Two Brains

Last summer, the Scientist’s daughter and granddaughter (Miss S., age 5) were visiting from California. I was in charge of entertaining Miss S. one afternoon at the house. We climbed backyard boulders, searched for “crystals” (flecks of decomposed granite), and collected acorns and other bits of “food” for her innumerable toy figures. I even found a small scrap of plywood that looked like a nice slice of layer-cake, quite suitable for a mountain lion tea party. At one point, we came inside the house where Miss S. discovered a 10" piece of driftwood with a hole in it, just the size for one of her little stuffed animal friends. “Can you make a car out of this, please?” came the request (and expectation).

The smooth ocean-worn souvenir did have certain automobile-like qualities—a long body, a place to sit, and attractive curves. It was my job to add the standard features. I began by locating round items for wheels, starting with lids from water bottles or gallon milk jugs. But I couldn’t figure out how to attach them, to each other or to the car. Then I found four cork bottle stoppers with black, hard plastic tops. I got out my sewing box and found two large needles, for axles. Inserting the end of each needle into a cork stopper, I created a set of front wheels, and a set of back wheels. The next challenge was how to connect the wheels with some sort of drive shaft and then secure the whole apparatus to the driftwood car body. Somehow I managed to contrive such a setup with a long pencil and several rubber bands (and possibly a good bit of tape). I was quite pleased with myself until Miss S. said, “but there’s no steering wheel.” She was right. I knew we didn't have any pipe cleaners (the fuzzy bendable wire-of-choice when I was a little girl), so I resorted to grocery-store twist-ties, bending them into a round wheel-shape with a connected shaft that I then jammed into a crack in the driftwood near the driver’s seat. “What about lights?” said Miss S. I rummaged through my sewing box and came up with some plastic beads, two red ones for the tail lights and two clear ones for the head lights (I didn’t bother with yellow parking lights, back-up lights, or high beams). We glued the beads to the top of the wood, front and back. After the glue had dried, Miss S. supplied plenty of engine and battery power, so off the car went with Mr. Mouse in the driver’s seat.

When her mother and grandfather returned from their outing, Miss S. ran to them to show them her new toy. “Look what Andi made,” she said excitedly. “She’s so smart, she must have two brains!”

Miss S.’s comment came to mind recently as I have felt the push and pull of those “two brains.” I have been simultaneously engaged in many activities associated with my poetry (writing new pieces, giving poetry readings, attending literary & art events) and employing my “other” brain in an intensive career building process: researching opportunities, networking, submitting applications, and interviewing for several positions. I’m looking forward to applying both brains to my next challenge.

Compassion & Choices

The New Mexico Compassion & Choices chapter has asked for stories from those who have watched a parent or other loved one endure an end of life situation in which physician aid in dying would have been desirable. What follows is my "Amicus Brief" explaining why I support "physician aid in dying." 

My mother died in 2007 at age 75 of Multiple Systems Atrophy (MSA), a neurodegenerative disease from which she had suffered for almost 10 years. MSA initially presents with Parkinsonian symptoms, but quickly differentiates itself by the patient’s rapid deterioration and non-responsiveness to dopamine treatment. Eventually, my mom could not move voluntarily, with the exception of blinking her eyes and moving her index finger. She could still speak, but only with tremendous effort. Swallowing was extremely difficult; earlier, she had made it clear she did not want a feeding tube, but somehow, near the end, after she could no longer voice her wishes, she was fitted with a feeding tube.

With the exception of a few hospital stays and respite care, my mother lived at home with her husband. They hired a young woman who devoted herself to helping my mother be comfortable at home. Toward the end of my mother’s life, this young woman moved into the home so she could be there to assist my mother 24/7.

Traveling from New Mexico, I regularly visited my mother in Las Vegas, NV during those years. At first, I would take my mother (and her walker, then wheelchair) to the mall, doctors' appointments, and restaurants; we would enjoy our conversations. Later, she became house-bound, and was ultimately admitted to hospice care in 2002. Her vital organs and her mind were properly functioning, but her brain was no longer transmitting dopamine, and her body became rigid. Her head was permanently angled to the left and down, her neck twisted unnaturally and uncomfortably.

One day, when I was alone with my mom in her bedroom, she cleared her throat to speak. I leaned in closely. She said quite clearly, “If I were a dog, you would have put me down already.” She was right. Had she been the beloved family pet instead of its human matriarch, we would have wrapped her in a blanket, put her lovingly in the car, and taken her to the vet for a humane exit. Yet that option was available neither to us nor to her doctors. She lingered in pain and dismay for another several years.

The last time I saw my mother, months before she died, I had the opportunity once again to be alone with her, by her bedside. I held her hand while she alternately slept and stared (she no longer had a normal facial affect). Then suddenly she made eye contact with me, squeezed my hand, and began to speak. She attempted some words that I couldn’t understand. I was imagining some sort of profound “last words,” though we had long ago said our “I love you’s.” I put my ear to her lips and heard her say, “Wipe…my…nose.” I looked at her face; sure enough, her left nostril was draining clear liquid onto her lip. I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped her nose. Those were her last words to me.

I was not with her when she died. She turned blue in the back seat of the car on the way to the hospital. I don’t recall the exact circumstances—why her husband and not an ambulance was transporting her—but I am grateful that she died before anyone had the opportunity to intervene and prolong her end-of-life agony.

I wished then, and continue to wish now, that her doctors had been able to aid her in dying well. As it was, they could treat only her symptoms, and, like the rest of us, watch her suffer. 

Just write a word a day

I have been thinking a lot about my mother and her mother lately. My mother died in 2007, but her mother will celebrate her 107th birthday next week. I visited my Grandmother (in my Tangerine Scream rental car) last month. She was witty, perceptive, and funny.

In 2001, when my mom was 70 and my grandmother was 95, my mother was already quite ill, and could no longer write the long, beautiful letters that her mother was accustomed to receiving. I wrote the following entry in my journal that December (and came across it again yesterday) based on a story my mother had shared with me, by phone:

My Grandma Hannah wanted my mom to write her a letter. Mom said, 'but, Mom, I can hardly write anymore.' Grandma said, 'can't you just write a word a day, and when you get enough words on the page you can send it to me?' My mom rose to the challenge and wrote out the Serenity Prayer for Hannah.

I've been revisiting my journals and memories lately, specifically in reference to my mother, as the Scientist has begun to research compassion and choices, a group dedicated to end-of-life care and choices for those enduring terminal illness. I have shared my story, in the form of an Amicus Brief, with compassion and choices New Mexico to explain why I support physician aid in dying. The brief can be found on this blog: http://pennerink.blogspot.com/2013/02/compassion-choices.html

Reimagining College Writing

Proud mom can't resist letting you know about Erin's just-published article. "Mapping Student Literacies: Reimagining College Writing Instruction within the Literary Landscape," Mapping Student Literacies by EAP

Tangerine Scream

Recently I traveled to California to visit relatives, courtesy of a Southwest Airlines 35% off deal that included a similar price break on a Budget rental car. When I arrived at the Budget counter to retrieve my car, I had a brief, polite exchange with the sales associate.

     He asked if I wanted to use the credit card on file. I said, "Yes."
     He noted that I had selected an economy car and asked if I'd like to upgrade for just a few dollars more. I said, "No, thank you."
     He recommended that I purchase a GPS unit for the car, but I declined and asked for a map with directions for the rental car return. (It took him a good 3 or 4 minutes to locate the item.)
     He then suggested that I purchase the optional insurance coverage to protect myself from damage claims. I said, "No, thanks. I'm insured."
     Finally, he politely offered me the convenience of having Budget fill the tank with gas upon my return, for a small surcharge. I said, "No. I'll buy my own gas, thank you."

With that, he hurriedly directed me through a set of "screens" on which I was to press "I Agree" at the bottom of each one, and then sign my name in order to complete my rental agreement. He handed me the paperwork with a quick "here you go." As I walked away from the counter, I realized I did not have the keys, and had no idea where the car was located. I turned back to ask. He answered, "Keys are in the car, and the car is in the space marked on the folder." Ah, okay. C-57.

Exiting the building, I saw rows and rows of A spaces and B spaces, and 4 lines of just-returned rental cars, but no C spaces. I asked one of the lot attendants where "C" cars were located. "Around the back," she said, "just follow the sidewalk." My car in space C-57 was in one of the last spaces in the last row behind the building. It was a Ford of some kind, in the ugliest color I have ever seen. Real California lemons--the kind that grow on trees--are beautiful. This yellow-orange car was not. Was it mustard yellow? School-bus orange? Or maybe yield-sign gold? I drove my bright yellow-orange (orange-yellow?) car all around Southern California. One of my father's neighbors commented, "That is some bright car you've got!" During my 5-day stay, I saw thousands of cars on dozens of freeways and roadways, but never saw a single other car the color of mine.

Arriving back at the Budget lot two hours before my flight, the attendant grinned at me as I rolled down the window. He used his scanner to check-in the vehicle, and then leaned in the window and said to me: "Besides the COLOR of the car, how did you like your vehicle?"

Oh, how we laughed. I regaled him with my ticket-counter story, concluding that I was absolutely certain that  the sales associate had deliberately down-graded my car with every "no" I supplied until he determined that the "Tangerine Scream Metallic Tri-Coat" (see Ford's web site) was what I deserved! The attendant would not comment, but his smile confirmed my suspicions.