Desperately seeking Zen

When my mom first started discussing back surgery I didn’t think much about the risks involved. This was, after all, a woman who had undergone many recent surgeries, including a broken femur and a triple bypass, and come out a champion!  She is one tough cookie for a woman in her late 70s who doesn’t complain much in the healing process. She makes friends with all the nurses and doctors and aides. Of course, my mom has always held people in the medical profession - especially doctors -- in high regard, probably since her beloved grandfather was a doctor. At one time she even dreamed of being a doctor herself, but gave it up after she didn’t get into the one med school she applied to after college. All this to say, her family had a lot of hope that her scoliosis, degenerative discs and osteoporosis could be relieved by a back surgery supposedly by one of the best surgeons in the medical profession. Alas that has not been the case so far, and I hurt for my mom as she hurts with ev...

When I was younger my definition of an alcoholic was my grandfather. Back in the day, Papo, as we grandkids knew him, looked a little like Frank Sinatra, with piercing blue eyes and a cigarette between his long fingers. He could have been a movie star except he was from Oklahoma. Sadly, I never knew that version of him except for the photo I keep on the shelf as you walk in my home. My version of Papo was one of an older, slightly slumped, quiet guy whose clothes were always a bit stained and a size too big. He also had what I called the "bionic" arm  (being a child of the 70s, I was fascinated by "The Six Million Dollar Man"). On visits to his nursing home as a kid I remember being afraid to hold his "fake" hand in case he got me in a vice grip of some kind. Looking back I don't think he could even bend the fingers.  My Mom always called him "Daddy" and brought him a box of chocolate-covered cherries. In return he always had a peacock f...