Last weekend I attended my second annual BPW State Conference. It was a busy and productive time. I thought I might be expelled from BPW for standing up for my strong—perhaps pigheaded—beliefs.
I learned from the best the importance of being true to myself. Sometimes Jim exasperated me with his determination to stand up for his “principals”. I tried to get him to lighten up and admit that in a democracy, the majority ruled. No way! When he knew something was right, he defended his position. When I tried to reason with him, he merely declared, “That’s against my principals.”
My problem with BPW had nothing to do with our state or local organizations. I am proud of my local Business and Professional Women’s Club. They are great women to work with and, boy, are we ever a busy group! We hold fundraisers, activities and award scholarships. The ladies in our local are my friends and I care about them.
Even Jim with his principals, would have said, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Unfortunately, BPW/USA is broken. My Jim-like round of stubbornness began when BPW/USA came up with a plan to charge a license fee for the BPW name.
Our national organization has made some bad business decisions and is on the brink of bankruptcy. They lost nearly $200,000 on the national conference last year and then lost touch with the very women they were created to serve. After months of pleas for more money from our incredibly shrinking organization, BPW/USA finally realized the members couldn’t bail them out of their mess.
I’ll spare you the details, but now BPW members are voting on a merger between BPW/USA and BPW Foundation. This is the same foundation that recently gave BPW/USA $500,000, but suspended scholarships for 2009-2010. Needless to say, that didn’t set well with a lot of members.
The merger plan got worse. BPW/USA trademarked all their programs and the use of the BPW logo and even the letters “BPW”. This trademark was approved in January 2009. Why would they do such a thing? To protect the trademark, they said. In reality, it was to charge an annual license fee of $40 per person to any woman who wanted to remain a “BPW” member and continue the proud tradition of our foremothers.
What if we didn’t want to pay the hostage fee to use our own name? BPW/USA’s response was to advise us to check with our Secretary of State to take the necessary steps to change state and local names. The Missouri Federation of Business and Professional Women’s Clubs, Inc. was chartered in 1938. Our legal council advised us that this is our name and we don’t have to change it.
BPW was born ninety years ago in St. Louis by a group of women who stood up for their rights and to promote equality and fairness for women in the workplace. These forward-looking women were not afraid to stand up for their sisters and themselves.
Our Missouri women have led the charge for the past ninety years. This weekend, we stood up for the organization we love and for the opportunity to revitalize and reorganize our group.
After we discussed the proposed resolution to disassociate our Missouri Federation from BPW/USA, we were asked to stand if we supported the resolution. The room was filled with my BPW sisters who stood up for what was right.
I believe BPW/USA underestimated the caliber of women who make up their membership. It wasn’t just the newer members who stood up, but long-term members who have been involved in the organization for decades. Women with integrity, courage, and principals stood up to be counted.
___________________________
For information about the BPW Merger visit http://bpwgrassroots.blogspot.com
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Memories of a Rocky Mountain Morning
My alarm awakened me Saturday morning at the unreasonable hour of 6:00 a.m. I attempted to clear the fog from my brain to figure out why the darn thing was disturbing my sleep. I shut off the alarm and settled back on my Memory Foam pillow to listen to the radio while I contemplated the rude awakening.
After a few minutes, I remembered I needed to be at work by 7:30. While I tried to convince myself to jump out of bed, the DJ played Vince Gill’s song, “Rest High on That Mountain.”
What a fitting song for the fourth anniversary of Jim’s death. The epithet on Jim’s niche at the Veteran’s Cemetery is “Rest High on That Mountain.”
The anniversary had been bearing on my mind for the entire week. I thought about it on Monday the 13th, which seemed much like a Friday the 13th. I was at home that day, but instead of relaxing, I spent the day working on various projects. Tuesday was a hectic workday with deadlines to complete before noon on Wednesday. I ran into problems, but managed to finish my reports before Brenda and I left for the accountant’s meeting in Kansas City. By the time I got back into the office Friday, I was mentally and physically exhausted.
On this gloomy Saturday morning, all I wanted to do was sleep, but the Vince Gill song brought back a flood of emotions. In my memories, I see Jim sitting on the rock ledge overlooking the Big Horn Meadows in the Rocky Mountain National Park. Jim plays his guitar and sings a song about Colorado while I videotape him. Tourist and chipmunks watch in hushed silence. One brave chipmunk runs up Jim’s arm and perches on his shoulder.
The Rocky Mountains soothed Jim’s soul. He liked nothing better than making coffee on a camp stove in Moraine Park. He kicked back in a lawn chair, sipped coffee by the campfire and waited for the sun to peek through the mountains.
Jim didn’t need an alarm clock to wake him in the mornings. He was never a sleepyhead like me.
I remember Jim telling me “Rest High on That Mountain” was written as a tribute to Vince Gill’s brother who died too young after a lingering illness. The song spoke to Jim’s heart. Our minds play tricks on us, but I can’t help but think that Jim told me about the history of the song on one of the many Saturday mornings we sat propped up on our pillows while we drank our first cup of coffee.
One of the things I loved most about our life together were the quiet mornings when we had our “together” time to engage in contemplative conversations. At that time, Jim never suspected he would someday have a disease that would steal these moments from his memory.
As I lay in bed, I didn't think about that day four years ago, but instead remembered our ordinary lives fifteen years ago. When the song finished, I walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I opened the blinds to see a gentle rain falling. The redbuds are bloomed and tiny flowers peek through the grass. It looks like a Colorado morning.
“Rest High on That Mountain” seems to be a message from Jim. He always said that death was closing one door and opening another. I believe he wants me to know that although his death is heartbreaking for his family it is not the end; it is a continuance of life for all of us.
After a few minutes, I remembered I needed to be at work by 7:30. While I tried to convince myself to jump out of bed, the DJ played Vince Gill’s song, “Rest High on That Mountain.”
What a fitting song for the fourth anniversary of Jim’s death. The epithet on Jim’s niche at the Veteran’s Cemetery is “Rest High on That Mountain.”
The anniversary had been bearing on my mind for the entire week. I thought about it on Monday the 13th, which seemed much like a Friday the 13th. I was at home that day, but instead of relaxing, I spent the day working on various projects. Tuesday was a hectic workday with deadlines to complete before noon on Wednesday. I ran into problems, but managed to finish my reports before Brenda and I left for the accountant’s meeting in Kansas City. By the time I got back into the office Friday, I was mentally and physically exhausted.
On this gloomy Saturday morning, all I wanted to do was sleep, but the Vince Gill song brought back a flood of emotions. In my memories, I see Jim sitting on the rock ledge overlooking the Big Horn Meadows in the Rocky Mountain National Park. Jim plays his guitar and sings a song about Colorado while I videotape him. Tourist and chipmunks watch in hushed silence. One brave chipmunk runs up Jim’s arm and perches on his shoulder.
The Rocky Mountains soothed Jim’s soul. He liked nothing better than making coffee on a camp stove in Moraine Park. He kicked back in a lawn chair, sipped coffee by the campfire and waited for the sun to peek through the mountains.
Jim didn’t need an alarm clock to wake him in the mornings. He was never a sleepyhead like me.
I remember Jim telling me “Rest High on That Mountain” was written as a tribute to Vince Gill’s brother who died too young after a lingering illness. The song spoke to Jim’s heart. Our minds play tricks on us, but I can’t help but think that Jim told me about the history of the song on one of the many Saturday mornings we sat propped up on our pillows while we drank our first cup of coffee.
One of the things I loved most about our life together were the quiet mornings when we had our “together” time to engage in contemplative conversations. At that time, Jim never suspected he would someday have a disease that would steal these moments from his memory.
As I lay in bed, I didn't think about that day four years ago, but instead remembered our ordinary lives fifteen years ago. When the song finished, I walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I opened the blinds to see a gentle rain falling. The redbuds are bloomed and tiny flowers peek through the grass. It looks like a Colorado morning.
“Rest High on That Mountain” seems to be a message from Jim. He always said that death was closing one door and opening another. I believe he wants me to know that although his death is heartbreaking for his family it is not the end; it is a continuance of life for all of us.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Teddy Bear Smiles and Not So Sweet Dreams
Like many other children, my granddaughter has a favorite stuffed animal she wants to hug while she sleeps. Her bedtime companion is Finney, a Build-a-Bear puppy born in Branson. From the time she warmed his “heart” in her hands, Finney has been her nighttime companion.
Last weekend at bedtime, her question was “Where’s Finney?”
Her mom, Stacey, told her, “He’s in the car with Daddy.”
“But Daddy is at the races!” my granddaughter said. “Finney is alone in the car. I feel so bad!” She buried her face in my lap.
We spent several minutes reassuring her that Finney would be OK. My granddaughter insisted, “He’s afraid of the dark!”
Stacey handed her a big Teddy bear. “You can sleep with this bear until Daddy gets home.”
“Why don’t you hug him?” I asked her. “He hardly ever gets hugs.” The snuggly brown bear had a big sewn-on smile and an orange ribbon around his neck.
My granddaughter hugged him tight. When she held him out to look at him, she said, “Oh, Grandma Linda, his smile is bigger now. Look! He’s so happy!”
I finished a few things before going into my bedroom. She was fast asleep on my bed with the bear hugged to her heart.
With such a pleasant evening, I expected a good night’s sleep. Instead, that was the first night of a week-long series of bad dreams. Night after night, I dreamed about packing for a trip. Nothing seemed to go right in the dreams: the van showed up to take me to the airport before I had my suitcases packed, I couldn’t find my passport, my purse was missing. The scenarios changed but the disturbing dreams continued all week.
Last night, I slept restfully without any bad dreams. I awakened to discover my arms wrapped around the Teddy bear—his nose to my nose. Daylight flowed through the windows, and I could easily see his smiling face.
Not quite ready to wake up, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought about the weekend ahead. Easter weekend will be a celebration of Easter egg hunts and services at the Mathewson Center. But the best part of the weekend is my sons and their families plan to join me for Easter services. With our hectic lives, it seems we are seldom together.
With my eyes still closed, I thought about other Easters—the time Jim and his brother-in-law, Dennis, caught a stringer of fish; hiding Easter eggs too well and helping the kids find them; huge family meals at my mother-in-law’s house, dressing the kids up in their Easter outfits, and a rush of other memories about Easters past.
I opened my eyes and smiled at the Teddy bear I still held in my arms. He smiled back, of course, with his sewn-on happy face. Maybe my granddaughter was right—his smile seemed a bit bigger than it had been. Well, at the thought of the weekend ahead, I know mine certainly was.
Last weekend at bedtime, her question was “Where’s Finney?”
Her mom, Stacey, told her, “He’s in the car with Daddy.”
“But Daddy is at the races!” my granddaughter said. “Finney is alone in the car. I feel so bad!” She buried her face in my lap.
We spent several minutes reassuring her that Finney would be OK. My granddaughter insisted, “He’s afraid of the dark!”
Stacey handed her a big Teddy bear. “You can sleep with this bear until Daddy gets home.”
“Why don’t you hug him?” I asked her. “He hardly ever gets hugs.” The snuggly brown bear had a big sewn-on smile and an orange ribbon around his neck.
My granddaughter hugged him tight. When she held him out to look at him, she said, “Oh, Grandma Linda, his smile is bigger now. Look! He’s so happy!”
I finished a few things before going into my bedroom. She was fast asleep on my bed with the bear hugged to her heart.
With such a pleasant evening, I expected a good night’s sleep. Instead, that was the first night of a week-long series of bad dreams. Night after night, I dreamed about packing for a trip. Nothing seemed to go right in the dreams: the van showed up to take me to the airport before I had my suitcases packed, I couldn’t find my passport, my purse was missing. The scenarios changed but the disturbing dreams continued all week.
Last night, I slept restfully without any bad dreams. I awakened to discover my arms wrapped around the Teddy bear—his nose to my nose. Daylight flowed through the windows, and I could easily see his smiling face.
Not quite ready to wake up, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and thought about the weekend ahead. Easter weekend will be a celebration of Easter egg hunts and services at the Mathewson Center. But the best part of the weekend is my sons and their families plan to join me for Easter services. With our hectic lives, it seems we are seldom together.
With my eyes still closed, I thought about other Easters—the time Jim and his brother-in-law, Dennis, caught a stringer of fish; hiding Easter eggs too well and helping the kids find them; huge family meals at my mother-in-law’s house, dressing the kids up in their Easter outfits, and a rush of other memories about Easters past.
I opened my eyes and smiled at the Teddy bear I still held in my arms. He smiled back, of course, with his sewn-on happy face. Maybe my granddaughter was right—his smile seemed a bit bigger than it had been. Well, at the thought of the weekend ahead, I know mine certainly was.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Clown Noses, Laughter and Tears
I heard rumors that the speaker at our Business and Professional Women’s meeting, Vickie Weaver, had asked for clown noses for each person in attendance. My first reaction was a mental rolling of eyes and words raced through my brain that I won’t put in writing.
I’ve always enjoyed humor and having fun, but usually avoid acting silly. Clown noses sounded pretty ridiculous.
Vickie presented the first part of her program on “The Art of Laughter” touting the therapeutic benefits of laughter. We’ve all heard about life threatening diseases being cured after a person watched several days of slapstick comedy.
The dreaded moment arrived and clown noses were distributed. We opened plastic wrappers and plunked the red sponge noses over our real noses. Immediately, cell phones were removed from purses to take advantage of this photo op. I seriously hope there are not pictures of me on You Tube wearing a red sponge-Bob nose.
I’m pretty sure our honored guests for the evening—a table of men, the chicken fryers from last fall’s fundraiser—thought we had lost our minds. A couple of them tentatively put on their noses, but they didn’t jump up like the rest of us to learn a variety of laughs.
My favorite was the one that ended with throwing our hands in the air and shouting “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!” Other favorites were the “hand shake” and the “thumbs up” laugh.
I laughed so hard my sides hurt and the muscles on the back part of my head began to ache. I’m sure the good endorphins helped us through the serious topic that dominated our business meeting. We discussed the imminent demise of the 90 year old BPW organization that we all know and love. Our group is determination to continue with our local’s good work even if it requires a name change. Our BPW local supports community programs year round and annually awards scholarships.
Vickie’s timing was perfect to remind us of the importance of not just a smile or chuckle, but a real full body laugh. It is impossible to take yourself too seriously while you wear a clown nose. Clown noses and laughter put troubles into perspective.
After a blustery, cold Thursday, Friday morning was bright with the slight chill of a Colorado summer day, the kind of morning that always makes me miss Jim. It was my day off and I had time to think about personal pressing issues. My broken dryer topped the list. My sister-in-law, Ginger, had already dried two loads of clothes for me. Now, I needed to figure out how to get the dryer repaired or replaced.
As I poured my first cup of coffee, a moment of utter sadness over life’s losses brought tears to my eyes. As I fixed my coffee, I thought about how much Jim loved a cup of coffee. He drank his coffee black. He wanted it steaming hot so he used a thick cup and drank a half-cup at a time. After his cup of coffee he would have fixed the dryer and it wouldn’t have been my problem.
I’m not usually one to weep over what “should-a-could-a” been so I brushed aside the tears to answer the phone. A friend told me he was on the way over to look at my dryer. My spirits lifted, and while I drank my first cup of coffee, I enjoyed the lovely spring day. I began to hum—life can be fun regardless of those pesky day-to-day problems.
I pulled my clown nose out of my purse. Should I just pop the nose on and practice my “Wheeeee!” laugh? Nah! No sense in being silly.
I’ve always enjoyed humor and having fun, but usually avoid acting silly. Clown noses sounded pretty ridiculous.
Vickie presented the first part of her program on “The Art of Laughter” touting the therapeutic benefits of laughter. We’ve all heard about life threatening diseases being cured after a person watched several days of slapstick comedy.
The dreaded moment arrived and clown noses were distributed. We opened plastic wrappers and plunked the red sponge noses over our real noses. Immediately, cell phones were removed from purses to take advantage of this photo op. I seriously hope there are not pictures of me on You Tube wearing a red sponge-Bob nose.
I’m pretty sure our honored guests for the evening—a table of men, the chicken fryers from last fall’s fundraiser—thought we had lost our minds. A couple of them tentatively put on their noses, but they didn’t jump up like the rest of us to learn a variety of laughs.
My favorite was the one that ended with throwing our hands in the air and shouting “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!” Other favorites were the “hand shake” and the “thumbs up” laugh.
I laughed so hard my sides hurt and the muscles on the back part of my head began to ache. I’m sure the good endorphins helped us through the serious topic that dominated our business meeting. We discussed the imminent demise of the 90 year old BPW organization that we all know and love. Our group is determination to continue with our local’s good work even if it requires a name change. Our BPW local supports community programs year round and annually awards scholarships.
Vickie’s timing was perfect to remind us of the importance of not just a smile or chuckle, but a real full body laugh. It is impossible to take yourself too seriously while you wear a clown nose. Clown noses and laughter put troubles into perspective.
After a blustery, cold Thursday, Friday morning was bright with the slight chill of a Colorado summer day, the kind of morning that always makes me miss Jim. It was my day off and I had time to think about personal pressing issues. My broken dryer topped the list. My sister-in-law, Ginger, had already dried two loads of clothes for me. Now, I needed to figure out how to get the dryer repaired or replaced.
As I poured my first cup of coffee, a moment of utter sadness over life’s losses brought tears to my eyes. As I fixed my coffee, I thought about how much Jim loved a cup of coffee. He drank his coffee black. He wanted it steaming hot so he used a thick cup and drank a half-cup at a time. After his cup of coffee he would have fixed the dryer and it wouldn’t have been my problem.
I’m not usually one to weep over what “should-a-could-a” been so I brushed aside the tears to answer the phone. A friend told me he was on the way over to look at my dryer. My spirits lifted, and while I drank my first cup of coffee, I enjoyed the lovely spring day. I began to hum—life can be fun regardless of those pesky day-to-day problems.
I pulled my clown nose out of my purse. Should I just pop the nose on and practice my “Wheeeee!” laugh? Nah! No sense in being silly.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Purple Passion for Alzheimer’s at the Public Policy Forum
When Jim and I became engaged April 5, 1969, our colors were purple and yellow. Jim would tell me, “I love you with a purple passion,” and then he would add, “with a yellow racing stripe.” You have to realize that in 1969 racing stripes were really cool.
Purple is the signature color of the Alzheimer’s Association. I really don’t know why they chose purple, but the color can still be associated with passion.
My sister, Roberta, and I arrived in Washington DC a few days before the Alzheimer’s Association Public Policy Forum. We visited historic landmarks and attended services in the National Cathedral on Sunday morning. Cherry blossoms verged on blooming, and we couldn’t have asked for better weather.
Through past experience, I’ve found the most essential item for DC is comfortable shoes. Even with comfortable shoes, we managed to return each night with weary legs and aching feet. Everything in Washington DC is bigger than life—including the distance between buildings and monuments.
We joined more than five hundred advocates to bring passion to Capitol Hill. Twenty-four delegates from Missouri experienced the Alzheimer’s Association’s 21st Annual Forum. Four advocates in our group have been diagnosed with early or younger onset Alzheimer’s.
Mike Splaine, Alzheimer’s Association Advocacy guru, said because the Alzheimer’s crisis is gradual it is in danger of being overlooked. He said we needed passion and intensity to bring about change and take steps to make Alzheimer’s disease a national priority.
Maria Shriver, first lady of California, wasn’t satisfied to merely attend the forum—she wanted to experience the forum. She made her first appearance at the candlelight vigil Monday evening. After speakers passionately talked about their journeys, we lit our candles of remembrance and hope for a future without Alzheimer’s.
On Tuesday, Maria introduced a preview of an upcoming four-part HBO special about Alzheimer’s. The heartbreaking message ended with the word HOPELESS truncated to read HOPE.
Our group of 500 stormed Capitol Hill with purple sashes making us stand out from the crowd. We visited our respective senators and representatives to speak with one voice.
Our legislative “ask” was streamlined this year to three issues. Research was at the top of the list. We asked for an additional $250 million this year and another $250 million in 2010 to reach our illusive $1 billion goal. The annual total cost of Alzheimer’s is $148 billion. If $1 billion in research funding could reduce the annual cost by a small percentage it would be a wise investment.
Secondly, we asked for an Alzheimer’s Solutions Project Office. This office would be charged with leading a national effort to reengineer dementia care delivery.
We also asked for a phase out of the social security two-year waiting period for Medicare. Expensive diagnostic tests are sometimes delayed due to the waiting period. Early drug intervention may also be postponed past the time when it does the most good.
The “2009 Alzheimer’s Disease Facts and Figures” highlights the prevalence of the disease. Alzheimer’s is a family disease, and every 70 seconds another family begins this journey. Seventy percent of the 5.3 million Americans with Alzheimer’s are cared for by 9.9 million unpaid caregivers.
Alzheimer’s Statistics can be alarming, but personal stories are the heart beat behind the numbers. When a legislator looks into a caregiver’s sad eyes or into the confused gaze of a person with dementia, we become more than a number. We humanize the emotional and physical drain of a degenerative and fatal brain disease.
Jim was in a nursing home when I made my first trip to Washington DC. His dementia often made me feel helpless and hopeless. The trips helped rejuvenate my spirit and gave me purpose. I am friends with many amazing people that advocacy brought into my life. Being an advocate is personally rewarding and I believe it is important for those with Alzheimer’s and their families.
This was my ninth trip to Washington DC as an advocate. Jim died in 2005, but I continue to make the trip in his memory. Each year, when I prepare for the Public Policy Forum, I take my purple passion and pack comfortable shoes.
Purple is the signature color of the Alzheimer’s Association. I really don’t know why they chose purple, but the color can still be associated with passion.
My sister, Roberta, and I arrived in Washington DC a few days before the Alzheimer’s Association Public Policy Forum. We visited historic landmarks and attended services in the National Cathedral on Sunday morning. Cherry blossoms verged on blooming, and we couldn’t have asked for better weather.
Through past experience, I’ve found the most essential item for DC is comfortable shoes. Even with comfortable shoes, we managed to return each night with weary legs and aching feet. Everything in Washington DC is bigger than life—including the distance between buildings and monuments.
We joined more than five hundred advocates to bring passion to Capitol Hill. Twenty-four delegates from Missouri experienced the Alzheimer’s Association’s 21st Annual Forum. Four advocates in our group have been diagnosed with early or younger onset Alzheimer’s.
Mike Splaine, Alzheimer’s Association Advocacy guru, said because the Alzheimer’s crisis is gradual it is in danger of being overlooked. He said we needed passion and intensity to bring about change and take steps to make Alzheimer’s disease a national priority.
Maria Shriver, first lady of California, wasn’t satisfied to merely attend the forum—she wanted to experience the forum. She made her first appearance at the candlelight vigil Monday evening. After speakers passionately talked about their journeys, we lit our candles of remembrance and hope for a future without Alzheimer’s.
On Tuesday, Maria introduced a preview of an upcoming four-part HBO special about Alzheimer’s. The heartbreaking message ended with the word HOPELESS truncated to read HOPE.
Our group of 500 stormed Capitol Hill with purple sashes making us stand out from the crowd. We visited our respective senators and representatives to speak with one voice.
Our legislative “ask” was streamlined this year to three issues. Research was at the top of the list. We asked for an additional $250 million this year and another $250 million in 2010 to reach our illusive $1 billion goal. The annual total cost of Alzheimer’s is $148 billion. If $1 billion in research funding could reduce the annual cost by a small percentage it would be a wise investment.
Secondly, we asked for an Alzheimer’s Solutions Project Office. This office would be charged with leading a national effort to reengineer dementia care delivery.
We also asked for a phase out of the social security two-year waiting period for Medicare. Expensive diagnostic tests are sometimes delayed due to the waiting period. Early drug intervention may also be postponed past the time when it does the most good.
The “2009 Alzheimer’s Disease Facts and Figures” highlights the prevalence of the disease. Alzheimer’s is a family disease, and every 70 seconds another family begins this journey. Seventy percent of the 5.3 million Americans with Alzheimer’s are cared for by 9.9 million unpaid caregivers.
Alzheimer’s Statistics can be alarming, but personal stories are the heart beat behind the numbers. When a legislator looks into a caregiver’s sad eyes or into the confused gaze of a person with dementia, we become more than a number. We humanize the emotional and physical drain of a degenerative and fatal brain disease.
Jim was in a nursing home when I made my first trip to Washington DC. His dementia often made me feel helpless and hopeless. The trips helped rejuvenate my spirit and gave me purpose. I am friends with many amazing people that advocacy brought into my life. Being an advocate is personally rewarding and I believe it is important for those with Alzheimer’s and their families.
This was my ninth trip to Washington DC as an advocate. Jim died in 2005, but I continue to make the trip in his memory. Each year, when I prepare for the Public Policy Forum, I take my purple passion and pack comfortable shoes.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
What Would Jim Do?
Jim was a disabled veteran and received compensation from the government. While he was in long term care, I sent his veterans and social security checks to the nursing home. Jim died in 2005 and the checks stopped.
I was surprised to receive a letter from the Veterans Administration admitting that some surviving spouses had not received the veteran’s compensation for the month the veteran died. Apparently, after all this time, the VA realized they should have sent one more check to me.
Since it took almost four years before I received the letter, I wasn’t expecting the check anytime soon. To my surprise, it came a few weeks later.
In my mind this was Jim’s money and my first question was, what would Jim do? We were married more than 35 years, and I had a good idea what his wishes would be.
Jim had received a few windfalls over the years, and he always knew exactly what he wanted to do. Whether it was a $700 winning lotto ticket or a $10,000 settlement, he never considered spending the money on himself. He always had someone in the back of his mind that needed cash more than he did.
It took me awhile to understand his philosophy. We went through a lot of hard times when we were younger, and often I felt like we needed the money. He always had faith that we would get by, but he wasn’t so sure about everyone else.
Somewhere along life’s journey, I learned that the more you give, the more you receive. I’m not talking about gift exchange. Jim didn’t care for or even believe in gift exchanges. When he gave it was never, ever because he expected something in return. It was because he just felt it in his heart. He would open his billfold and hand over his last dollar to someone he loved.
He wouldn’t have wanted this unexpected check to be put in the bank. I know he would want the grandkids to have something from “Grandpa Jim” so that was the easy part. The more I thought about it, I knew where he would want the rest of it to go.
It makes me feel good to know Jim’s giving spirit can reach out and lend a helping hand to people he loved. In my memory, I can see him smile and his eyes light up. I can’t think of a better use for Jim’s check than to honor his legacy of love.
I was surprised to receive a letter from the Veterans Administration admitting that some surviving spouses had not received the veteran’s compensation for the month the veteran died. Apparently, after all this time, the VA realized they should have sent one more check to me.
Since it took almost four years before I received the letter, I wasn’t expecting the check anytime soon. To my surprise, it came a few weeks later.
In my mind this was Jim’s money and my first question was, what would Jim do? We were married more than 35 years, and I had a good idea what his wishes would be.
Jim had received a few windfalls over the years, and he always knew exactly what he wanted to do. Whether it was a $700 winning lotto ticket or a $10,000 settlement, he never considered spending the money on himself. He always had someone in the back of his mind that needed cash more than he did.
It took me awhile to understand his philosophy. We went through a lot of hard times when we were younger, and often I felt like we needed the money. He always had faith that we would get by, but he wasn’t so sure about everyone else.
Somewhere along life’s journey, I learned that the more you give, the more you receive. I’m not talking about gift exchange. Jim didn’t care for or even believe in gift exchanges. When he gave it was never, ever because he expected something in return. It was because he just felt it in his heart. He would open his billfold and hand over his last dollar to someone he loved.
He wouldn’t have wanted this unexpected check to be put in the bank. I know he would want the grandkids to have something from “Grandpa Jim” so that was the easy part. The more I thought about it, I knew where he would want the rest of it to go.
It makes me feel good to know Jim’s giving spirit can reach out and lend a helping hand to people he loved. In my memory, I can see him smile and his eyes light up. I can’t think of a better use for Jim’s check than to honor his legacy of love.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Missouri Advocates at State Capitol for Memory Day
I am an Alzheimer’s Advocate and participate in Memory Day at the state capitol in Jefferson City. Wednesday, I made my annual trip to speak to my legislators. My sister-in-law, Ginger, went with me this year.
The biggest challenge of Memory Day is finding a place to park. How every parking space within miles of the state capitol can be full is a mystery to me. I looked for parking place close to the Truman Building. My first mistake was trying to go in the entrance that is now barricaded with pylons to discourage terrorists, I suppose. I went around the block only to discover the other side had only an exit. I shot across a bridge to nowhere, turned around in a parking lot, and drove back around the block.
I trolled the parking lot while Ginger kept a sharp eye out for an empty slot. After cruising all around, we exited that parking lot and entered the one across the street for a more realistic chance. Finally, in the second to last row, we found an empty parking place. With perfect positioning, we were able to exit the car without stepping into the lake-size mud puddle that surrounded the front half of the car.
My cell phone rang just as I hopped over the puddle. It was Ike Skelton’s office setting up a time for our visit during the Public Policy Forum in Washington, DC. I juggled my bag and wrote the time in my calendar.
A March wind gusted around us as we headed toward the capitol building. Ginger and I wore pictures of Jim over our hearts. In the photo, Jim wears his Stetson and looks like a movie star or country-western recording artist.
After a short training session, we found a seat in the rotunda for the ceremony. The ceremony opened with a “Hello” song and drummers. After the awards and recognition, we began our legislative visits. We made a statement by donning purple “Alzheimer’s Association” sashes. It’s really hard to ignore 240 people wearing “beauty queen” sashes!
During our visits, the senate debated and passed SB176 which calls for the creation of a Missouri Alzheimer’s State Plan Task Force. This Task Force will assess the current and future impact of Alzheimer’s disease and examine the resources available for families affected by dementia. After their assessment, the Task Force will develop and implement recommendations to help Missourians take a proactive approach to make life better for the 110,000 Missourians with dementia, their caregivers, and families.
Our other objective is to maintain funding for Alzheimer’s Service Grants. The grants help the four Missouri Chapters continue with their important mission to provide services and support to families who are on the Alzheimer’s journey.
I consider myself to be a poster child for these services. Respite funds provided by the Mid-Missouri Chapter were my only financial support while Jim lived at home. The Alzheimer’s support group and educational programs helped me be a better caregiver. As a person who’s been there and done that, I know the life-changing possibilities of the $539,000 service grants. These grants save Medicaid dollars by delaying admittance to expensive nursing homes. As advocates we asked our senators and representatives to support these two priorities.
We make a difference when we share our personal stories with our legislators. The heart of Memory Day isn’t about politics, it’s about the people we know and love who are living with dementia, and our living memories of the ones lost to the disease.
The biggest challenge of Memory Day is finding a place to park. How every parking space within miles of the state capitol can be full is a mystery to me. I looked for parking place close to the Truman Building. My first mistake was trying to go in the entrance that is now barricaded with pylons to discourage terrorists, I suppose. I went around the block only to discover the other side had only an exit. I shot across a bridge to nowhere, turned around in a parking lot, and drove back around the block.
I trolled the parking lot while Ginger kept a sharp eye out for an empty slot. After cruising all around, we exited that parking lot and entered the one across the street for a more realistic chance. Finally, in the second to last row, we found an empty parking place. With perfect positioning, we were able to exit the car without stepping into the lake-size mud puddle that surrounded the front half of the car.
My cell phone rang just as I hopped over the puddle. It was Ike Skelton’s office setting up a time for our visit during the Public Policy Forum in Washington, DC. I juggled my bag and wrote the time in my calendar.
A March wind gusted around us as we headed toward the capitol building. Ginger and I wore pictures of Jim over our hearts. In the photo, Jim wears his Stetson and looks like a movie star or country-western recording artist.
After a short training session, we found a seat in the rotunda for the ceremony. The ceremony opened with a “Hello” song and drummers. After the awards and recognition, we began our legislative visits. We made a statement by donning purple “Alzheimer’s Association” sashes. It’s really hard to ignore 240 people wearing “beauty queen” sashes!
During our visits, the senate debated and passed SB176 which calls for the creation of a Missouri Alzheimer’s State Plan Task Force. This Task Force will assess the current and future impact of Alzheimer’s disease and examine the resources available for families affected by dementia. After their assessment, the Task Force will develop and implement recommendations to help Missourians take a proactive approach to make life better for the 110,000 Missourians with dementia, their caregivers, and families.
Our other objective is to maintain funding for Alzheimer’s Service Grants. The grants help the four Missouri Chapters continue with their important mission to provide services and support to families who are on the Alzheimer’s journey.
I consider myself to be a poster child for these services. Respite funds provided by the Mid-Missouri Chapter were my only financial support while Jim lived at home. The Alzheimer’s support group and educational programs helped me be a better caregiver. As a person who’s been there and done that, I know the life-changing possibilities of the $539,000 service grants. These grants save Medicaid dollars by delaying admittance to expensive nursing homes. As advocates we asked our senators and representatives to support these two priorities.
We make a difference when we share our personal stories with our legislators. The heart of Memory Day isn’t about politics, it’s about the people we know and love who are living with dementia, and our living memories of the ones lost to the disease.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Reality TV: The Final Rose--or Not
Just when you think reality TV can’t get more unreal, “The Bachelor” might as well have passed out dead roses instead of red roses. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in love. I just don’t believe love happens because a producer chooses a group of attractive women to act like idiots over one eligible male. The Bachelor in question doesn’t seem to have many requirements, including a stable personality.
I’m not much of a Reality TV fan. I used to watch people eat spiders and leap off tall buildings on Fear Factor while I fed Jim at the nursing home. Not for a million dollars would I jump between skyscrapers or dive into a tank of snakes.
Survivor has never interested me. I watched the Great Race a few seasons and found it to be entertaining at times. American Idol is my favorite! At least that requires a degree of talent. Thank goodness Tatiana got sent home because she gets on my nerves.
I’ve become bored with the multitude of bachelors over the years and admit that several seasons have slipped by when I haven’t watched a single episode. I could just barf if I watch one more hot tub scene or a woman wailing and gnashing her teeth because, “I’ll always love him, but he didn’t give me a rose!” Get real. How do you fall in love with a shallow, one-dimensional player who is coming on to twenty-four other women at the same time?
The camera caught all the details of the dramatic, long-goodbye when Molly got the boot. Her tragic and crushed figure rode into the sunset in a limousine. Tears glistened on her cheeks and her eyes brimmed. “He’s making a big mistake,” she sobs.
Jason shows his own anguish by bawling his eyes out before he regains his composure in time to fall on one knee and propose to Melissa. They jump into the water wearing their good clothes. I suppose ruined outfits are a small price to pay for the artistic value of the happy couple and little boy, Ty, frolicking in the water.
Jason proves to be fickle-hearted and dumps his fiancé on national TV to re-choose his second choice, Molly. He said he just couldn’t quit thinking about Molly. Thinking is not Jason’s strong suit.
Melissa, needless to say, is a little ticked at him. She speaks of herself in the third person, which makes you wonder about her stability. The drama continues when Molly comes out and learns of the new developments in the love triangle. Molly could have been a credit to all womankind had she looked him in the eye and said, “I am SO over you!” Instead her caught-in-the-headlights eyes dart as if she expects someone to yell, “Just kidding!” The show ends with Molly and Jason falling into each other’s arms and locking lips.
Do any of these people know what love is? Maybe, but more likely not. No pressure, but fall in love and propose by the final episode. I think it’s more likely the bachelor just tosses a coin. It’s a game, and the choice doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t plan to really marry the girl anyway and by the time the final episode airs, the happy couple is no longer a couple anymore.
Yes, I believe in love and I believe in reality, but I’m skeptical that love and Reality TV are a marriage made in heaven.
I’m not much of a Reality TV fan. I used to watch people eat spiders and leap off tall buildings on Fear Factor while I fed Jim at the nursing home. Not for a million dollars would I jump between skyscrapers or dive into a tank of snakes.
Survivor has never interested me. I watched the Great Race a few seasons and found it to be entertaining at times. American Idol is my favorite! At least that requires a degree of talent. Thank goodness Tatiana got sent home because she gets on my nerves.
I’ve become bored with the multitude of bachelors over the years and admit that several seasons have slipped by when I haven’t watched a single episode. I could just barf if I watch one more hot tub scene or a woman wailing and gnashing her teeth because, “I’ll always love him, but he didn’t give me a rose!” Get real. How do you fall in love with a shallow, one-dimensional player who is coming on to twenty-four other women at the same time?
The camera caught all the details of the dramatic, long-goodbye when Molly got the boot. Her tragic and crushed figure rode into the sunset in a limousine. Tears glistened on her cheeks and her eyes brimmed. “He’s making a big mistake,” she sobs.
Jason shows his own anguish by bawling his eyes out before he regains his composure in time to fall on one knee and propose to Melissa. They jump into the water wearing their good clothes. I suppose ruined outfits are a small price to pay for the artistic value of the happy couple and little boy, Ty, frolicking in the water.
Jason proves to be fickle-hearted and dumps his fiancé on national TV to re-choose his second choice, Molly. He said he just couldn’t quit thinking about Molly. Thinking is not Jason’s strong suit.
Melissa, needless to say, is a little ticked at him. She speaks of herself in the third person, which makes you wonder about her stability. The drama continues when Molly comes out and learns of the new developments in the love triangle. Molly could have been a credit to all womankind had she looked him in the eye and said, “I am SO over you!” Instead her caught-in-the-headlights eyes dart as if she expects someone to yell, “Just kidding!” The show ends with Molly and Jason falling into each other’s arms and locking lips.
Do any of these people know what love is? Maybe, but more likely not. No pressure, but fall in love and propose by the final episode. I think it’s more likely the bachelor just tosses a coin. It’s a game, and the choice doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t plan to really marry the girl anyway and by the time the final episode airs, the happy couple is no longer a couple anymore.
Yes, I believe in love and I believe in reality, but I’m skeptical that love and Reality TV are a marriage made in heaven.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Snow Isn’t as Much Fun as It Used to Be
When I was growing up, a big snow was a lot of fun. On snow days, we would drag out the wooden sleds with the metal runners.
The Ozark hills provided perfect sledding terrain. The road formed a long sloping hill on the north side of our house and a short, steep hill on the south side. The problem with the north hill was the long walk to the top before the downhill ride. The other hill was a shorter walk and a faster ride.
It wasn’t long before we figured out we could fairly fly downhill if we kick started the sled and plopped belly down and head first. Well, there was the time my brother, Donnie, ran his sled off the road crashing headlong into the barn. His broken nose ended his sledding that day, but it didn't slow the rest of us down.
All this reminiscing began this morning when the forecast called for five inches of snow, and I needed to be in Fulton, MO, for our Lifelines for Women program. Earlier in the week we had seventy-degree weather, and I breathed a sigh of relief that Cate and I weren’t out of our minds when we selected the last day of February for the retreat.
Yesterday, I heard the forecast—snow, snow, and more snow for Sedalia. I woke up this morning relieved to see the predicted snow had not fallen. I showered and relaxed for a few minutes until I noticed the ground was white. By the time I left home, snow salted the earth and began to accumulate to fulfill the meteorologist’s prediction.
I expected the side roads to be slick, but was confident 65 Highway would be clear. Wrong. It was snow packed and traffic was running a smooth 30 miles per hour. OK. Surely, the Interstate would be plowed. Wrong again. The ditches were littered with cars, trucks, and trailers. I got caught behind a vehicle traveling so slow that a snow plow passed us. Have you ever been on the wrong side of a snow plow? I might as well have been in a blizzard. My wipers iced up and left blurry streaks all over my windshield. Eventually, I drove out of the storm and onto beautiful, dry pavement.
The drive home was normal until I turned off the highway. The gravel road was challenging with its two beaten paths and pile of snow in the middle. The closer I got to home, the deeper the snow.
Finally, I pulled into my detached garage, put on my snow boots and tromped through six inches of snow to my door. Is it my imagination or is walking in deep snow a lot like walking in quicksand?
Snow just isn't as much fun as it used to be. Or, are my memories a little deceptive? If I thought hard enough, would I recall numb fingers and toes from the bone-chilling cold? I have forgotten any spills, bumps and bruises, but recall the fun of outdoor wintertime activities. In my memories, I don't think about lugging the sled to the top of the hill, I only remember the thrill of the downhill ride.
The Ozark hills provided perfect sledding terrain. The road formed a long sloping hill on the north side of our house and a short, steep hill on the south side. The problem with the north hill was the long walk to the top before the downhill ride. The other hill was a shorter walk and a faster ride.
It wasn’t long before we figured out we could fairly fly downhill if we kick started the sled and plopped belly down and head first. Well, there was the time my brother, Donnie, ran his sled off the road crashing headlong into the barn. His broken nose ended his sledding that day, but it didn't slow the rest of us down.
All this reminiscing began this morning when the forecast called for five inches of snow, and I needed to be in Fulton, MO, for our Lifelines for Women program. Earlier in the week we had seventy-degree weather, and I breathed a sigh of relief that Cate and I weren’t out of our minds when we selected the last day of February for the retreat.
Yesterday, I heard the forecast—snow, snow, and more snow for Sedalia. I woke up this morning relieved to see the predicted snow had not fallen. I showered and relaxed for a few minutes until I noticed the ground was white. By the time I left home, snow salted the earth and began to accumulate to fulfill the meteorologist’s prediction.
I expected the side roads to be slick, but was confident 65 Highway would be clear. Wrong. It was snow packed and traffic was running a smooth 30 miles per hour. OK. Surely, the Interstate would be plowed. Wrong again. The ditches were littered with cars, trucks, and trailers. I got caught behind a vehicle traveling so slow that a snow plow passed us. Have you ever been on the wrong side of a snow plow? I might as well have been in a blizzard. My wipers iced up and left blurry streaks all over my windshield. Eventually, I drove out of the storm and onto beautiful, dry pavement.
The drive home was normal until I turned off the highway. The gravel road was challenging with its two beaten paths and pile of snow in the middle. The closer I got to home, the deeper the snow.
Finally, I pulled into my detached garage, put on my snow boots and tromped through six inches of snow to my door. Is it my imagination or is walking in deep snow a lot like walking in quicksand?
Snow just isn't as much fun as it used to be. Or, are my memories a little deceptive? If I thought hard enough, would I recall numb fingers and toes from the bone-chilling cold? I have forgotten any spills, bumps and bruises, but recall the fun of outdoor wintertime activities. In my memories, I don't think about lugging the sled to the top of the hill, I only remember the thrill of the downhill ride.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Book soon to be released--Early Onset Blog: Essays from an Online Journal
A book of my 2008 blog essays will soon be available on Amazon.com. The proof copy was mailed to me today! I'll keep you posted and let you know when I approve "Early Onset Blog: Essays from an Online Journal" for sale to the public.
You might wonder why anyone would buy a book when the essays are free online, but we all have friends and relatives who do not have Internet access. Others are like me and prefer to curl up with a book instead of sitting in front of a screen reading. I refuse to take my laptop to bed with me!
The Internet attracts people who have a second, or nano-second, to view and read material. If you prefer taking time to relish what you read rather than speeding through online posts, this type of book is for you.
You might wonder why anyone would buy a book when the essays are free online, but we all have friends and relatives who do not have Internet access. Others are like me and prefer to curl up with a book instead of sitting in front of a screen reading. I refuse to take my laptop to bed with me!
The Internet attracts people who have a second, or nano-second, to view and read material. If you prefer taking time to relish what you read rather than speeding through online posts, this type of book is for you.
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