Happy Hour At the Nursing Home

As a young father I often lectured my kids on how we must always take care of old people. Most of the time it was during the drive to see grandparents or Aunts. “If we don’t do it, no one else will,”  I told them. They are the people who were young and alive once just like we are today. Just because they have become wrinkled, sick, and can’t get around as much anymore does not mean we give up on them. I tried my best to live by that example all my life. First it was my wife’s mother, then my own parents, then my wife, then her aunt, and now it is someone new. There is always an older person who needs love and attention. If we don’t give it to them, who will? Certainly not Uncle, yet there are laws on the books for taking care of people. One of them has established a department called Public Guardianship.

A Public Guardian is a person who works for the agency. He/she gets the job of taking care of a person’s life. First, the agency must convince the judge that this person can not take care of themselves. Once the judge rules on the matter the guardian takes over, and assesses the person’s estate. The court orders the guardian to  establish a trust for the person’s belongings.  The person must leave his home and live under the care of a new home. Usually, the new home is an assisted living facility or nursing center.  One of the first things a guardian does is to pre-arrange the person’s funeral. The cost of cremation, burial, etc. are pre-paid from the estate if there is one. The law defines what happens when there is no money in the person’s estate for funeral expenses.

It is sad to know someone who is under guardianship. Right now, I happen to know someone who is in pretty good physical condition but who has challenged cognitive ability. The person often forgets things, becomes easily confused, and therefore will not know where they are or how they got there. Yet, the person is totally capable of walking out of the place.

Yesterday, Peggy and I visited this person at the nursing home. I wondered how old I have to get before someone else has to take care of me. The person we visited is only seven years older than I am. Time has become my most precious commodity. Whatever time I have left is too short to carry out what I have in front of me. Time will ultimately lose to health. A loss of health cancels time and that which was once your most precious commodity takes a back seat to living with disease. Those things that drive me will become insignificant and meaningless.

We found our friend in a state of depression. The realization that a guardian has total control over life had set in. The realization that there are strict rules to follow have taken away human dignity. The idea of not being able to wander around at will is atrocious, kind of like being a young child again with a very strict parent controlling your every move.

We planned the visit as a pop-in pop-out, but turned into an afternoon. We even stayed for “happy hour.”

When I think of ‘happy hour” I envision a group of people in a strange place meeting new friends, drinking, and noshing to while away time from home. Happy hour at the nursing home begins with a rush of wheelchairs pushed  into the coffee shop. A staff member distributes plastic soup dishes filled with Cheetos or popcorn to the residents. A staffer wheels a portable bar into place. It has wine and spirits for a price. A juke box plays songs from fifty years ago. The room crowds with residents, family, and staffers chattering about the fun they have at happy hour.

Elaine, an eighty-eight year old joins us with her daughter Katie. Katie related that when she visits her mom, everything is fun and fine, life is good. When Katie leaves, her mom calls Katie’s sister to come and take her out of the “hell hole.”  We laugh. The truth is not funny though. It is evidence that the residents of this beautiful facility with friendly staff, and activities galore are not enough to make up for the loss of dignity felt by the residents who must live out their lives there.

Dear God, please take me suddenly while I am visiting an older person during happy hour at the nursing home.

Coincidence? Yeah, Right.

OBAMA: THE SOCIALIST/MARXIST/COMMUNIST -- UNMA...

OBAMA: THE SOCIALIST/MARXIST/COMMUNIST — UNMASKED FOR ALL TO SEE (Photo credit: SS&SS)

Another secret revealed about the new health care act. This one is called the Eight Billion Dollar Coincidence.

This video points out the cost of delaying information about cuts to senior health plans until after the election. Coincidence? Not!

What is the morality of using tax payer dollars to stick a knife into the backs of  seniors. All the while campaigning about how the opposite party will take their Medicare away from them.

This little item is the second fact revealed regarding the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. The first was taking 700 billion dollars away from Medicare to pay for PPACA, now this plot to spend 8 billion to hide another rape of the system.

This is not a YouTube video so click on the link to get there.

Coincidence

Something to Think About

afghanistan

afghanistan (Photo credit: The U.S. Army)

A friend sent me this e-mail today. We’ve  heard the stories, but never as a comparison. Similar incidents did occur but the treatment of the shooter is somewhat different between them. Why?

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Double Standard

After reading the headlines about the US soldier who shot up Afghanistan civilians, I couldn’t help noticing an irony.  There is all this clamor to try this guy quickly and execute him, never mind his having suffered a traumatic brain injury.

Yet this Major Hasan, who shot up Fort Hood while screaming Allah Akbar, still hasn’t stood trial, and they are still debating whether he was insane, even with the clear evidence regarding his motive: slay as many infidels as possible.  So we have a guy in a war zone who cracks, and he must be executed immediately.

But this Muslim psychiatrist who was stateside in a nice safe office all day murders 13, wounds 29 of our own guys, and they try to argue the poor lad suffered post-traumatic stress syndrome, from listening to real soldiers who had actual battle experience.  Two and a half years later, they still haven’t tried the murderous bastard.

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A Strip of Long Hair Running Down the Middle of a Bald Head

Young girl with blond mohawk in Germany.

Image via Wikipedia

My creative brain is frozen, locked up, dead. The best way to unfreeze it is to begin writing, anything.  My political brain is the most locked up. The politics of the current administration is soooo bad, and I am soooo mad, I cannot think of how to cartoon or to opinionate them. My personal life is soooo dull, I don’t have, nor do I want to share my thoughts; although I am doing that just now.

My projects include a new movie called “Searching for Indians and  A-Bombs,” my new book soon to be released on Kindle is “Jun-e-or, Recollections of Life in the Forties and Fifties,” both are consuming time to the point of  “IT’S WORK.” By the way that is pronounced Jew-knee-or. Buy the book to learn what that means.

My series of posts titled “Simple Amusements” is from the book. Perhaps if you wait long enough and read this blog often, you will get the entire book without spending a dime.

Today, I had a neat little workout. I shoveled snow for the first time since early January. I missed a bad snowfall a few weeks ago because I took a weekend off to visit my son in Texas. Thank you Lord for letting the worst storm of January take place while I was out of town. By the way, South Texas weather is gorgeous this time of the year, I recommend it to anyone who wants to escape winter.

At mass this evening, a young couple sat in front of us. The man took me back with his appearance. First, he had muscle definition to die for. Large arms, skinny waist, and a broad chest. He appeared like he worked out often. He removed his jacket to further reveal a short sleeve tee shirt that displayed great arms and upper abdominal physique. His wife was bundled in a heavy winter coat over a hooded sweatshirt.

What took me back was his hair. He had a strip of wild hair running down the middle of a bald head. I believe it is called a Mohawk. The center hair was waxed to stand up and to look unruly. His wife was gorgeous but slightly heavy with blond hair that was nearly white. He looked like a Rush Street bartender, and she like a stay at home mom. After a few minutes, I regained my composure and looked past the man’s hairdo. Here was a couple in their late twenties worshipping God in a church. Hello, what is wrong with that picture? Young people in church? How rare is that?

At the traditional handshake of peace, both of them turned around and offered a most gracious blessing with a heartwarming smile. I wanted to know them and to learn more about them. Perhaps I will see them next week. I will not let them leave without some friendly conversation.

A New Mind-movie Adventure.

Windbeeches on the Schauinsland in Germany (Bl...

Image via Wikipedia

This is probably the longest spell I’ve had between posts since I began blogging. Something has happened to make my zeal for life, blogging, cartooning, and just plain living wane and fall into the universe. All I know is that it ain’t in my soul anymore. I even contemplated shutting down Grumpa Joe’s Place and disappearing into the sunset.

Winter blahs, maybe, SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) perhaps, but most likely it is a severe case of LAD (Light Affective Disorder). I thrive on sunshine and there is none this month.

I keep seeing past events playing a loop over and over in my mind. There are never any new adventures, just some really good old mind-movies that can never be duplicated, relived, nor even remembered exactly the same. Even walking does not pump me with feel good seratonin, only aches and pains that spread throughout the joint network.

There is so much in my life to be thankful for, yet the mind-movies continue to play the scenes of Thanksgiving past with all the old relatives, friends, and close family. Perhaps that is it. This year, will be the first time in fifty that my closest family will not be with me at Thanksgiving. Just writing that last sentence has brought on the melancholy.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life! a new mind-movie adventure.