tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57394342658690408072024-03-13T23:03:47.195-04:00The Italian Grandmama's Blog The Italian Grandmama's Blog
Insights, self-help, inspiration, tips and encouragement.
Please Read, comment, follow and share The Italian Grandmama's blog with everyone in your circle! The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-81105952720989950072019-08-15T20:37:00.000-04:002019-08-15T20:37:40.829-04:00Growing up Italian or Not fitting inI'm Italian. And from the city. <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/AngelasArtistic" target="_blank">Philadelphia</a>, that is. I grew up in an Italian neighborhood called Tacony. If you're from New York, you understand Italian neighborhoods.<br />
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When I meet someone from Brooklyn or someone brought up in an Italian household, it's understood. How we grew up, our experiences, how we operate in the world. No explanations needed. If fact, in customer service, if am talking on the phone to someone from Philly or New York, we immediately connect.<br />
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When you grow up in the city, you have an edge. You learn to be a little tough. It helps with survival.<br />
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When you grow up Italian, you learn to talk over each other and listen to three different conversations at the same time. I wouldn't say it's a gentle culture. Passionate, loving, but not necessarily gentle. Kind, giving, ferociously protective of our families. Lots of wonderful qualities, not the least of which is good food and fabulous family gatherings. But not placid, not meek.<br />
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I moved to Maryland suburbs in 1986 and I came to think of it as "The land of vanilla people." I don't mean this as an insult. It's really more about me and my journey to fit into Maryland culture. People spoke quietly. They didn't yell. They didn't shout for their kids a block away. They didn't shout to the neighbors from their porches.<br />
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So I tried changing my speech patterns, removing the long "a" sounds. I tried rephrasing sentences in a more pleasing way, more tactful, more benign. In the beginning I WANTED to leave behind my gritty city-ness. I was determined to throw out my edge and become cultivated!<br />
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Evidently, some of my neighbors wanted that as well! When the kids were little, a neighbor said to me, "I hate it when you tell the kids to 'shut up!"<br />
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I asked, "What am I supposed to say?"<br />
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She said, "Tell them to 'Be quiet."<br />
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So I tried it. When the kids were noisy I said, "Be quiet." And they lowered their voices, for about a minute. And then I realized I didn't want them to be quiet. I wanted them to SHUT UP!<br />
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In the end, I've assimilated some of this culture. Or maybe I've just matured. I've found a way to be me and still have friends! I've found a way to communicate with customers that works. I know how to shift gears and be professional.<br />
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Sometimes, I still have to think about being tactful before I respond. Sometimes I still have to swallow my first reaction and wait for a calmer version. Or call my daughter and ask her to rephrase it for me! Because I'm really a bottom line person. I like to tell it like it is. It saves time. My Maryland friends think this is hysterical. They wait for it. A few of them want to be more like me. I hear this a lot, "I wish I could just say what I'm thinking like you do!" Just put it out there. And I want to be more like them, gentle, genteel. <br />
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When I was in my 40's, I became independent (i.e. divorced.) I took back my name - DiCicco. And I felt like I crawled back into my own skin.<br />
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When I turned 50, I let my hair go natural (i.e.grey.) even while taking a lot of flack for that! I found myself just wanting to be me. It has become so much work to try to fit in. To try to be something that goes completely against my grain. To explain myself to people who don't understand me. More than that, because they don't understand my background, they judge me. I am expected to behave a certain way in this culture. And I feel gauche.<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CnZp5tTJ6AA/XVX33sbAzTI/AAAAAAAAA-0/s5tLwzNjwTI_Zyi52hn1Kt240LuCOThhwCLcBGAs/s1600/I%2527m%2Bnot%2Byelling%2BI%2527m%2BItalian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="210" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CnZp5tTJ6AA/XVX33sbAzTI/AAAAAAAAA-0/s5tLwzNjwTI_Zyi52hn1Kt240LuCOThhwCLcBGAs/s200/I%2527m%2Bnot%2Byelling%2BI%2527m%2BItalian.jpg" width="182" /></a><br />
I am remarried now and husband is from Colorado, also a different culture. We have had many conversations about our cultural differences ending with me saying, "Stop trying to make me vanilla!"<br />
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What works in Philly doesn't work here. My husband was on a learning curve for the first few years. He would ask me why I was yelling at him. I would say, "I'm not yelling!"<br />
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That's why I love hanging around with my Italian friends. And when I go back to Philly, I slip back into my beginnings, my roots. And it feels so good to be home.<br />
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I've come home, to me.<br />
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My big Italian family!<br />
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Angela DiCicco<br />
8/15/19 revision<br />
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The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-28285707957840432302019-08-08T19:32:00.000-04:002019-08-14T21:08:02.768-04:00How we cope with a disability on a daily basis.The accident happened. Four years ago. And our lives changed drastically.<br />
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How do we cope? It's not always easy. We have many times when we feel like giving up. When we're angry that the accident happened. When we are angry with God. But we wake up each day and while enjoying our morning coffee, we pray together. We begin with gratitude, for waking up - not a given! For food, a warm bed, for another day with each other.<br />
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Then we start the day off with intention. And ask, "What is God's will for us today?" And we listen.<br />
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And we take our feelings to God, throughout the day. An ongoing dialogue. We tell Him how hard it is; we tell him our worries, our pain, our sadness. How we thought Arthur would be healed by now. That a miracle would happen. We pray for strength for another day. I hate to pray for patience - because surely I will be given opportunities to practice patience! But it's something I need.<br />
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Our lives have slowed down. And maybe that was God's intention. Stop being a busy bee and just BE. Because of the paraplegia, we spend a lot more time together than we did before. We are not both running off in other directions.<br />
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It's hard. Every day has its challenges. We are both exhausted, him with the business of moving dead weight from the bed to the wheelchair and back again. Me with taking care of Arthur, myself, our home and working. He does what he can, but his personal needs take up a large part of his time and energy.<br />
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Energy is portioned out. Bowel Training can take 1.5 hours and be so draining. A quick shower is not a quick shower and requires a mindset, put it on the daily list and plan it. Everything is orchestrated, planned.<br />
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Very few things are spontaneous unless they involve staying home. And so we invite friends into our home because it's easier than going out.<br />
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Even planned things don't always happen. The day we are going to our granddaughter's birthday may be the day he wakes up with a fever, a UTI or slept fitfully and just doesn't have the energy to go.<br />
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A few days ago he woke up with a headache, exhausted and stayed in bed the entire day. This is not how he used to be at all! And he hates it. He doesn't like being sick; who would?<br />
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So we begin each day with intention, asking what God's Will is for us each day. And for the power to carry that out. And we hope our will aligns with His will. That's the challenge, isn't it? Acceptance. Accepting God's Will for our lives. Because this surely isn't what we would have planned! I don't think God planned it either.<br />
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But it 's our reality. And we both want to make the best of it. So if there's a lesson to be learned, or a way we can help others, then Use me God. Use me.<br />
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Angela DiCicco<br />
8/8/19<br />
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-45633258383679443132019-08-06T17:59:00.000-04:002019-08-06T17:59:01.555-04:00Writing is Hard Work! But here's what I discovered....<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Writing is hard work. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
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I used to think that if I had all the time in the world to
write, I would be so happy! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I used to think that artists were so lucky because it was so
fun creating all the time!<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve since learned that neither of those statements is
completely accurate. Both writing and creating art take a lot of time, energy, patience and tenacity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I do love to write. And I write nearly every day. Sometimes
half a page, sometimes three pages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
the very least, I jot down a few lines or paragraphs in my journal. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But sitting down in the hot seat, preparing to write on a
consistent daily schedule – that’s the challenge. And I know I’m not alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Writer, </span><a href="https://amzn.to/2GNWTra" target="_blank">Anne Lamott</a> says, “That thing you had to
force yourself to do—the actual act of writing—turns out to be the best part. The
act of writing turns out to be its own reward.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I know this is true because when I write, it feels good. It's one of the few things I do that, at the end of the day, I feel good about. Like I've accomplished something worthwhile. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My breakfast is finished; I can't waste any more time on my crossword puzzle. It’s time to get to work. The
thought goes through my mind that I need to go to my office and sit at my
computer and begin; suddenly I want to do all the things that come easily to me
– listing an item on etsy or making a collage or taking photographs to put on
Etsy! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoy these and have done them
long enough that I don’t have to think much about it. I can easily go down that rabbit hole - the sun is perfect for photographing my inventory!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes I tell myself a story– I can’t write in this
chaos!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’ll straighten up my office.
Fold a pile of clothes that came out of the wash several days ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s so easy to make excuses – I need to take a walk. I can
easily justify that. I need my daily exercise; I need to get my steps in!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to lose weight so I NEED to walk, take
an exercise class or go dancing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I avoid sitting down because I know the world still stop
when I sit and nothing else will get done. And I always have lists of things to
do. So I can get 10 other things done or I can write. But what’s my priority?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today I realize that I use another technique to avoid
writing: I believe that if I put it off until tomorrow morning – when I’m awake,
refreshed and have the whole day in front of me – then I’ll be inspired. Ideas
will flow. I will wake up with a complete plan in my head of what subjects to
write about. There’s one large problem with this - there’s not much discipline
in this approach. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Great ideas come to me about an article to write or a blogpost – when I’m driving. Oh – this topic
would resonate with people!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or when I’m in
the shower - This would make a wonderful opening sentence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or when I’m drifting off to sleep – I’m going
to remember this in the morning! <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rarely, if ever, do I remember these great ideas. Like most
writers, I have slips of papers that I write ideas that come to mind – whatever
is handy. But do I have a central place for all those scraps of papers? Not
yet. Sometimes I send myself a message on my cell phone if I’m lucky enough to
be in a place where I can do that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have always loved to write. Writing for me is cathartic. Following
my husband’s motorcycle accident in 2015 that left him a paraplegic, I experienced
many painful emotions. It was complicated by his behaviors while on the
medications that negatively affected him. Challenging situations were being
created daily that left me shaken. I had so many emotions they were piling up
one on top of the other. I needed an outlet for all this angst and grief.
Movement helped –dancing or cleaning or talking to a <a href="https://amzn.to/2TgaAEj" target="_blank">Core Energetics</a> Practitioner. It helped my body release some
of the tension that was building. But I had to get all the stuff out of my
head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So I wrote. I wrote it all down. The fear, the pain, the
anger. Pages and pages in my journal, on scraps of paper, on whatever notepad
or paper were handy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Writing grounds me. It empties my head onto paper, where
things make more sense to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can write anything down. I hate you or you’ve ruined my
life or I’m scared of losing you. Without the interaction of another human
being, I can be me. I’m an empath and intuitive so if you are in front of me, I’m
feeling what you’re feeling. And if you’re not in front of me I can’t read your
body language. I can’t take on your feelings. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writing is safe. I don’t have to worry about
what you’ll say or how you’ll handle this situation. I don’t worry that you won’t
agree with me. I don’t worry about hurting your feelings. Writing is about me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes writing helps me make a decision. I’m a list maker.
I love lists. Columns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Setting it down
on paper allows me to clearly see in black and white what my options are. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Words.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I love words. I love the English language. I had an articulate friend
who sprinkled fancy words in his everyday conversation. I was enthralled,
always asking, How do you spell that? What does it mean? I can listen to
someone who puts words together well and be so enchanted. Haven't you ever heard someone speak and think, "I could listen to them all day!"</div>
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After reading <a href="https://amzn.to/2YwFnm8" target="_blank">Little Woman</a>, by Louisa May Alcott, I decided I wanted to be a writer like Jo. In 7th grade, I began keeping a journal- that was
1971! It’s
been a very long, slow journey for me.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am late in learning that discipline is the key, not how I
feel. That I need to make a conscious plan to write every day. The book, <a href="https://amzn.to/2GRoNlY" target="_blank">The Artist’s Way</a>, by Julia Cameron, was very helpful in jump starting my writing in a consistent manner. The book
suggests you write 3 pages a day. Doesn’t matter what you say. Sometimes saying
nothing becomes something.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I used to think that I had to be inspired to write. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I understand that you don’t wait for
inspiration. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another quote by <a href="https://amzn.to/2GT8Aga" target="_blank">Anne Lamott</a> ,“Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.” You sit in the hot seat.
You write.</div>
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If you're need to jump start your inspiration, try <a href="https://amzn.to/2YMWMm3" target="_blank">writing prompts</a>. I wrote a most fun one about pink cotton candy! Several books are available such as <span id="goog_1782113979"></span><a href="https://amzn.to/2YR1OxX" target="_blank">A Year of Creative Writing Prompts (Write on!)<span id="goog_1782113980"></span> </a> Or you can find writing prompts online such as <a href="https://www.writersdigest.com/prompts">https://www.writersdigest.com/prompts</a>. </div>
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I used to think that writing was fun and I would be so happy
to do it every day all day! And now I CAN sit and
write all day, every day if I choose. But it’s not the happy happy joy joy that
I used to think it was. It’s hard work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being on a schedule to blog is work, finding
an editor or a magazine to send out my articles to. It’s all part of the
process if you want to write and be published. And it’s not the fun part! <o:p></o:p></div>
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I still enjoy writing. I love putting words together, finding
a way to describe what I’m feeling, convey a message in a way that it resonates
with others, describe a place so vividly that someone can see it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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And once I stop making excuses, once I’m in the hot seat, I
write. Words flow. I am inspired. I forget about time. I am in the zone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Angela DiCicco 7/15/19<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-42852992522292414122019-08-01T18:00:00.000-04:002019-08-02T10:46:12.548-04:00Life changes in one minute: living with a paraplegic<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">What were we doing the day before the accident? The day of the <a href="https://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2019/08/life-changes-in-one-minute-living-with.html" target="_blank">accident</a>? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">We were packing, planning for our trip to the beach in Chincoteague to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary.
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</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">In a split second, our lives changed, 5 years ago on 6/11/15, when my husband, Arthur, was in a motorcycle accident.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Life is now divided into Before the Accident and After the Accident.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I scroll through my phone, I see photos from </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">May, 2014 when we took my mom to Alexandria for lunch and shopping. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">I see photos from April, 2015, Arthur is in our yard, playing ball with the grand kids. Photos of us on vacation hiking up a mountain or photos of us dancing at Glen Echo or his nephew Stanley's wedding, September 2015. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">2 months before the accident, 1 month before the accident, the Christmas before the accident, his last Christmas being able to walk. Who knew that 2015 would be the year that would change our lives? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">We know so many motorcyclists. And most have been in one or more accidents, several broken bones, hospital stints. And still they get up and ride again. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">We had no idea that a year after Arthur got his motorcycle, he would have an accident that he wouldn't fully recover from. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When we drive on the highway now, I look with envy at the motorcyclists and their passengers. It was me on the back of that motorcycle not too long ago. It was me and Arthur who suited up and rode on gorgeous sunny Sunday afternoons, stopping for lunch at an out of the way place. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It does no good to say, "Why me, why us?" I wouldn't wish what happened to us on anyone. Still, it begs the question, "Why?" Why have others been able to ride for 30 years or more? Why was this journey we were on together cut short? </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I run through the "What ifs." What if we had listened to our friend? While at dinner at a friend of ours we discussed getting a motorcycle at our age. Lee said, "Over 60 is the highest bracket for motorcycle accidents. A foreshadowing of events to happen." </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In our car driving Arthur's teenage son home, Arthur brought up getting a motorcycle. His son was concerned. 'What are you afraid of?" I asked him. Afraid of him getting into an accident and getting hurt or killing himself. Foreshadowing. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">None of this stopped the process. Arthur took the motorcycle class and passed. I wanted a trike. I thought it would be the safest bike. My daughter said, "Mom, anytime you're riding without any protection, it's dangerous." I thought having 3 wheels would minimize the risk. I couldn't convince Arthur. He said, "They're too expensive!" Instead, he purchased a teal blue Kawasaki motorcycle with "training" wheels. He thought that was equal to a trike. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And after the accident happened, I thought, 'What if he had gotten the trike?" And my daughter said, </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Mom, if it was meant to happen it would have happened no matter what he was driving. If it was his time, it was his time." </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It's the what-ifs that can drive you crazy. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">What if we had never gotten the motorcycle? </span></span><br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_axjewPR62U/XUNagwQtO_I/AAAAAAAAA-M/ZsuqPA4i8acSripJB23R3MJgzJ2IxZofgCLcBGAs/s1600/4-IMG_3310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_axjewPR62U/XUNagwQtO_I/AAAAAAAAA-M/ZsuqPA4i8acSripJB23R3MJgzJ2IxZofgCLcBGAs/s200/4-IMG_3310.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And It's comparing life as it is with life as it was. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It's so easy to wish it had never happened. Who wouldn't? </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">When my husband doesn't want to fly, which he regularly did before the accident, it limits the vacations we can take together. He's afraid. And I get it. Something might happen to his custom wheelchair. I talked to flight attendant on my way to Hawaii about travelling with a wheelchair. She said, "If you can bring it with you stow it </span></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">on-board, it's better than sending it with the suitcases." She said she knew of one situation where the wheels were bent and the wheelchair was unusable. These are custom wheelchairs that cost thousands of dollars and months to build. A CVS wheelchair doesn't work for paraplegics living daily life. The wheelchair IS their legs.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I've had to convince EMT's to bring Arthur's wheelchair in the ambulance with him. They said, "We're not sure there's going to be room." I told them, "These are his legs! He needs his wheelchair!" </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And there's the emotional side too. What fun is being in Hawaii if we can't go on the beach and hold hands? We both feel this way. We grieve walking on the beach together, feet in the sand, collecting shells, watching the waves. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And those big puffy wheelchairs are not an option. They are too high for Arthur to transfer into and very difficult to navigate on the beach.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">So the man who used to travel by plane with me before the accident is no longer available.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And dancing. We used to go ballroom dance together. We were especially good at the waltz and the cha-cha. We went to balls, Arthur in his tails and me in my gown. He loves dancing and just beams when he's out there. </span></span><br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zu_oaQhPTbs/XUNapDTTA_I/AAAAAAAAA-Q/PqlJg412urYWIPFEanHfcYN7PB68NgI8ACLcBGAs/s1600/Angela%2Band%2BArthur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zu_oaQhPTbs/XUNapDTTA_I/AAAAAAAAA-Q/PqlJg412urYWIPFEanHfcYN7PB68NgI8ACLcBGAs/s200/Angela%2Band%2BArthur.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I've looked into wheelchair dancing but there are none in our area. Occasionally, we do listen to music and we'll go out on the dance floor together. But it's not the same as him holding me close during a slow dance. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Before/After. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Arthur was the main babysitter for our grand kids. He was so wonderful with them! He would play ball, take them for rides in the wagon, hold them, change them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">He recently asked me about babysitting one of our grand kids and said, "I know you would have to do most of the work." </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And that pretty much sums up our life. Arthur is independent. He can stay for days by himself if I am away. He can cook, use the microwave, load the dishwasher, wash clothes. He can drive, go food shopping and take himself to his doctor appointments. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">But if something falls on the floor after he's in bed, it's me who has to look for it. If he forgets his phone in the kitchen, it's me who gets it for him. He doesn't want it to be this way. He would give anything for it not to be this way. But it's the way it is. He does as much as he can. And I do the rest. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">It's the reality of our situation. It's so much more than not walking.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Recently, at an art gallery opening in Glen Echo, MD, there were no handicapped parking spots available. An SUV had overflowed partly in the handicapped space. The owner saw me looking at his vehicle ( I check for handicap tags) and asked, "Can I help you?" Yes, your car is partially parked in the handicapped spot. He said, "That guy seemed to manage" pointing to a vehicle illegally parked in the van accessible striped lane. He didn't understand what was wrong with his parking. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">That's the after. People insensitive to how hard it is to be in a wheelchair, to have limited mobility and then to have to fight for what others take for granted - a parking spot. I've had people yell at me because they were parked illegally and I was calling the police. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eiaumDFrVls/XUNapP3fUMI/AAAAAAAAA-U/iDuoJ3VhGtoh54VYoh0rUFvl44dU_sIIACLcBGAs/s1600/Arthur%2BBrookside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eiaumDFrVls/XUNapP3fUMI/AAAAAAAAA-U/iDuoJ3VhGtoh54VYoh0rUFvl44dU_sIIACLcBGAs/s320/Arthur%2BBrookside.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Life was so much easier before the accident in many ways. How can we not compare? How can we not wish for things to be different? </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Four years after the accident, we are still adjusting. It's an ongoing process.
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Angela DiCicco</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">8/1/19.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Excerpts from Go Fund Me updates for Arthur Morton.</span></span>The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-15178889161294305472019-07-25T20:02:00.000-04:002019-07-25T20:02:00.108-04:00The process (of success) befuddles me. My challenges with the stage of PROCESS.<br />
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The 'how' of getting from here to there has always befuddled me. </div>
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I am really good with following directions. (Not driving directions. I'm not good at that at all!) I LOVE a list. TELL me what to do and I'll do it. I'm willing to do the work. </div>
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But figuring out the process - all the little steps along the way to reach that goal, that dream. Well, there's a blank space in my mind where knowledge should be. </div>
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It may have something to do with being a spatial thinker. I see the BIG picture. It's all the little steps along the way that elude me.</div>
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It's really the process that has eluded me my entire life. How exactly does one get their book published? There's a bigillion steps in between writing the book and getting it published. And my head swims as I read articles and posts and books on getting your book published. I've attended workshops. I've taken classes. And it still seems daunting to me. I know TONS of people who have books published. It's easier than ever now with self publishing. </div>
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And that's just one example. So what do they know that I don't? Or do I just lack confidence? Or do I lack discipline? Or is my brain wired differently???</div>
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I've written dozens of articles and had a few published. But some people do this for a living! The whole check-out- the-magazine- and- find- out- their- writing -style and do- that- thing absolutely swamps my mind. I mean I just SHUT DOWN! And that Query letter? Frozen. Absolutely frozen. Because they impress upon you that you have ONE chance to get in their face. Cue perfectionism! And if you can't be perfect, you don't do it at all.</div>
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Now I know that once you figure out the process, it gets easier. So if I got into the habit of sending out query letters and had some success, it would not be so difficult.</div>
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It's so much more work than I ever realized! It absolutely doesn't happen by magic! Wave that sparkly magic wand and TADA! I'm published! </div>
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Nope. It's easier to sit down and write than to find a publication that matches my writing. Or the other way around. Research is hard work. Writing is hard work. Getting a website up and running is hard work. </div>
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And the artist in me has overtaken my brain. Because my brain can't seem to focus on one thing. </div>
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I've always said that I was whole brained - equal parts left brain and right brain. Left brain for linear and analytical thought. I've been an Administrative Assistant, an Insurance Agent; I've raised kids, been a Brownie Leader, was a preschool teacher. Each of these requires linear thinking because there are steps to each one. I am (or was) a linear thinker.</div>
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But my daughter says that I am totally in my right brain now. Right brain is the intuitive, thoughtful side. Imagination, Art. All the things that I am mired in now. </div>
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She's right. All I want to do is create. I purchased a Cricut Maker so I could make leather earrings and beautiful greeting cards and lovely stencils. I want to paint large colorful works of art. I am learning a technique for alcohol ink paintings. </div>
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I write - a lot. Blogs, journals, children's books. The left side of my brain no longer wants to function.</div>
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Recently, my daughter, Ashley, has been spoon-feeding me to get my Italian Grandmama's Guide website off the ground. </div>
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After we planned to spend an evening together working on the website, my daughter sent me an email with a list :</div>
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Can you please have ready:</div>
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1. Bio (about me)</div>
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2. What you want on your main page</div>
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3. What you want your subpages to be</div>
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4. Any pictures you want on the page</div>
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5. What you want on your shop page</div>
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6. Any graphics that you want to use (do you have a logo?)</div>
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Have I mentioned that I LOVE lists! I am a chronic list maker! The difference between my list and my daughter's list is that my list is a hodge podge of everything that needs to be done in every area of my life. And her lists are specific to a topic. And THAT's what I need! </div>
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So that evening I said, Oh! If you could send me a list everyday! It would be so helpful! </div>
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I didn't really expect her to do this. </div>
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The next morning when I opened my inbox, another list awaited me! </div>
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Good Morning-</div>
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· Finish what was not completed yesterday</div>
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· Sunday night between 6pm and 8pm is when people are on social media the most. Start to think about what you want to promote.</div>
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· Make a list of all the blog topics you want to write about</div>
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· Spend at least an hour on your book</div>
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Every morning she sends me a list of things to do that day that pertain to getting my website up and running and my Italian Grandmama's Guide live. Yes! I can do this! </div>
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But without these lists, I wouldn't know which to do first. My brain becomes befuddled as each task struggles for priority. And it's exhausting! Which do I do first? What's the most important thing? (I should qualify here that I am capable of choosing priorities when I am working for someone else and work well independently.) That's not the kind of priority I'm talking about. I'm talking about the BIG picture. My personal financial success. My business success. My success at becoming an author, of getting my brand - The Italian Grandmama's Guide - off the ground. So Ashley's lists help me focus and not waste my energy thinking!</div>
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Ashley sees all the steps that need to happen along the way. She has an amazing business mind! And she can break it down for me. Her mind just naturally and easily does that. So not only does she know this information but she communicates it in such a way that I get it! She KNOWS what is a priority. I have no idea how she knows this! I think it's her gift. One of her many gifts. </div>
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As a little girl, she loved lists and schedules. Each morning I would make a schedule for her - </div>
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7:00 get up </div>
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7:30 eat breakfast; </div>
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7:45 get dressed </div>
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8:00 leave for school. </div>
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She thrived on this! And now she is helping me set a schedule! Schedules are good. Priorities are good. </div>
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Yesterday I spent a few hours with my husband trying to figure out how to upload a document into google docs. Hours! Then I talked to my daughter. She said, "Go here, go there, click this." And there it was. It took her all of one minute. </div>
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Another day I spent a few hours working on icons for my website. A few hours! This stuff doesn't come easily to me.</div>
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Even as an Insurance Agent, there were some things that were so difficult and required so much mental energy to process that my head would hurt! Sometimes I felt like I was banging my head against the wall.</div>
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And underneath of it, I feel envy for people that process comes easily to - like my daughter. I believe I would be successful now if only my brain processed information more easily. My books and articles would be published. I've watched so many people reach MY goals before me! They have figured it out! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wonder if other people have a secret that I don't have and that's why I have not had financial success. What's the matter with me?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Even when I considered myself "whole brained" I didn't learn things deeply. I didn't delve into any one subject so deeply that I became an expert at it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Barbara Sher coined the term "scanners" for people like me. We are interested in everything, intelligent and easily bored. Once we have mastered a subject to our standards, we move on. While others are practicing the piano hours a day or honing their art, scanners have moved on to the next thing. We do many things well. We may not do everything great. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes that means not feeling confident enough in my piano skills to play to an audience. It means that I have to own the choices that I've made. Do I want to spend time each day learning the ukuele (my latest instrument)? Am I willing to work at oil painting until I become proficient? Each of these requires attention to detail, time, energy. I want to do them all! But I don't want to choose just one! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I feel shame. Because sometimes I feel not very smart. (And what if my daughter finds out how much I DON'T know??) I know that's not true. I know I'm smart. But when I'm in the middle of figuring out this computer stuff that comes easily to others, I feel very incompetent. And my head hurts and I want to go and make a collage instead of working on the computer! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But this whole process thing....baby steps. I need to stop beating myself up for not knowing what I don't know. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have figured out a great MANY things! How to live with a paraplegic, how to be a preschool teacher, how to be a cosmetologist. How to raise 3 healthy kids who are productive members of society. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I need to be patient with the process. Because my process is not the same as your process. And process is also creativity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
While I still envy the business mind my daughter has, my boundless creativity is the envy of others. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I need to look at that underlying belief - that I can't and they can. That they know something I don't. That there's something wrong with me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And for things that are difficult for me, I can hire someone. Like my daughter.</div>
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The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-64104104841453996942019-07-23T19:10:00.003-04:002019-08-14T21:08:22.474-04:00 10 More Things You Didn’t Know About Being a Paraplegic (or wheelchair user)Being a paraplegic has many obvious challenges. But there
are many challenges that aren’t as obvious. Below are a few that we never would
have known about if my husband wasn’t a paraplegic. They may also apply if you’re
in a wheelchair for other medical reasons and can’t walk on your own.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is short!<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 1. </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It's
regretting that we didn't do more things before the accident</b>. My husband
and I have had so many conversations about this! It’s the ongoing “what if”
list that serves no one and gets us nowhere. But we are human and we are sad
about the losses we have experienced. And this is one of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn't take that cross country trip before the accident. While we can still take this trip, it requires way
more thinking and planning ahead. I find that when we're both flexible, we can take some trips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
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<b>Trauma in the body comes out in many ways.</b> For my husband,
it means:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">2. </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Having phantom
stomach pain</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">. Following his accident, Arthur began having abdominal pains that have gotten worse
over time. They can double him over in pain can keep him up at
night. It could be a
nerve misfiring or a bone sliver that splintered off during the accident. Sleeping with an ice pack helps!</span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Recently, Arthur’s three daughters went to Chincoteague
together. We were invited, but my husband declined because:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">3. </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">It's
being left out at the beach</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">. Strides are being made as wheelchair
accessible ramps are available on some beaches. But they stop well away from
the water. When I went with my husband at the Jersey shore,
I set up my chair next to his so at least we were together. </span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
4. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Those
wheelchairs that go on the beach</b>? <span style="text-indent: -24px;">The large puffy wheels make the wheelchair too high for my husband to transfer into.</span><span style="text-indent: -24px;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">They are for people who
can either transfer themselves or are light enough to be lifted up, perhaps an
elderly parent. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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It means asking questions and finding there are more
questions to ask:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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5. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The bed
in a handicapped room at a hotel/motel may be too high for you to transfer
into.</b> We stayed at a wonderfully appointed handicapped room at Sonesta ES
Suites in Somers Point, NJ. They had low shelves, a shower stall equipped for a
wheelchair and a large bathroom. But the bed was too high for my husband to transfer into since he would be going uphill. Fortunately, there was an extra sofa he could sleep on. Flexibility is everything!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>It means thinking ahead:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 6. </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Making
plans to go to a restaurant or a hotel means asking very specific
questions</b> such as: How wide is the door? In older places, like a B&B,
the doors are narrow. Can he get into the bathroom? Will the tables accommodate a wheelchair?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We have found that by
and large, restaurants are accommodating, not just because they are required by
law. They are solicitous, holding the door, asking if this particular seat is
comfortable.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sometimes the center pedestal at the table interferes with the wheelchair getting close
enough to the table. Arthur has found that he can sit at an angle.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>It means calling ahead: </b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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7. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Asking
for theater seats that are wheelchair accessible</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some local theaters, it means sitting in
the last row. In movie
theaters, it means sitting in one of the front rows, which can be uncomfortable.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
OR it could mean getting better
seats. At the Kennedy Center, we regularly get better seats, sometimes at lower
prices because we sit in a handicapped spot.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 8. </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It's
looking for things you CAN do instead of focusing on </b>all the things you used to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can go to the movies, out to dinner or for
a walk in the park or the bike path. We’ve been to DC and several of the
theater companies in the area. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We've even taken sightseeing boats on the river near us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 9. </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s
learning to accommodate</b>. I’m 4’9” so many things have always been out of my
reach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my husband has always been
able to reach higher shelves so that's been an adjustment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
We have a set of dishes and cups placed
at a level that Arthur can reach so he can set the table or eat lunch,
especially when he’s home alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
We have a grabber in each room to help if
he drops something or to get things off the shelves in the bedroom.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
We have a washer and dryer in our unit with
the dryer on the top where Arthur can’t reach. He uses a grabber to transfer
the clothes from the washer to the dryer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
We have 2 microwaves<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- one above the stove that he can’t reach and
one at his wheelchair level! We can cook a whole meal in 2 microwaves!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>It’s ongoing grief:</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 10. </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s
grieving all the losses</b>. When I put my hand on his leg to connect with
him, he can’t feel it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can’t feel it when I rub lotion on his dry and cracked feet. But he knows I'm doing it and he still feels the love.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Sometimes he just looks so sad. He
wants to walk again. He misses his mobility. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Still, everyday he wakes up smiling, grateful to be alive, grateful that we are together. We have managed to carve out a routine and a very nice life here in our condo. We entertain, we watch TV, we make dinner together. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> And that's quite a miracle in itself! </span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cmSU4JC9hf8/XTeTyzS_YgI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/OOTwiKS9AJASK-9IIuveEzCqVo42EMbHwCLcBGAs/s1600/Arthur%2BBrookside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cmSU4JC9hf8/XTeTyzS_YgI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/OOTwiKS9AJASK-9IIuveEzCqVo42EMbHwCLcBGAs/s320/Arthur%2BBrookside.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Do you have hurdles that aren't listed here? Please comment and share with us!~</span></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: -24px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> Angela DiCicco</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: 48px;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/312477319482247/?ref=bookmarks" target="_blank">The Italian Grandmama</a></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-indent: 48px;">
7/23/19</div>
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The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-29730546183905872512019-07-18T15:31:00.000-04:002019-07-18T21:33:56.904-04:00Birthday and Anniversary Greeting Card Date BookI've been wanting, no, NEEDING a date book to help me remember birthdays and anniversaries. The family has grown to include spouses and grandchildren and it's too much to remember in my head! (I am living with the belief that age has nothing to do with my memory!)<br />
<br />
I used to be SO good at sending out greeting cards. I was one of those people who once I knew your birthday, I always remembered it! I guess I learned it from my mom was organized and sent cards for every occasion. She would write her cards out the beginning of every month and they were ready to send. You could always count on a birthday card from Mom.<br />
<br />
With the advent of Social Media, paper greeting cards are becoming passe. I receive fewer and fewer every year. I admit to succumbing to e-cards. With beautiful virtual card sites like <a href="https://www.jacquielawson.com/" target="_blank">Jacquie Lawson</a> and <a href="https://www.bluemountain.com/" target="_blank">Blue Mountain</a>, it's enticing to shoot off an e-card, one you don't have to create, address or stamp!<br />
<br />
However, I still delight in opening birthday or anniversary cards that come in the mail and I'm guessing others are happy to be thought of on such a personal level.<br />
<br />
I looked for a pre-made booklet with pockets for the cards like I had years ago and couldn't find one. Then I looked for templates and still wasn't satisfied.<br />
<br />
So I decided to create my own! And I am so proud of it that I wanted to share! It's super easy and will organize you. Even if you do want to send those virtual cards, you still need to remember the dates!<br />
<br />
Supplies you'll need:<br />
<br />
12 pocket Organizer<br />
blank paper or cardstock<br />
Greeting Cards<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M2OCTceQkXE/XTCuT0u1VDI/AAAAAAAAA8M/L224rSgjHCg39XrCkYR8tNKk-ibuvvsEQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4634.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M2OCTceQkXE/XTCuT0u1VDI/AAAAAAAAA8M/L224rSgjHCg39XrCkYR8tNKk-ibuvvsEQCLcBGAs/s200/IMG_4634.JPEG" width="150" /></a><br />
I used an organizer with 6 pages and 12 clear pockets.<br />
<br />
<br />
I created this cover and slipped in in the front:<br />
<br />
Then I created a page for each month. I didn't want calendar squares. I wanted lines to add names to so I numbered them like a list. If you're savvy with Excel, I'm sure you could figure it out on there!<br />
<br />
I created 2 templates, one for 31 days and one for 30. Then labeled them for each month. I added a fun clip art that coincided with the month - shamrocks in March, Easter Eggs in April, etc. Like this:<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ldzc4A1z3Hs/XTCuTRhKOEI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/qgRxFKorfo0Cl8OwpMqsUrakM9MTOZDqwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4621.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1269" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ldzc4A1z3Hs/XTCuTRhKOEI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/qgRxFKorfo0Cl8OwpMqsUrakM9MTOZDqwCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_4621.JPEG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I used regular paper but card stock is heavier and may serve you better. I also like to save the trees, so I used paper that had writing on one side.<br />
<br />
Then I slipped a page into each insert back to back<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u5c4KHipNmY/XTCuTtyAFNI/AAAAAAAAA8g/qWgB8xWevtgSzqiymczvyicyfdcNSlkEwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4622.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u5c4KHipNmY/XTCuTtyAFNI/AAAAAAAAA8g/qWgB8xWevtgSzqiymczvyicyfdcNSlkEwCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_4622.JPEG" width="240" /></a></div>
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And it turned out like this!<br /><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DDBBINJAVbU/XTEdyWzWbQI/AAAAAAAAA88/CjLfTVIU_AQJcFjlA4RCsLWa_GPjduIRwCLcBGAs/s1600/date%2Bbook%2Blast%2Bphoto%2Bof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1169" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DDBBINJAVbU/XTEdyWzWbQI/AAAAAAAAA88/CjLfTVIU_AQJcFjlA4RCsLWa_GPjduIRwCLcBGAs/s320/date%2Bbook%2Blast%2Bphoto%2Bof.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Angela DiCicco</div>
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7/18/19</div>
The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-6492268429106912532019-07-11T17:09:00.000-04:002019-07-11T17:09:16.694-04:007 Things You Didn’t Know About Paraplegics<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">7 Things You Didn’t Know About Paraplegics</span><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 1. </span><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">It’s more
than just not being able to walk</b>.</span> Sometimes kind people want to make
themselves feel better about their loved one being a paraplegic. So they say
things like, “Well, he can do everything else. He just can’t walk.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not true. There is so much more to
being paralyzed than not walking. It’s not having control of your bladder and
bowel movements. It’s not having sexual function. It’s bowel training and using
a catheter every 2-3 hours. It’s learning to drive with your hands instead of
your feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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2. Because frequent catheing (putting a tube in
to express urine), <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: blue;">urinary tract
infections are common</span></b>. My husband, Arthur, probably has one every 6 weeks.
They give him fevers, chills, night sweats. And each time a stronger medication
to knock it out. He’s sick for several days when he has a UTI and stays in bed.
This weakens him and he needs to build up his strength again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> 3. </span><span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">They fall
periodically</b>.</span> Recently on the way to meet me at a function, my husband fell
twice while navigating speed bumps in a parking lot that wasn’t set up for
wheelchair use. Ideally, a paraplegic is strong enough to get him/herself back
in the wheelchair. But not everyone is strong enough. And having metal rods in
your spine limits range of motion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He’s fallen while going up a ramp onto the
sidewalk, he’s fallen because he leaned forward too far in his wheelchair and
was top heavy, he’s fallen transferring from wheelchair to the commode.
Sometimes a neighbor helps, sometimes a stranger, occasionally he calls the
paramedics. It’s a jarring experience and can set him back a day or more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> 4. </span><span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The
family may not support your independence</b>.</span> My goal was to help my husband be
as independent as possible. That meant learning to go shopping by himself, learning
to cook and learning to drive again using his hands instead of his feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Not everyone was supportive of my husband
getting his driver’s license, and with good reason. Aside from the accidents he
had before he became a paraplegic, at 70, his reflexes are not as sharp as they
used to be. But that would be true whether or not he was a paraplegic. I think
he is more careful now than he was before the motorcycle accident that left him
a paraplegic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> 5. </span><span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Getting a
license to drive a handicapped vehicle requires a lot of work and money</b>, </span>at
least in the State of Maryland. We had to pay almost $1,000 for the driving
instruction course. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to have a
vehicle that is handicapped equipped, which is quite costly. We were fortunate
to find used one reasonably priced on Craig’s List. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My husband had to practice using your hands
and getting used to not having his feet to put on the brake. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The doctor needs to sign off on it. The
instructor inspects the vehicle to make sure it safe for the paraplegic. Among
the changes to make our van ready: a piece of metal is in front of the pedals
to avoid his foot sliding forward onto one of them by accident, a strap was
installed to put around his chest so he didn’t list forward or side to side. A
knob is attached to the steering wheel. Each of these things needed to be put
in by an authorized mechanic who specifically works on handicapped vehicles. It
cost $500 over and above in the cost of the vehicle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It took almost a year to go through the
process and stay on top of it each step along the way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 6. </span><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="color: blue;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Not all
of your costs are covered by your health insurance</b>. </span>Things like gloves (necessary
to keep sterile when catheing), adult diapers, wipes and chucks (bed pads),
laxatives and suppositories are all out of pocket. A sliding shower chair and
drop down commode may also not be covered because they are specialty items. Or
they may be partially covered like catheters. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KvzyH7DFjyg/XSekddFMEzI/AAAAAAAAA7c/WEninjw02x40FcWMx2OlE8W4wVaELcqpgCLcBGAs/s1600/FullSizeRender%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: -0.25in;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="529" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KvzyH7DFjyg/XSekddFMEzI/AAAAAAAAA7c/WEninjw02x40FcWMx2OlE8W4wVaELcqpgCLcBGAs/s320/FullSizeRender%2B%25284%2529.jpg" width="312" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> 7. </span><span style="color: blue; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal;"><b>Everything takes 10-20 times longer to do and it's exhausting! </b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> Angela DiCicco</o:p></div>
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<o:p>7/11/19</o:p></div>
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-67294439647251929992019-07-08T17:42:00.000-04:002019-07-08T17:53:12.540-04:00Nope, being a parent never ends but the relationship changes<br />
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Whoops I did it again!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Being the parent of an adult child is harder than being a
parent of young children!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, believe
it!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Adult children have the power to hurt you deeply and you
have no recourse. You can’t send them to their rooms! <o:p></o:p></div>
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When your kids are little, you have total control. I mean,
you obviously can't control their bowel movements, one of the few things kids
have control over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can't force them
to obey you and corporal punishment is out of date. My generation grew up with
the fear principle. My mom would give me a backhand across the face if I
challenged her. Not kids these days<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a)
you'd be reported for child abuse b) it doesn't scare these kids!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When my kids were little I had the authority to say,
"NO! You're not watching that TV show!" And, "Yes, we ARE going
to the store!" <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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If I didn't like what they were wearing, I could ask them to
change. My now-grown daughter remembers me saying, "Change either your
shirt or your pants" so that she would match. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtZXzBGcU9g/XSO29QIVEGI/AAAAAAAAA68/20xlTr2qBaYdSa-K9Ddq0fga4v1HUsVTwCLcBGAs/s1600/My%2B3%2Bkids4.tif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="1210" height="168" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtZXzBGcU9g/XSO29QIVEGI/AAAAAAAAA68/20xlTr2qBaYdSa-K9Ddq0fga4v1HUsVTwCLcBGAs/s200/My%2B3%2Bkids4.tif" width="200" /></a>I chose the food for dinner. They ate it or they didn't -
but I had a "no complaining about the food to the cook" rule. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Time for vacation? I planned the trip and choose the
location, sometimes with input from them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now? My kids vaca without me. I mean, seriously? I took you
on all my vacations! They have traveled farther and wider than I could have
dreamed! And I am happy for them!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
sad for me. Sad that I am not the one sharing these experiences with them.
Happy that I gave them wings.</div>
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This generation, as with each generation, has its own
challenges as parents. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But there are also challenges being the parent of adult
children. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adult children have the power
to stop you from seeing your grandchildren.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When a mother- in- law wasn’t treating her daughter –in-law well, she
was told, “You have more to lose than I do.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The daughter of one of my friends moved across the country with her only
two grandchildren. In her 70’s, if she wants to see them, she needs to travel
to Seattle, WA from the east coast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is a hands- off generation. That wisdom you thought
your kids would benefit from? No thank you. You don't offer advice; you ask if
they would like your opinion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When my adult girls call me and tell me what's going on in
their life, I want to help. I want to offer my wisdom, my experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know what they need to hear!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except I don't.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to remember to ask, "Do you want
me to just listen or do you want advice?"<o:p></o:p></div>
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This can be a frustrating role! And I'm grateful that they
call at all! <o:p></o:p></div>
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My youngest daughter and I spent a long weekend at the beach
together recently. I honestly didn't know what my role was. She asked me to not
undermine her. I didn't think I did that, I tried not to do that. But there it
is again. What to say? What not to say? How do I support my daughter in a way
that she needs?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do I be a
grandparent to her children – do I enforce her rules, correct them or spoil
them? My daughter told me I should be the voice of reason when she is upset
with them. I failed. I erred on the side of enforcing her rules to not
undermine her, when she wanted, needed me to be the calm loving grandparent,
not the stern parent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where are the books for this experience - being the parent
of an adult child? </div>
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Where are the books that I read when they were little - the
ones that helped me through every stage, from potty training to parenting
teenagers?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Adult children don't need parenting. If we've given them the
tools they need, they have a great head start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I did - my philosophy was that I was raising future adults. They are
all financially independent with homes and kids and spouses. They make
decisions as a family unit. But how do I BE the parent of an adult child? What
is my role? <o:p></o:p></div>
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What a shock to my system when I first heard, "I need
to talk this over with my husband/wife." Wow!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was no longer between me and them. It was
between them and their spouses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is as it should be. They should be separate individuals
if I've done my job well as a parent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it doesn't feel very good to me. For 18 years I parented
these kids. Loved them, supported them, fed them, clothed them. Gave them my
best. And now I'm not sure what my role is. I'm not sure where I belong in the
big scheme. In the hierarchy, I am after spouses and kids. Relevant but not a
part of their daily lives, their daily decisions. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This may be as it should be. It may be healthy. It may be
that I have done my job so well that they are truly independent of me. We raise
kids to let them go - that's our job. But once they have lift-off, what then? <o:p></o:p></div>
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No one tells you how to handle this time in your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coordinating visits with them, trying to get
on their schedule so you can see your grandchildren. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When one child was moving an hour or so away, I said, I want
to make sure we see each other once a month. It worked when my kids were
little. My parents and I traveled back and forth, three hours one way each
month. The response I got was, “I can’t commit to that.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am fortunate that I do see my children and grandchildren regularly. That they do make time for me when I reach out. If I'm having a bad day, I can call my daughter and say, I need to see the kids. But I'm aware that none of this is a given. That in a moment I can be on the outside. Sometimes I feel myself desperately clinging to maintain these relationships, bereft that I am no longer the sun in their lives, the center upon which they revolve. </div>
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I have a book called <i>Praying
for Our Adult Sons and Daughters </i>by John and Therese Boucher. In it is a
prayer for our children, “….keep me from saying or doing anything stupid! …..Help
me to know what to say or not say. Help me to know what to do or not do…..”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I say this prayer daily, not just for my kids but for their
spouses as well. I need to maintain a good relationship with their spouses and
not do anything that would put my children in a situation to choose sides
between me and their spouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will
lose. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Being the parent of an adult child is not easy. My children
have healthy boundaries and often that means I hear, No. No, I don’t have time.
No, I don’t have the head space to think about scheduling a visit. No, the kids
are busy but you can catch them at a baseball game if you want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother must have felt this way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The work of not taking any of this personally is on my
shoulders. My children are in the thick of it with little ones and both parents
working and a house to keep up. My role is to not make it harder on them, to
not make them feel guilty for not making time for me. I regularly fail at this.
But they are healthy enough to call me out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I know they are doing the best they can. Someday they will
experience this letting go, this separation that can leave a parent feeling adrift.
I try to focus on me, my interests, my art, my writing, my friends, my husband.
The antidote is to focus on myself and let them live their lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe I’ll write that book on how to be a parent to adult
children.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For now, all I can do is pray- God keep me from saying or
doing anything stupid!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Angela DiCicco<br />
The Italian Grandmama<br />
7/8/19</div>
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-25750472922879187792019-06-19T15:44:00.001-04:002019-06-20T12:25:05.605-04:00Think Twice Before Parking in that Handicapped space!So this happened the other day. I pull into my parking lot at work in the morning and find that most of the parking spots are full. This usually means a new training class has started for Certified Nursing Assistants. I drive to the back of the lot, noticing that the handicapped spots are all taken as well, which is unusual.<br />
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Since Arthur had his accident in 2015 and is wheelchair bound, I take more notice of handicapped parking spaces.<br />
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And you wouldn't believe the audacity of some people!<br />
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I find a parking spot in the back, get out and start walking to the front of the building, passing by the Handicapped spaces. Out of habit, I check to see if hang-tags or handicapped license plates are displayed. Check, Check, Check, Wait.<br />
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I look on the license plate. No handicapped plate. I look for the hang-tag on the mirror. None.<br />
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Someone is in the van. As I approach, but not too close, he rolls down his window. "Hi. You're parked in a handicapped spot. I didn't see your handicapped tag."<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mkxdx7t6lcs/XQuzUE-1CCI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/uHDy-koU6b4dyAytNHBspNd02sK_y93bQCLcBGAs/s1600/disabled_sign-420x420.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="420" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mkxdx7t6lcs/XQuzUE-1CCI/AAAAAAAAA6Y/uHDy-koU6b4dyAytNHBspNd02sK_y93bQCLcBGAs/s200/disabled_sign-420x420.png" width="200" /></a><br />
"Look in the back. My passenger is handicapped."<br />
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"Yes, but there's no tag on your vehicle."<br />
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"You're not listening. I have a passenger."<br />
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I repeat, “Where’s your handicapped tag?”<br />
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By this time, I start to walk away. I need to get to
work as I'm already a few minutes behind. And I'm not really sure if it is
considered illegal to park in the handicapped spot if you are still in the
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As I turn and walk away, he raises his voice and says out the window, "I'm
still in the van. I know my rights!"<br />
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I stop. I turn. And I say, "I know my rights too. My husband is a paraplegic. You are in a handicapped spot without a handicapped tag."<br />
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Then, oh no, he didn't! Oh yes, he did! He dared me. He said, "Go ahead, call the cops! I know my rights!"<br />
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So I snap a photo of his license plate, take a photo of his van in the handicapped spot and proceed to put the phone to my ear. Seriously? You're going to dare me to call the cops?<br />
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It didn't take him but a minute to pull out of the parking spot, watching me on my phone.<br />
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I did report him. I don't know if anything will come of it.<br />
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This isn't the first time it's happened. And I'm sure it won't be the last.<br />
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Being wheelchair bound already has so many limitations. Do you really want to make it harder on someone?<br />
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And so, one parking spot at a time, one situation at a time, I educate, I defend, I advocate for Arthur, for paraplegics, for handicapped folks.<br />
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Angela<br />
The Italian Grandmama's GuideThe Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-36091717988005121922019-05-11T21:04:00.001-04:002019-05-11T21:11:01.620-04:00Just a pair of shoesThey're just a pair of shoes. Bronze sandals with sparkly buckles. They're comfortable and cute. But that's not what sets them apart from my other shoes. Whenever I slip into them, I remember that I bought them in a little boutique in Sea Isle, New Jersey 2 years ago when shopping with Angel. We both bought a pair of upscale shoes. She said, "These are the only shoes that I can wear that are cute and comfortable!"<br />
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Her's are still in her closet.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LYc9MN5cYuY/XNdvp8dSKXI/AAAAAAAAA44/T9l_bfN6J1IHTGmx5Lh1cAXaGZ8LXX6YQCLcBGAs/s1600/shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LYc9MN5cYuY/XNdvp8dSKXI/AAAAAAAAA44/T9l_bfN6J1IHTGmx5Lh1cAXaGZ8LXX6YQCLcBGAs/s200/shoes.jpg" width="150" /></a>It's just a big yellow yoga ball. Nothing special about it at all. Except that Angel gave it to me when I visited her a few years ago. She said she didn't use it and I gave mine away when I moved into our condo and now needed one.<br />
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We lost Angel on April 17, 2019. Memories of Angel are everywhere. In my mind and in my living space - the sandals, the ball, photographs. Just as she had memories of me in her living space.<br />
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When I last visited her, shortly before she passed, I picked up a book that she was reading. Inscribed on the inside was my mother's writing. My mom used to rate the books she read - Very Good, Keep this One, LOVED! When Angel came to help me get my house ready to move, she took some books home with her. Full circle. Her sister, Connie, said, "They're just perfect for Angel to read. She can pick one up and put it down. Nothing heavy." Those books will likely be passed on to someone else now. Someone who didn't know Angel or me or my mom but will participate in the circle of life by a book shared.<br />
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I've had flashes of memories since Angel's death. We used to walk everywhere together as kids- to Vogt pool in Philadelphia on Saturdays in the summer, to Mayfair, to her cousin Doreena's house. We had an odd quirk that I pointed out to Angel. Whenever we came to turn a corner, we criss-crossed. Whoever was on the outside, was now on the inside. We did this unconsciously but regularly.<br />
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Other things I had forgotten about come to the forefront of my mind, while I lay trying to sleep. When we were kids, we visited the Patrick family friends, the Pody's. They had a little girl, Chrissy, that we played with. One night we made up names for each of us from our first, middle and last name. Angel's was Anamapa for Angela Marie Patrick. Chrissy's was Chrisapapo and mine was Anjodi, for Angela Joanne DiCicco. We thought Chrissy's was the best! So melodic! Angel would have loved to share that memory, "Oh, that's right!" she would say.<br />
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We spent hours as kids riding bikes on the boardwalk together. Angel remembered the time one of us got very burnt from sunbathing on the beach. This was in the days before sunscreen. Was it me who was badly burned? And Angel sprayed Bactine on me. There is alcohol in Bactine and I went through the roof in pain! Or was it Angel who was burned and I put Bactine on her? The memory is fuzzy and there's no one to ask.<br />
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I think that's the hard part. Having these memories without the person you shared them with. It doesn't take away the memories but the intimacy of sharing that particular memory with Angel is gone. I can share the story with others, but it's not the same as being there the night we named each other, thinking we were so clever and it was so fun. Or laughing about it all these years later as we remember that night.<br />
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A slice of life. Each memory is a slice of life. Or a little sliver. Many of us shared a sliver or a huge slice of Angel's life.<br />
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I love the way my friend, Marilyn, put it. Think of Angel as a diamond in the rough. Throughout her life, her diamond was honed, faceted until it shown brilliantly. Each of us who knew her was a facet in the beautiful diamond that was Angel. Without any one of us, her diamond may not have shown as brightly or been faceted the same way because each of us played a part in her life. She needed each of us to be who she was. We shared a part of Angel and while we influenced her, she was influencing us and honing our own diamond.<br />
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My life certainly was brighter with Angel in it. And her facet in my life will always shine brightly.<br />
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Angela DiCicco<br />
5/10/19<br />
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-41194761426986347092019-05-05T18:56:00.000-04:002019-05-05T18:59:51.606-04:00Grieving A Lifelong Friendship. AngelandAngela. AngelandAngela. Angela.<br />
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I'm still in denial about my friend Angel's death, the first stage of grief according to Kubler-Ross. She recently passed away from cancer, her third bout.<br />
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We graduated from high school in 1976. And after that, every time I'd run into someone from the our Philadelphia neighborhood, they would always ask, "How's Angel?" No matter how much time had passed. No matter that we grew older, married, had kids, divorced, moved away. People always asked, "Have you talked to Angel?"<br />
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We went to school together since first grade. We become best friends in 5th grade. We bonded over stocking caps as we walked home from school on Hegerman Street. Angel's was about 6 feet long with a tassel at the end. Mine just 3 feet with a fluffy white ball. It was Angel who remembered about the stocking caps. Who will remember our shared stories now?<br />
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When I went over Angel's for the first time, her house was being remodeled. Living room furniture was moved around, the upstairs bathroom and Angel's room torn apart. Angel wanted me to sleep over but her Mother said, "No. It's not a good time."<br />
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Later, whenever I did sleep over, I was sandwiched between Angel and her sister, Connie, who was just a year older. Irish twins. Connie always said, "MysisterAngel" when talking about Angel. I joked with Connie about clarifying Angel as if she had more than one sister and needed to distinguish between them.<br />
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AngelandAngela. MysisterAngel. Who are we when we lose someone? If we lose a child, are we still a parent? If we lose a parent, are we still a child? If we lose a friend, are we still a friend?<br />
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Many years ago, my friend, DeVivic, told me that whenever anyone comes into the family - a child, a spouse - the shape of the family changes. For example, 2 parents and one child form a triangle. A parent and two children are a square. As the shape changes, we jockey for our place in this new shape. The reverse is also true. When we lose someone we grasp at air to find something to hold on to, to grasp this new shape with one of the sides missing.<br />
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Who am I without Angel? Who is Connie without MysisterAngel?<br />
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We saw each other only a few times a year. But she was always there. Always there.<br />
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I remember Angel and I being largely inseparable as children.<br />
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We watched Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" together on the sofa at her house. We saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid together at the movies.<br />
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After spending the day together at school, we would hang out at one of our houses after school or talk on the phone every night. But not from 5:30-6:00. Angel's Mom, Mrs. Patrick, told me not to call. That was sacred time in Angel's house. Dinner time. No phone calls.<br />
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Angel's mom was a huge influence on my life. And if Angel hadn't been my friend, had I not spent so much time over there, my life would be different.<br />
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Her Mother had a collection of salt and pepper shakers in a cleverly designed shallow cabinet built into the wall. Whenever I see a cute salt and pepper shaker set, I always think of Angel's mom's collection.<br />
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Her mother had a set of gold flatware. I think she must have brought it out on special occasions. I had never seen gold flatware before, only sterling silver or silver-plate. The gold impressed me if only for its uniqueness. Many years later, when I was moving into a larger home, I found a set of gold flatware with a bamboo design at an antique shop. I immediately purchased it.<br />
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Mrs. Patrick was quirky fun. Each year for Christmas, she had a theme tree. Yes, a different tree each year. What a revelation! It fascinated me that someone would change the decor of their tree each year.<br />
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I had an Aunt who put red balls on her tree one year and blue balls the next. Our tree was different each year only by how it was randomly decorated.<br />
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Growing up, I watched the Patrick's theme trees change. And when I got married, I began my own tradition of theme trees. Angels, Santas, Americana. Blue and Silver, Pink and Silver. Horses and trains and crystals.<br />
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Each year, a different tree. Angel knew this, would ask what my theme was and she understood where it came from.<br />
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This story started out about Angel. About missing my friend. About my disbelief that she is gone.<br />
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But it's not just about Angel. It's about her family, the family I have been a part of for 50 years. It's about tradition and Christmas parties and her cousins that I've known almost their whole lives.<br />
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It's a piece of my life that's gone. The piece that shared all of these warm, wonderful memories. That shared the quirkiness and idiosyncrasies of both of our families.<br />
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It's my friend who remembered her first time at my house. We were upstairs in my bedroom, when my mom yelled from the bottom of the stairs, "ANGEL, IT'S TIME TO GO HOOOMMME!"<br />
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It's the friend who came over to watch Rowen and Martin's Laugh-In at my house on Friday nights because she wasn't allowed to watch it at her house.<br />
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Angel called us "Bookmark friends." No matter how much time had passed since we last talked or saw each other, we picked up where we left off.<br />
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I'm struggling to understand that my bookmark friend isn't there to finish the story with me. Unwilling to believe that I don't have her to visit our childhood memories with, to remember the stocking hat story. To remind me of things I'd forgotten. The sweetest part of my childhood outside of my own family was Angel and her family.<br />
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Angel is a part of me. But Oh! How I miss her funny stories and her laughter. Her generous nature and unwavering support. It's hard to believe we won't grow old together. Her story is finished. It will live on in her son, in her family and in me. But there will be no new memories. And that's the part that is so hard. She was always there. Just there.<br />
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And so I sit in denial, my mind refusing to believe the truth of it. It's easy to not believe it because we didn't see each other every day. But so many times over the past few weeks I've wanted to pick up the phone and call her. After our recent grade school reunion, I wanted to say, "Guess who was there! I haven't seen her since graduation!"<br />
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Occasionally I slip into acceptance. Death is a part of life. But then I'll look at a photo of her, so alive and well. And I shake my head. It can't be true.<br />
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com2Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-10047463362019281742019-02-14T15:12:00.000-05:002019-02-14T15:47:43.895-05:00The grieving - is it ever over?Did you think it would be over? After the funeral?<br />
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The weekend after my mom died, there was my niece's wedding. And a trip to Cape May to celebrate our 8th wedding anniversary. And work. And planning the funeral.<br />
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My energy poured into planning the funeral, the final thing I would do for my mom. Choosing the songs, the readings. What would mom want?<br />
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And then the funeral Mass and lunch following in one of her favorite places - the Dining Car in Mayfair.<br />
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But is it ever really over? <a href="https://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2019/02/the-grieving-is-it-ever-over.html" target="_blank">The grief</a>, the surprise attacks of utter sadness.<br />
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I came home from work sick yesterday with a stomach bug. And as I lie in bed, I notice the sounds of traffic outside my condo. Cars, trucks. And I am transported. I am sleeping in the little twin bed in the little bedroom at my parent's house while visiting them with my children. Outside my window, I hear traffic from the Boulevard, Roosevelt Blvd, a massive 12 lane highway.<br />
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The sound of traffic comforts me, reminding me of being at my parents' home and being taken care of. And suddenly I miss my Mom and my Dad at the same time. I miss them so much.<br />
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It's a stark moment of realty. Both of my parents gone.<br />
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Dad's been gone since 1997 so I've had many years of missing him. My mom's death is still fresh - not a year out yet.<br />
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But to acutely feel the missing of them both at the same time, the nothingness that is left because they're gone, that is a new feeling.<br />
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I miss being a child, an adult child, having meals prepared for me and my family, lunch set out on the table, beef stew for dinner. I miss having my dad's arms wrap around me, cocooning me from the world. I miss the joy on their faces when I drive up, the delight in their voices to see me.<br />
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While recently scrolling through photos on my phone, I saw photos of my mom two months before she died, interacting with her great granddaughter. She's here. She's still alive. Yet two months later she is gone.<br />
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The card table is set up in the living room so my husband can put together the puzzle I gave him for Christmas. He loves putting puzzles together. And then he says, "I remember doing puzzles with your mom." And my throat immediately clogs and I feel like crying. Just one little sentence shifts my emotional state.<br />
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Yes, Mom enjoyed putting puzzles together, too.<br />
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Sometimes when we would visit, she would have one started on the dining room table, always beginning with the edges, then filling in the center. I would walk by and add a piece or two. The kids would join in, looking for colors that matched the picture.<br />
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I'm looking for a book to take with me on a trip this weekend, a paperback novel, nothing heavy - physically or emotionally. My shelves are double-stacked with books; some I've read and want to keep, others I want to pass along, a few I've underlined exquisite phrases that I want to keep. And then I pick up a book, a small paperback, and I know it's one of mom's. And I think, when will I run out of running into mom's things? When will all the books be read and gone that I took from her piles and piles of books?<br />
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Mom's bookcases were filled top to bottom with books. And when she ran out of room, she put them on the coffee table, under the coffee table, on the radiator. She would have a bag of books for me to take home when I visited. Her friends and family regularly gave her books as gifts for birthdays, Christmas.<br />
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Mom would say, "Books kept me company when I was a little girl." She would tell me how her mother took her to the library to get books. How she read Nancy Drew and Nurse Ames. She gave those books to me and I've read them all too.<br />
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She passed her love of books down to me. I spent the summer of 2nd grade on our porch engrossed in the Bobbsey Twins. I was in Vacation Reading Club at our local library with several friends.<br />
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Running into memories of mom whether it's a book, a card or a puzzle brings fresh pain. My mother never got over losing her mother. Never. She was only 30 years old when her mom died. And occasionally I would see her crying out in pain for her mom.<br />
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I have two sealed boxes waiting for me that my brother packed up from mom's belongings. I'm not ready to look. Not yet. I know there will be pain packed in those boxes. Someday I'll open them up. And maybe it won't be so bad. But not today. Today I'm not ready.<br />
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Angela DiCicco<br />
2/14/19<br />
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-33579425678563522872018-12-31T23:00:00.001-05:002018-12-31T23:00:47.339-05:00That First Christmas after a loved one dies.<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;">This was my first Christmas without my mom. We hear about the year of firsts. Frankly, I was dreading this holiday. Thoughts of her were very present. I raised a glass of wine to her. I used her carafe at my Christmas party. I hung Christmas cards on the mirror the way she used to. It's not that she spent many Christmases with me in Maryland. She didn't. But she was here, still with us. And I would visit her during the Christmas Season, sometimes going to mass with her and singing in the choir.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;">Grief doesn't begin and end with one death, one funeral. Grief reaches back and touches the pain of every person we've lost, every sadness we have ever felt, every memory we have of the past.</span><br /><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px;">Read the full blog here: </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px;">https://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/12/i-miss-my-mom-first-christmas-without.html#comments</span></span>The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-8836734814688886892018-12-30T20:15:00.001-05:002018-12-30T20:51:53.029-05:00I miss my Mom. The First Christmas without her.Someone recently asked about the blog I'd been keeping during the end of mom's life.<br />
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She was looking for more posts. I started a few after mom passed but never finished. So I'll start with today and work backwards now. And my posts may be out of order. But sometimes that's just the way life is. It doesn't happen neatly and orderly. Rarely does it happen neatly and orderly. We impose order. It provides a false sense of security, temporary sanity. It works for awhile.<br />
<br />
But then life happens.<br />
<br />
Today I was home alone. Arthur has been in the hospital twice this month - once before Christmas and once after. I visited him this afternoon and left feeling sad. I've had enough of being alone and was wondering how to fill my time in the condo. I was really feeling lonely.<br />
<br />
A friend invited me to see Zoolights tonight at the zoo in Washington DC. I wanted to go. I REALLY wanted to go. Sometimes I feel like I am missing out on all the fun in life. But my intuition told me to stay home. I usually listen to my intuition because I've experienced what happens when I don't.<br />
<br />
So I reluctantly declined her invitation. And felt a strong sense that I should paint. Now I love to paint, especially with oils, but I haven't had the time or energy for a long time. As anyone who paints knows, it's a lot of work to set it up - the canvas, the paints, the brushes, the Gamsol and a lot of work to clean it up - especially washing the brushes which is particularly unfun.<br />
<br />
Our condo doesn't have a designated paint area so each time I paint I have to pull the easel out, lay the mat on the floor and prepare my space. I did this with some anticipation, looking forward to putting brush to canvas. I had no idea what I would paint, just that it was something I needed to do.<br />
<br />
And so I began. I took a painted canvas that I wasn't particularly happy with and using a wide brush, covered it with a whitewash. Then I squeezed out robin's egg blue paint on my palette and I put the brush to canvas, starting with a circle of blue. Blue was my mom's favorite color. It was in almost every room of the house I grew up in - the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. So much blue! When I got married and decorated my own home, I vowed there would be NO blue in it. My condo is now styled in a beach theme. And you can't have a beach without water. And water is blue. So we've come full circle.<br />
<br />
As I begin to paint this blue circle, something inside of me opens up. I've cried since mom died. I've been sad. But this, this was an ocean of grief that welled up in me so unexpectedly and poured out great sobbing racks of tears.<br />
<br />
I miss my mom. I MISS YOU MOM! I miss my mom! Suddenly, unbearably so. As it hits me, really hits me for the first time. I'm not going to see my mom again.<br />
<br />
I'm crying. I don't know what I'm doing, Mom. I don't know what I'm doing.<br />
<br />
I could be talking about the painting. Or I could be talking about my life. My life with a paraplegic that doesn't often make sense. I don't know what I'm DOING.<br />
<br />
I'm sobbing and painting and the blue is fading into the whitewash. And that seems symbolic to me. Don't fade away from me, mom. DON'T FADE WAY from ME. Don't fade away mom. I want the memories of her to remain sharp, vivid. I don't want time to erase them.<br />
<br />
I won't drink tea with my mom again. Or hear her laugh. Her shrill laugh that sometimes made me cover my ears as she sat next to me at the dinner table. No more Christmas cards from her.<br />
<br />
This was my first Christmas without my mom. We hear about the year of firsts. Frankly, I was dreading this holiday. Thoughts of her were very present. I raised a glass of wine to her. I used her carafe at my Christmas party. I hung Christmas cards on the mirror the way she used to. It's not that she spent many Christmases with me in Maryland. She didn't. But she was here, still with us. And I would visit her during the Christmas Season, sometimes going to mass with her and singing in the choir.<br />
<br />
Grief doesn't begin and end with one death, one funeral. Grief reaches back and touches the pain of every person we've lost, every sadness we have ever felt, every memory we have of the past.<br />
<br />
This Christmas I grieved for the Christmases I had growing up, surrounded by my big Italian family, my Dad's 5 brothers and sisters and my cousins. I grieved the Christmas Eve's that used to be. I grieved for the loss of the ones I had as a child and I grieved for the loss of the ones I didn't attend when I moved to Maryland.<br />
<br />
I grieved for Aunt Lucy and Uncle Jack who hosted Christmas Eve, with their enormous live tree, homemade cookies and buffet filled with food. I grieved for Aunt Helen and Uncle Vince who hosted the Feast of the 7 Fishes with bacala, smelts, anchovies and that silver tinsel tree with the rotating light.<br />
<br />
I grieved for my babies who are grown now and sharing Christmas morning with their spouses and their own children.<br />
<br />
I grieved for my mother-in-law and her house at Christmas - the tackiest, warmest, coziest home at Christmas. The toilet seat was covered with a Santa face, the tissue box adorned. Every picture was gift-wrapped and every mirror encircled with lights and garland. Mr & Mrs. Claus nodded their heads and moved their arms. And I grieved for the caroling we sang in her living room with family and friends who visited.<br />
<br />
So today I cried. I cried for loss. I cried for Mom. I cried because no matter what I do, the rest of my life will be lived without my mom.<br />
<br />
And I miss my mom.<br />
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com8Maryland, USA39.0457549 -76.641271235.878577899999996 -81.8048452 42.2129319 -71.477697200000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-86821648098969140712018-06-25T11:46:00.000-04:002018-06-25T12:13:25.624-04:00What do you wear to your Mother's funeral? What do you wear to your Mother’s funeral? What dress? Which
shoes? It matters. It’s the last time you’ll dress for her. What would she want
me to wear?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother was very particular about what we wore to which
event. She taught me to dress well, always wear earrings. She loathed pants in
church and once told my daughter to go upstairs and get changed, that she was “Not
wearing sweatpants to the mall!” To which my daughter quipped, “Go put on a bra,
Mom Mom!” We all had a good laugh! <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When deciding which dress to wear to the funeral (no,
pants were not an option for this daughter,) my daughter, Becca, said, “I don’t
have any dresses that fit. I think I’ll wear pants.” I said, “Wear what you’re
comfortable in. Mom Mom wouldn’t care.” My daughter said, “Yes she would! She
hated when we didn’t get dressed up for church!” <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I visited mom nearly every weekend once she went into
hospice. I didn’t want to miss any opportunity to be with her, breathe the air
she breathed, touch her skin, hold her hand. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first visit after they put her on morphine, I walk into
her room and she is curled up on the bed, sleeping with her head at the bottom
and her feet at the top. I sit on the bed and say, “Hi Mom, it’s your daughter,
Angela.” Her eyes flutter open and quickly close. Arthur tries, “Hi Rose, it’s
Arthur.” She opens her eyes and looks at him before closing her eyes again.
Sleep is winning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begin to cry,
thinking I missed the upswing she had, eating her meals in the dining room,
getting her haircut. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next time I visit, she is weaker, thinner yet. The nurse’s
assistant puts her in the wheelchair to take her to the bathroom where she
changes mom into her pajamas. I see her legs and think, who belongs to those
legs, so thin? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom and I sit on the bed side by side, her head hanging down. Can
you lift your head and look up? No. I sit on the floor in front of her. I want
to see her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes. She raises her head slightly, her
eyes looking up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She mumbles something
inaudible. Just a short while ago her voice was strong. I ask her to repeat,
try to follow her lips. I look at Arthur and shake my head.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
May came and went and mom hung on.The first weekend in June
I visit her. I sit on the bed, she opens her eyes and says, “Did you have
lunch?” Just like I was visiting her at home. She reaches for my hand. She puckers
her lips; she’s thirsty. I get her water and a straw. She tries to hold the cup
herself while I support the bottom. She says to me, “Next time.” I know. She
wants it cold. Ice cold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She takes my hand
in hers and kisses it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she opens her eyes again, she lifts her hand and
rubs the palm of it down my face. It’s a gesture she used to do to me regularly and it
annoyed me. Now I laugh. She reaches her arm up and hooks it around my neck, pulls
me to her for a kiss. I bury my head in her neck; tell her I love her. Her lips mouth the words back to me. Then she is sleeping again. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each time she wakes up, she rubs my arm, like she used to.
And smiles and pulls me to her, arm wrapped around my neck. She takes my hand
and holds onto it while she drifts off to sleep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she opens her eyes again, she purses her
lips, she wants a kiss. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, she looks
and me and Arthur and says, “Good night.” It’s 4:30 and daylight. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leaving is hard. The decision to leave is hard. All the
kisses, the hugs, the recognition. Her being present and knowing me. I want
more and I want it to go on. If I leave and this is it…then it’s over. No more
hugs, kisses. No more seeing her brown eyes looking into mine. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
I had a premonition on the ride over that it would be the last time I would see her. I am reluctant to leave her.<br />
<br />
I had one last visit with Mom. A bonus visit. The Sunday before she passed. Her nails are freshly painted pink. She eats 5 spoonfuls of applesauce. She wants to sit up; she wants to put her socks and shoes on. Where is she going? After I dress her, she stands with my help, walks to the end of the bed. Takes a few more steps. She's weak and exhausted. She sits back down on the bed. She says, "I miss Tacony."<br />
<br />
She is ready to lay down again. I help lift her legs on the bed, tuck the blanket around her. It's time to go. Arthur and I have a long ride home. I kiss her face, rub my fingers through her hair. Walk away and return to repeat this several times before I finally say, "I have to go Mom. I love you. I'll see you later." She lifts her hand and waves to me. "Take care," she says.<br />
<br />
She passed away on Tuesday, June 12, 2018. It was my 8th wedding anniversary. It was an honor that she chose that day. Her mother passed away on her wedding anniversary.<br />
<br />
I prepared the program for the funeral mass. Made a board of photos from her life. Gathered comments from friends and family about Mom. I did it with joy. It would be the last thing I do for her.<br />
<br />
The funeral mass was at Our Lady of Consolation in Tacony, PA at the church she grew up in, the church I grew up in. Laid to rest in St. Dominic's Cemetery next to my dad, Paul, her mom, Angelina and her father, Pasquale.<br />
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com8Silver Spring, MD, USA38.990665700000008 -77.02608800000001638.891957700000006 -77.187449500000014 39.08937370000001 -76.864726500000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-14503862912232278892018-05-03T20:59:00.001-04:002018-05-03T20:59:31.169-04:00Beginning of life...end of life...Have you noticed how similar they are??http://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/04/april-3-2018-tuesday-as-i-was-driving.htmlThe Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-90803103978616664772018-04-29T18:27:00.000-04:002018-04-29T18:45:26.816-04:00Part VII The End of Life Mirrors the Beginning of Life. My Journey while Mom is in hospice.April 3, 2018, Tuesday<br />
<br />
As I was driving home from visiting Mom (it's a two hour drive if I don't stop for a bathroom break and there's no traffic!) it occurred to me that the end of life mirrors the beginning of life.<br />
<br />
Life is a parabola. We start out as helpless babies, growing, learning, doing, becoming. We crest - our career, our marriage, our family - whatever the high-points are for us individually. Then we begin the decline towards retirement, relaxation, when we're no longer striving but being.<br />
<br />
I remember my dad telling me about his school reunions. "In the beginning," he said, "everyone talks about their careers, how successful they are. As the years go by, talk is less about what you've accomplished and more about family, memories."<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And after that. The inevitable decline towards end of life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Babies sleep a lot. In fact, that's mostly what they do for the first few months. Now, my mother sleeps most of the day. She is no longer interested in participating in life. The place where she is most content is in her bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the beginning of life we nurse our babies or feed them
with a bottle. I hold the straw while my mom sips from her cup. She tries to hold it, hands shaking. Tries to find her mouth with the straw, sometimes misses while I gently guide it to her mouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We feed our children with a spoon until they are able to feed themselves. The caregivers feed my mother a few spoonfuls of applesauce in the morning; it's all she'll eat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Babies grow new teeth. Old people lose them. When my grandmother was in a nursing home, my dad brought biscotti to her. He would dip the biscuit in
hot tea so it would be soft enough for her to eat without her teeth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We feed our babies to help them grow strong, introducing new
foods to their palate. We lose our taste buds as we get older, then lose our
desire to eat. Mom is not interested in food. Her body is shutting down. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Babies learn to walk, unsteady at first, wobbly, holding on. Older people unlearn how to walk, holding on to the nearest object – a chair, a table, a railing. Today, my mother leaned on my arm for support as she got up from the bed to make her way to the bathroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Children need help going to the bathroom. Parents need to help children take their pants down and pull them up. Today after using the potty my mother said, “I need help.” She couldn’t get her undergarments and pants up without help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As parents, we teach our children hygiene. My mom taught me to
wash my hands after using the bathroom. Now, I have to remind her, help her wash her
hands. I have the towel waiting for her to dry her hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the cycle of life we have babies and we care for those
babies. And someday those babies will grow up and care for us as we lose the
skills we learned as children and we taught our children. Brush your teeth. Mom
no longer does this. Wash your face. She has to be reminded. Take a shower.
It’s too cold; she doesn’t want to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We bundle our kids up to keep them warm. At the other end of
life, we bundle our parents with blankets to keep them warm. Their bones frail,
so little fat to keep them warm. The temperature regulators have stopped
regulating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We put slippers with grips on our babies as they begin to walk
so they don’t slip and fall. We put sneakers on with grips so Mom doesn’t slip and
fall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shuffles now. No longer the strong purposeful walk, heading out the door to work or the mall. She is hunched over. It’s the first time I’ve noticed
this. As if her head is now too heavy for her shoulders. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my friend, Doreena, who recently lost her mom, so eloquently put it, "Slowly moving backwards, lights turning off, as she forgot how to do ordinary routines, one thing at at time. Unlearning what it took her a lifetime (to learn) one by one. Innocence returning." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my mother held me when I was a baby, today I held my
mother as she hugged me. She used to
tuck me in bed. Today I tucked her in, lifted her feet up onto the bed. Covered her with a
comforter. And kissed her before I left, her head on the pillow, her eyes closing, drifting off to sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Maryland, USA39.0457549 -76.641271235.878577899999996 -81.8048452 42.2129319 -71.477697200000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-81958185729815859602018-04-23T14:54:00.001-04:002018-04-23T14:54:15.515-04:00Angela's Artistic Blog : Saying Goodbye to Mom in Hospice Part VI - Mom's H...<a href="http://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/04/saying-goodbye-to-mom-in-hospice-part.html?spref=bl">Angela's Artistic Blog : Saying Goodbye to Mom in Hospice Part VI - Mom's H...</a>: Saturday, April 14, 2018 A beautiful sunny day. One of the rare ones we've had of late. I spend the weekend at Mom's facility, w...The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-40863013716158130342018-04-21T22:25:00.001-04:002018-04-21T22:25:41.661-04:00Saying Goodbye to Mom in Hospice Part VI - Mom's Hanging on!Saturday, April 14, 2018<br />
<br />
A beautiful sunny day. One of the rare ones we've had of late.<br />
<br />
I spend the weekend at Mom's facility, wanting as much time with her as I can.<br />
Most of the time, Mom sleeps. But each time I sit on the edge of her bed, she rouses and looks up at me. This time she reaches her arm around my neck and says, "I love you." We hold hands and she slips off to sleep again.<br />
<br />
Another time she wakes up and says, "You're a good girl." I write this down, wanting to commit it to memory.<br />
<br />
While mom rests, I go out for a little bit to enjoy the sunshine, the gorgeous day. These rooms can close in on you and you can lose perspective. Our world can get so small that we forget that there's a whole world out there just waiting for us.<br />
<br />
Lancaster is beautiful with it's farms, Amish and cute little shops. I decide to take a ride, clear my head, feel the sun on my face. I buy some homemade jam in one little shop. Then I sit on a bench to enjoy fresh peanut butter ripple ice cream and people watch. It's pretty busy here. It seems like everyone has turned out for the same reason - it's the first sunny day in a long line of rainy grey days!<br />
<br />
I remember visiting this place, Kettle Kitchen Village, many years ago, with my parents when my children were little. We have a photo of the family sitting in a carriage waiting to be pulled by 2 black horses. It was another sunny day. And for a moment I am there again, with my mom and my dad, my young children. Years later, I took Arthur here and we sat and ate ice cream. So much has changed. And suddenly I am overwhelmed with grief. All the losses. Sometimes it catches up with you, blindsides you on a perfectly gorgeous day.<br />
<br />
Yes, I sit in the car and have a good cry. Then I drive back to the Assisted Living.<br />
<br />
When I enter Mom's room she's gone and for a moment I panic! I feel like I'm in an alternate reality and I've walked into the wrong room or I'm in the wrong place. Did she die and has her body been moved already? All these thoughts in a split second. Nothing that dramatic happened. The caregivers were able to get her out of bed and wheeled her to have dinner. Not that she eats. She wasn't interested in food, but did drink some lemonade.<br />
<br />
I want to share the sun with her in the enclosed garden before the day cools off. Mom loved the sun, the heat. I wheel her chair to the garden door but she refuses to go out. "Mom, it's so warm out. Let's just sit for a minute." She shakes her head no. "But you love the sun!" Nope. I ask her why she doesn't want to go out and she says, "I'm scared." I guess this happens when you stop going outside; it becomes a scary place. I try one more time. And she says in a strong, firm voice, "Angela! I want to go back to bed!"<br />
<br />
There she is! That's my Mama!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Maryland, USA39.0457549 -76.641271235.878577899999996 -81.8048452 42.2129319 -71.477697200000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-3466746929990595602018-04-17T22:19:00.001-04:002018-04-17T22:19:48.442-04:00A "normal" trip to the Grocery store while Mom is in Hospicehttp://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/04/meanderings-trip-to-grocery-store-part.htmlThe Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-84239372612814698642018-04-17T22:16:00.000-04:002018-04-18T14:08:42.982-04:00Meanderings - A trip to the grocery store Part V - Sharing my journey while Mom is in hospiceFriday, April 13, 2018<br />
<br />
I am at the supermarket getting food to hold me over for the weekend while I visit Mom in Lancaster PA. This amazing grocery store is right down the road from her facility. I need quick things I can pop in the microwave. Food that is simple and not messy. I drop fresh pulled pork and homemade pork and beans into the cart. I'm gluten-free so I ask someone where that aisle is. "Number 17."<br />
<br />
As I push my cart over to the gluten-free aisle, I have a flashback. Perhaps it's because Mom is in hospice. Perhaps it's because the anniversary of my Dad's passing is coming up - April 15, 1997.<br />
<br />
Suddenly I am with my Mom, in the aisle at Shop-Rite, the day after my father died. We are stocking up on necessities as we had a houseful of family and friends coming and going. I stop in the middle of the aisle, people around me dropping cans of vegetables and soup into their carts and pushing past me. I am in a fog, life swirling around me. Everyone is going about their business like nothing happened. Like nothing has changed. The world around me moving normally.<br />
<br />
But life ISN'T normal. Can't they SEE that? My life has CHANGED! Forever! Why is the world revolving as if nothing happened? Why does everything look so normal? It's not. My life is not ordinary. This is not a typical day. Why am I doing something so routine on one of the saddest days of my life?<br />
<br />
My Dad died in the spring. I was a pre-school teacher and we would take the 3 and 4 years olds outside to play. One afternoon, I looked up and saw the buds on the trees and thought, life goes on. This is life. This is the cycle. Birth, life, death and birth again. It gave me hope. Hope that I would survive. Hope that I would feel joy again.<br />
<br />
I am back in the gluten-free aisle, putting bagels in my basket, pushing past my sadness and just doing what's normal. Then I go back to sit with Mom and hold her hand.<br />
<br />
Angela DiCicco<br />
<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Maryland, USA39.0457549 -76.641271235.878577899999996 -81.8048452 42.2129319 -71.477697200000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-14932841648769734832018-04-10T22:04:00.001-04:002018-04-10T22:04:34.125-04:00Angela's Artistic Blog : Part IV Journal of Saying Goodbye to Mom. Soaking ...<a href="http://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/04/part-iv-journal-of-saying-goodbye-to.html?spref=bl">Angela's Artistic Blog : Part IV Journal of Saying Goodbye to Mom. Soaking ...</a>: The anniversary of my dad's death is coming up - April 15, 1997. Our family has a history of symmetry. On my parent's wedding ...The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-6766977687272207932018-04-10T22:02:00.002-04:002018-04-11T11:34:16.410-04:00Part IV Journal of Saying Goodbye to Mom. Soaking up the final moments.<br />
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The anniversary of my dad's death is coming up - April 15, 1997.</div>
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Our family has a history of symmetry. On my parent's wedding
anniversary, September 20, 1962, my Grandmother passed away. Their wedding
photo came crashing down from the wall. They never put it up again. Francis
reminded me that my grandfather died on December 3, 1971. Five years later, my dad
had a heart attack on December 3.</div>
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Sunday, April 8. </div>
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Arthur and I drive up to see mom. It's only been a few days but I want to
see her again, hoping she still recognizes me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I am eager to get to her room. She is resting. I sit on her
bed as I did last Tuesday. “Hi Mom.” She opens her eyes. A small smile. She's a little
surprised. “Hi. What are you doing here?” She sees Arthur, “There he is!” The
normal things she would say. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Today, she can barely keep her eyes open. “I don’t know why
I’m so tired,” she says, drifting off, her voice weak. She’s on morphine now. “What’s
the matter with me?” You’re just tired, Mom. You’re just tired. Rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My son, his wife and their daughter visited her this
morning. It’s the first time Mom’s met her one year old granddaughter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom has 8 grandchildren and 7
great-grandchildren. She enjoyed reading to the greats when she lived with me. Kevin, the oldest grandchild, told me she sat up and started to read a book to his little one, who was very
curious, touching Mom Mom and Mom was waving at her. Priceless interactions.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ask Mom if she remembers seeing Kevin. She shakes her head
no. No matter. We have pictures. <a href="https://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/04/part-iv-journal-of-saying-goodbye-to.html" target="_blank">Crystalized moments</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In Victorian times, families would take a lock of their
loved one’s hair, weave it and turn it into a locket or brooch. I decide I want
a lock of mom’s grey hair. My grey hair, our grey hair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forgot my scissors and ask the caregivers
for a pair. What would they think if they knew what I wanted them for? Do
people do this often? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I return to the room; Mom is resting on her side. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brush my fingers through her hair; I lift
the scissors. And I stop. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize it’s
the last time I’ll be doing this. I have been cutting my mom’s hair for over 30
years. She was my model when I took my Cosmetology Boards in Philadelphia and I was 7 months pregnant. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And this will be the
last time I cut it. I almost can’t do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Mom wakes up. “What are you doing?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell her I want to trim her hair. Very casual, normal. We've been doing this for years. I snip a
few pieces from the back, trimming like I always did. I stop. And gently place
the hair in a tissue, wrap it up, tuck it in my purse. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I leave the room for a few minutes and talk to the
caregivers. One of them says, “You’re mom’s feisty!” What do you mean? “If she
doesn’t want to do something, she’ll let us know!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You have no idea. Mom was never a pushover. Feisty doesn’t begin to cover it. And it
delights me to hear that to the end, Mom is Mom. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While Mom sleeps, I look in her closet. I try on her jean
jacket. Just like I’ve always done. Playing dress-up in Mom’s closet. I pull
out a burgundy Jones New York (where she worked) wool sweater that she’s had
since I was about 18. She gave me a matching navy one. Both had moth holes in them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I look through her books, stuffed in her bookcase. Before
she left her home to live with me, her living room overflowed with books. They
were everywhere!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bookcases, coffee
table, floor. Books were a comfort to her. Many times she told me, “When I was
a little girl, I would read all the time.” In her little girl voice, she would
say, “My Mommy gave me books. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They kept
me company."<o:p></o:p></div>
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I open the cover of one, “To Mom. Love daughter Angela. 1994”
Then another one, “From Albert and Ann Marie, 2004.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“From Francis and Judy.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“From Arthur and Angela 2014.” Over and over,
books from family to Mom, which I know she cherished. And what do we do with
them now? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Each <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>time I see her I’m
aware it may be my last. I hold her hands and kiss her over and over and I tell
her I love her. Tell her I’m glad she was my Mom. She says she loves me too. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s time to go. Arthur gives me a few moments alone. I
stroke her hair, hold her hand. When my kids were little, I would give them “Now
and later kisses” before bed. A kiss in one hand for now. A kiss in the other
hand for later, when they woke up and needed one. I place a kiss in the palm of
my Mom’s hand. “That’s for later.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I have to go. I’ll see you soon.” She waves at me. She
says, “Be careful. And lock the door behind you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0Maryland, USA39.0457549 -76.641271235.878577899999996 -81.8048452 42.2129319 -71.477697200000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5739434265869040807.post-14534221038366814772018-04-09T18:39:00.001-04:002018-04-09T18:39:20.957-04:00Angela's Artistic Blog : Saying goodbye - Part III How much time? My journal while my mom is in hospice care.<a href="http://angelasartistic.blogspot.com/2018/04/saying-goodbye-my-journal-while-my-mom.html">Angela's Artistic Blog : Saying goodbye - Part III How much time? My journal while my mom is in hospice care.</a>The Italian Grandmamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08276357723457586343noreply@blogger.com0