing, we’d get to do this again next year, just a couple of boobs, giggling, giggling, all the way.

A Christmas Gift to Remember

On Christmas Eve, I came over to my mom's place so her caregiver could go home for the night. I wasn't looking forward to it. I had been up since 3 a.m., and I know from experience that I never get much sleep because she gets up frequently.
About 10 p.m., I went in and she was rolled over in her bed with her face against the security rail.
I touched her hand--it was baby soft--and said, "Mom, move back over. Yu're going to fall out."
She woke up briefly and smiled and grabbed my hand. "Am I dreaming this?" she said. I smiled and said no.
"My baby girl," she said. And she went back to sleep.
I dozed until about 3 when I heard her again and went in.
Did she need to get up? No.
Did she need anything? No. No, wait. Yes.
"I need you," she said.
So I said, "Why don't I get in bed with you?" She nodded and so I did. She reached over stroked my hair. "My Christmas bedfellow," she said.
All at once, I was 5 years old again. The stockings were hung on the sofa with care, and I knew in my heart that Christmas was here.

For mercy's sake, will somebody please yell, "Cut!"?

One of the great maxims of life is this: People like people who are like themselves.
I see people like me all the time—in the elevator, in the hallways, in the parking lot.

They are the daughters of the mothers who live in this complex.

They come in all shapes and sizes and colors, but they are just like me. Their faces are a strange mixture of apprehension and fatigue and concern.

And they sound just like me
“Are you warm enough, Mom?”
“Wait, I’ll get the car. I have some junk In the back, though, that I’ll have to clear to get your wheelchair/walker/cane in.”
“Yes, it’s lovely out. Isn’t it? I mean, it’s just beautiful. Good day to go out, don’t you think? I said GOOD DAY TO GO OUT, DON’T YOU THINK?”

We have the same vocabulary. We’re mostly the same age. We drive the same car (mostly Priuses or mid-size SUVs), we have the same cell phones.

So if people like people who are like themselves, why don’t I like them?

Because they remind me too much of what I’ve become. I am the helicopter parent—not hovering over my children, but hovering over my parent and not always as gracious as I should be.

Once, on the long elevator ride downstairs, I said to a daughter, “Is your mom in here? How’s she doing?” (“Yes. OK.”)
“You know,” I said, “we really ought to have some sort of group for us daughters.”
She looked up at me, and her eyes flashed. “Who has time?” she snapped.
I smiled and said, “Good point.”
The woman was rude. I’m a serial overreactor, but for once, I wasn’t offended because I knew it wasn’t really lack of time that ticked her off. And it’s not a matter of who has energy. Or even who has patience.

It’s a matter of who has answers, and the answer to that is that none of us does.
Putting on a brave front has turned us into a bunch of bad actors with bad attitude.
If we had an award for Best Performance by a Daughter Who Doesn't Think Old Age Is a Complete Disaster, I couldn't think of one nominee.

Could you?

Now who needs the anti-depressant?

This won't be a news flash to anyone who knows the situation, but I am not going to win Daughter of the Year (or wife or employee or friend, but those are separate columns). And I also have to acknowledge that Big Pharma does have something going for it.

About three days before a business trip, I was scrambling to make sure my mom had all her meds and that I had placed them all in the proper containers so her caretakers could dole them out at the appropriate time. Three needed to be refilled, so I called them in and went to pick them up.

The pharmacist, who is sometimes my BFF and sometimes the Spawn of Satan, apparently had chosen Personality No. 2 and would not, not, not refill the Lexapro, an anti-depressant, because it was too early. But, I said, I'll be out of town. Way too early, she said.

So I was two for three. If Manny were that good, we wouldn't have had that cliffhanger vis a vis winning the division. But in the world of elder care, two for three isn't quite good enough. She had enough for five days, and I would be away only for seven.

So I went off and came back. And then I did the bad thing.

I forgot.

I forgot that the one script that remained unfilled was the anti-depressant, and I didn't remember until the first Sunday I spent with her. We could have made a movie called "The Devil Wears Depends" that day.

I quickly had the script refilled and re-started her on it. This Sunday, she is like a different person. She is smiling and laughing, and a moment ago as I was standing near her, she reached out to pat my hand.

She should have slapped my wrist.

Because 88 is no time to lose a day to depression.

The Mom Chronicles: How Can I Be Blue?

My mom and my dog are best of friends. I think Mom identifies with Blue (at right).

Blue (a.k.a. Puppy Girl) is a rescue Dalmatian who came into our lives about six years ago. She was a quivering mess. Still is, somewhat. We're not sure how old she is, but we believe that she was one of the puppies born shortly after the last "101 Dalmatians" movie, which was 1996. Which means neither she nor my mom is any spring chicken.

From what SavetheDals.org tells me, Blue was used as a puppy mill and when the family moved, she was kicked to the curb. We don't know much more, except that the hair is gone from her joints because she apparently slept from concrete; that she is afraid of brooms and sprayed water, which may have been used as discipline; and that, despite it all, she lives to please. Her tail could challenge any metronome and win.

My mother was furious with me when I showed up at her house with Blue (so named for her blue eyes). "You work too many hours to have a dog!" she barked. (My mom, not Blue.) And in one of the more famous nonsequiturs, I said, "Let's go to the beach." And we did. As we sat on a bench, I told her what I knew about Blue, and her heart melted, as she heard the sad story of puppies taken away and punishment meted out.

Puppy Girl was in. They've been the best of friends ever since.

When my mom still lived in her own home, P.G. would say with her. Nowadays, Blue comes for short visits or my mom comes to the house to see Blue. Absent a personal visit, we have photos of Blue in the apartment and a Dalmatian calendar and a Dalmatian blanket that Mom has dubbed "Puppy Girl."

At 5:45 this morning, my mom is ready to get up. I am not, but it doesn't matter. We get up anyway, and she totters into the TV room. The blanket is ready to assist. Its companion is a blue blanket, which my mother has dubbed "Puppy Girl Part 2."

As I spread them over her legs, I say, "Here comes Puppy Girl!" and then "Here comes Puppy Girl Part 2!" and my mother says, "Oh, Puppy Girl. Oh Puppy Girl Part 2. I need you. I am so cold. You warm me up."

You do too, Mom.