Going Home

I like the National Public Radio station that supports Central and Northern Michigan, and of course the Algoma district of Ontario. With so much diversity to support, the Program Manager takes an eclectic approach to what the station broadcasts. It is more than a little like Armed Forces Radio and Television- something for everyone. The news is as familiar as an old shoe, and then there is alternate, classical, new age and jazz at other hours.

I was listening to Antonin Leopold Dvorchak’s “New World Symphony,” # 9, movements 4 and 2, yesterday after they cut away from the weekend All Things Considered. I was hankering to get out of town and get my life back, to the degree I have one, and the last circuit between Harbor Springs and Potemkin Village loomed.

The strains of the symphony were paired with the newer words that made part of his symphony a popular hit:

Going home, going home
I am going home
Quiet light, some still day
I am going home

It’s not far, just close by,
through an open door
Work all done, care laid by
never fear no more…

Maybe that is how this all works. I don’t know. But this morning I am cleaning out the fridge and trying to get organized to get out of The Little Village by the Bay and going home. Being with Big Mama rips me out of the normal space-time continuum, just like her.

I never feel securely anchored in time until Charlevoix is in the rear-view, and I am really back in the world where schedules and clocks are part of the program. Only then can I put the bulk of the guilt back in its holiday wrapper.

I stopped in the gray morning to take a look at the big-ass Robin that stands in front of the Local Art Gallery on the road into Harbor Springs. It is not quite large enough to be a roadside attraction in its own right, but it is an impressive pile of found art, and the first of two visual queues that help me know when I have to turn right to enter the parking lot of The Bluffs.

The other one is the Schiller Funeral Chapel, which I imagine is another place I will need to know about sooner rather than later. It is ominously convenient.

I parked the Grand Cherokee and walked up to the glass doors. It being Sunday morning, I had to enter a key-code to activate the opening mechanism. I was surprised to see Raven advancing toward me.

A young woman in scrubs whose badge announced she was Helena was walking Raven when I got to the Bluffs yesterday morning. She had him by the upper arm and the back of his sweat pants, and he was making good progress.

They make him do a circuit of the facility on his own power a few times a day, which is good, and once we were back in his room the lead nurse Donna came in and gave me a blow-by-blow.

It was a much more comprehensive account of how he is doing than the one I received last Tuesday morning with senior staff.

Donna’s key points were these: he is fitting in. He still wanders, and once (at least) he actually touched a woman on the shoulder as she lay in her narrow hospital bed. Donna did not make a big deal out of it, and said they just “re-directed” him back to his own room, and now they walk him deliberately three times a day. It is the level of care that he needs, and may allow him to continue a little longer in this world.

I shaved him as he sat on the edge of his bed. The staff does that routinely, and aside from looking frail, Donna says he has actually put on a little weight. He feeds himself when prompted by staff that it is something he needs to do.

Raven was trying to lie down and not succeeding. He leaned forward and backward trying to get his butt placed in a manner that he could pivot his feet off the floor and into the horizontal plane. It was a bit like the mechanical bird that appears to drink when placed on the lip of a cup, swaying back and forth in an attempt at perpetual motion.

“Normally, your Dad will try to eat something from each of the groups on the plate. But we had a Boiled New England Dinner the other evening and he ate everything. I swear he was ready to lick the plate,” said Donna.

I nodded, thinking back to thousands of family meals at the casa Socotra. “He always liked corned beef,” I said. “It is one of his favorites. He also likes skimmed milk on ice.”

Donna seemed surprised, and then completed her update and got on with her duties.

I had the iPad with me, so even though I was back in the Apple Blossom Ward, I was still connected to my real life. I saw a note from my pal Mac suggested that Big Mama may benefit from a short and regular walk around Potemkin Village- she gets dizzy after relatively short trips. The Bookstore and Momentum were too much last Wednesday, and the Pond Hill Farm adventure was just about right, though she complained of shortness of breath when we got back to Potemkin Village.

Mac said he had someone to walk his wife during her time in the nursing home, and that might be a good idea. No time to arrange it today, and maybe we can start a mild regimen of exercise when Annook is there.

Raven tried to lie down again, so I put the device down and helped him get his legs up on the bed and a pillow under his head and neck. He closed his eyes in satisfaction, and I spread the comforter over him to keep him cozy. I knew they would be getting him up for lunch soon enough, but I figure the time available should be spend with someone who can talk, so I took off as he dozed.

I made it back over to Potemkin Village in time for lunch, which went well, though she picked at the apple-cannoli’s on her plate. She did eat half the pecan pie for desert, so I chalked the meal up to a draw.

I walked with her back to the apartment and shared a poignant moment with her. Then I made my goodbye, kissed her, and drove to Lowe’s to buy a backpack leaf-blower.

That was a little more adventure than I needed- “some assembly required” is what I forgot about small-engine machines that come in boxes. Eventually I figured out the little Huskvarna model C130, and then had a grand time moving piles of wet leaves around the property.

I could not complete the task in daylight, since my fingers began to go numb, but will give it a decent shot when the light comes back.

The nice thing about Big Pink is that there is no yard work.

So, the remaining leaves and a quick straightening up at the house and I am on the road south to Traverse City to try to make a plane. It is like Dvořák’s song, you know?

Except the work isn’t done, and cares are not set by. Not yet, anyway.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com