Sassy Senorita Take Two

Dair seemed to enjoy our first trip to the new Mexican restaurant so much that we thought we'd try it again. Karl was traveling for work, so it was just "the girls." We got there before the mariachi band started and Dair ordered coffee to drink. Then she remarked that it "sure is loud in here," so I suggested she remove her hearing aids. She refused.

I should have seen it coming - no Karl, no wine...it was going to be a disaster.

The band started playing and Dair grimaced. I made her take out the hearing aids and she was not too happy. While waiting for her food she ate spoonfuls of salsa even though I had shown her how to dip chips into it and warned her that it was spicy. She complained throughout the meal about the choice of restaurant. I reminded her that she had liked it the last time we were there. Finally, we were finished and we headed out the door. "Don't ever take me back there again," she said as we got into the car. "I promise I won't," I replied. As if!

Sassy Senorita

Last night we took Dair to eat at a local Mexican restaurant. She's eaten Mexican food before, but never at this particular place. It's a little noisy in there, and then the Mariachi band started playing. In situations like this, her awesome hearing aids become a drawback - the noise is amplified too much and she doesn't like it one bit. I was beginning to think it was a mistake to take her to this restaurant.

We solved the problem by taking the hearing aids, or as she calls them, "ears," out. She sipped on her wine and watched as the band made its way over to our table. As the wine kicked in, she relaxed, began to grin and clap her hands to the music. The band played for us, she put the tip into the guitar, and watched as the guys moved to the next table. We noticed that her eyes were glued to the younger band members, then realized that these particular guys were wiggling their rear ends to the music, and she wasn't missing a wiggle!

Driven to Drink

Dair has been with us for a week, making the rounds with her doctors. We spent most of yesterday at the VA Hospital getting her checked out. For someone who is 90, she's in great physical shape; mentally, well, that's another issue.

Today we had arranged to meet several of her friends in Atlanta for lunch. As it turned out, three out of the four either forgot, were sick or just didn't show (not an unusual problem when those three are each over 80 years old). To ease her disappointment, Dair had two glasses of wine instead of her usual one. As we got up to leave the restaurant, she looked and me and said, "I'm a little intoxicated."

On the drive home, Dair asked if we were to see her dentist tomorrow. "No," I replied, "that appointment is on Monday." "Good," she said, "I'll be sober by then."

The Big Nine Oh

We held Dair's 90th birthday party in the fellowship hall at her church and invited friends to stop by to help celebrate. In addition to a bbq lunch, we had a large sheet cake with a nine and zero candle on it. We lit the candles, sang happy birthday, then held the cake up for Dair to blow them out. She took a big breath and spluttered all over the top of the cake. The entire room witnessed her spraying the cake with spit!

Everyone laughed and one lady piped up, "no cake for me, thanks." I replied, "hey, her germs have helped her survive to 90, they must be full of immunities." I guess either everybody forgot about the incident or took my words to heart because there was very little cake left at the end of the party.

Fair Trade

Dair's nephew John and his wife Louise have lived across the street from her for many years. Although they are at least 15 years younger than Dair, their health is much worse and so John is now in a nursing home. Louise has a home health aide, Shirley, who comes in each weekday to assist in her care and Dair refers to her as the "nurse" or "maid."

When Dair moved back home this summer, her daily routine was to retrieve the newspaper from the mailbox and head to Louise's for a cup of coffee. One day Shirley mentioned that her young son would like the little red wagon that Dair kept on her front porch. Dair said she'd make a swap for it. In exchange for the wagon, she asked Shirley to cut her toenails. Shirley agreed and the swap was made.

A few weeks later, Dair arrived early one morning at Louise's and was eager to have her toenails clipped again. Shirley was busy with her chores and told Dair she'd have to wait a while. After several more attempts to get Shirley's assistance, a frustrated Dair started cussing, slammed down the newspaper and stormed out.

Shirley, ticked off by Dair's behavior, called her husband and told him to bring the wagon back to Dair immediately. I'm thinking about buying Shirley a replacement wagon so she'll keep clipping Dair's toenails...there's just some things I refuse to do.

Party Girl

As Dair's 90th birthday approaches, we have begun to discuss what should be done to celebrate. Knowing that she likes a good party, and being the center of attention, we were thinking we should throw a big bash. Just to gauge her interest, we asked Dair what she would like to do for her birthday. She paused a moment, then grinned and said, "Everything!" Well, that should make the planning easy.

We were telling some friends about this and joked that we were thinking of getting Dair a tattoo, her first, for a birthday gift. Since she is a Navy veteran, we envisioned an anchor on her upper arm. But one friend had a better idea. He suggested she should get a "90 on her hiney." I like it.

Well, We Tried

Dair has really missed the companionship of her dog, Sandy, and we thought maybe it was time to get her a new dog. Realizing that a nearly 90 year old probably can't take long term care of a dog, we agreed to let our daughter, Katherine, have major input on the dog we chose for Dair, assuring her that one day it would be Katherine's dog.

Last weekend we went to a shelter and found a dog that our daughter fell in love with and Oreo, our dog, tolerated. This shelter dog, named Nitro, is a year old male Chow/Australian Shepherd mix, whose temperament and size seemed perfect for Dair. So we adopted him. We told her his name was Nitro(which sounds like a monster truck to me), and since she was having difficulty understanding his name, Karl wrote it down for her. She looked at the name, then pronounced it "Knit-ro" and said "what kind of name is that?" We quickly decided to re-name him, and came up with Jack, which suits him much better anyway.

When we got Jack to Dair's house, we quickly realized that even at a year old, Nitro was still too energetic and pupply-like for Dair. It also dawned on us that maybe Dair's dementia has progressed too far for her to take good care of Jack, so now he's Katherine's dog.

Our hope is that when Dair moves back in with us in the fall, Jack will be calmer and Dair can be the one who takes him out for walks when Katherine is in school. Meanwhile, Dair visits Sandy's grave each day.

In Memory of Sandy

Dair was determined to move back to her home in NC for the summer, so she could, among other things, play golf with her buddy there. We knew she couldn't stay on her own, so we made a deal with her that if we could find someone to stay with her for a few hours each day, we would agree to her going home. Fortunately we found Frances, a woman Dair calls, "that tall woman," and according to Dair is ten feet tall! They get along well and it makes us feel a lot better about having Dair two hours away from us.

After she was home only a week, Dair's beloved dog Sandy had a seizure and died. She was heartbroken and the neighbors next door were kind and helped her bury him in a corner of the back yard. The next day Karl was talking to his mom and she mentioned that the dog had been buried in the harness he wore when she walked him. Trying to comfort her, Karl said, "well that's good mom, because I'm sure he'll be taking lots of walks in heaven." Obviously she didn't hear him correctly because she responded, "you don't understand, he died yesterday and we buried him in the back yard."

Sticks and Stones

One early spring evening we had some friends over for dinner and afterwards we sat around the fire pit, enjoying the nice weather. The kids were running around in the yard and playing soccer in the street. Dair finally decided it was time for bed and headed indoors. A few minutes later, she appeared at the front door and spied the kids in the street. We live on a cul-de-sac in the back of the neighborhood, so we get very little traffic, plus the kids are all over the age of 11, so they know what to do if a car comes along.

Well, Dair didn't like it one bit. She yelled at them, "Hey stupid, get out of the street!" Then they heard her exclaim, "oh you made me wet my pants." I guess that's the price you pay for calling people names.

Snowbound

Last February our family took a trip to Mars Hill, North Carolina for some skiing. On the way to our destination, we dropped my mother in law, Dair, at her home in the NC mountains. Her job was to watch our dog, and hers, while we were skiing. We figured that she could survive a couple of days on her own while we were gone.

She arrived at her home on Friday afternoon, stocked with groceries for the weekend. Our plan was to pick her up on our return the following Monday. Soon after we dropped her off and headed eastward, snow began to fall. By Saturday morning, several inches of snow were on the ground, but the electricity never went out and the heat continued to run inside Dair's home. Dair didn't venture out that day, but her neice, who was visiting across the street, made her way over with some hot food.

On Sunday, though snow was still on the ground, a friend picked up Dair and took her to church. By Monday, most of the snow was gone, and we arrived around noon to retrieve Dair and the dogs and made our way home with no trouble.

As Dair recounts, frequently, this story, it is amazing how it has morphed into a tale of survival. She refers to it as "that week I was snowed in and couldn't get out while ya'll were off playing."

Party Animal

My mother in law is a party animal. She is a very social creature and enjoys being the center of attention. Our friends are great with her and have helped her feel welcome at any gathering we drag her to, whether its a Derby party, Christmas dinner or Super Bowl viewing.

She'll go along with most anything, as long as food and drink are provided. For instance, we joined four other families on Christmas day at a friend's home to watch "A Christmas Story," followed by dinner at a Chinese restaurant, complete with Peking Duck, nicely beheaded with a cleaver by our server.

We tend to have frequent dinner parties at our house, apparently so much so that a kid down the street recently asked our daughter, "Why are there always people at your house?" Her reply, "We're just cool that way." But seriously, we like to get together with family and friends, and Dair really enjoys these events, so why not?

One recent gathering, another family was over for dinner and then our 25 year old son showed up with a couple of friends, so we opened the good wine and gathered 'round the fire pit. The kids brought a small African drum along and there was a full moon, so before long, they were beating the drum and howling at the moon. Suddenly Dair, who had already gone to bed by this time, appeared on the porch and said the next door neighbor was on the phone. Oops. Apparently the drum beats were keeping his baby awake. The next day Dair commented that the drums may have been keeping the neighbors awake, but the neighbors woke her up to tell us that!

Unholy Visions

My mother in law has pretty much lost all modesty. I'll remind her that the shirt she is wearing needs to be washed and she'll reach up and pull it off right then. Her bedroom and bathroom are on the main floor of the house, just off the living room, and that can be really scary. The other night I walked upstairs and past her bathroom just in time to see her heading to the toilet in only a shirt and a depends undergarment.

I guess since she's not being modest, she figures the rest of us don't need to bother with it either. She is constantly walking into our bedroom, even when the door is shut, without knocking or any other warning. Even if she knocks, she doesn't wait for an answer. I've started locking the door everytime I go in there.

Karl has started escaping to our bedroom, even if it's only 8 p.m., just to get away from his mother. She thinks he's gone to bed and will limit her interruptions. However, she usually can't stay away and will continue to poke her head in our room, saying, "Just one more question," then asking something we've already answered at least five times.

One night while I was gone to a meeting, Karl really did go to bed early. When I arrived home, Dair came rushing out of her bathroom, clad only in Depends, arm draped across her chest, crying, "He's asleep, don't wake him," as she pointed to our bedroom door. "I won't," I assured her, then wondered how in the heck I was supposed to go to sleep with that vision burned into my eyeballs.

Sweet Thing

There is a restaurant our family visits nearly every Tuesday night. We love the food, the house chianti can't be beat,and the staff there are great. One waiter in particular has become a friend, and we enjoy his skewed sense of humor. Dair, my 89 year old mother in law, loves this twenty-something fellow and looks forward to visiting him each week. In turn, he enjoys her and pours a glass of her favorite wine as soon as she walks in. Since she can't remember names, Dair would refer to this fellow as "the funny man," but recently he earned a new name.

One Sunday afternoon Dair's daughter and friend picked her up and took her out to lunch at our restaurant. Instead of being seated in "the funny man's" section, they were seated elsewhere. Dair was none too happy about it, but after some complaining, stayed put. However, our waiter friend brought her a glass of wine, on the house, and she stopped complaining and has now started calling him her "sweet thing."

We were eating there the other night and Dair had her glass of wine clutched in her right hand. When her soup arrived, she started eating it with her left hand (she's not left handed). As you can imagine, half of every spooful landed on her shirt. My husband asked her why she was eating left-handed, and she had no real answer, but continued doing it. "Maybe she's had a stroke," he said. Just then, she lifted the glass of wine to her lips. "Nope," I said, "she just isn't going to let go of that wine."

Silence is Golden

Elderly folks are a lot like newborns. When they're awake, they can make an awful lot of noise, but when they're asleep, they're generally pretty quiet. I don't know if it's the dementia or the advanced age, but I have noticed the filter which once signaled my mother in law to refrain from making bodily noises in the presence of others is totally gone.

This woman can make the loudest, most disgusting hacking, coughing and spitting noises you have ever heard. I feel like we are living with Bill the Cat from the Bloom County cartoon.

Even worse are the extreme belches. These are no ladylike little burps emitted from a covered mouth, but loud, belly rumbling belches any 10 year old boy would be proud to claim. It doesn't matter where we are or who's around, she just lets them fly. And seldom are they followed by an excuse me. I guess I should be grateful though that they're burps and not the alternative.

Best Friends

Several years ago my mother in law expressed an interest in getting a dog. She lived alone and we thought it was a great idea for her to have a canine companion. We didn't want her to have a small, yappy dog, because it was a trip hazard and the frequent barking would get on her nerves. She also didn't need a large dog, because, well, someone in her 80s doesn't need a dog that is stronger than she is. A nice, mid size, laid back dog is what she needed.

Sometimes fate steps in and there's just nothing you can do about it. One weekend several years ago we were visiting Dair and we took her out to eat at a rib/bbq restaurant within walking distance of her house. Out on the front porch of the restaurant was a young adult, male, yellow lab mix. He was friendly and it turned out that he was a stray who had been hanging out at the restaurant for some time. (Smart guy - those rib bones are good!)

Dair decided he was the one. She took him home, named him Sandy, and they've been inseparable ever since. She adores that dog. He had free run of her house and all her furniture. She would slyly feed him table scraps during dinner and then fuss at him to get away from the table.

Since moving in with us, Dair and Sandy have settled in. He gets along with our dog, Oreo, and mostly just stays glued to Dair. Recently we noticed that his skin was red and he was scratching a lot, so we figured he had some allergies. Oreo has food allergies, so we hoped that was Sandy's problem. We switched him to the duck & potato dog food that Oreo eats and tried to convince Dair to stop feeding Sandy Milk Bones and table food.

I know Dair really misses giving Sandy a treat now and then, so I bought some rawhide chews for him and handed one to Dair to give the dog. She said, "what's this," and I told her. Then she proceeded to stick it in her mouth and suck on it. I reminded her it was for the dog and she said, "I know," then licked it again and said, "it's good."

Driving Lessons

At the age of 88, my mother in law, Dair, was still driving. My husband had asked her several years earlier, when she was much more lucid, when would she know it was time to stop driving, and her answer was, "when I have a wreck." That was our worst nightmare.

Thankfully she didn't drive too far most of the time. Her usual trips were to the store, church or the nursing home, all of which were within a five mile radius of her home. However, once a week during bowling season she would drive 15 or so miles to the bowling alley. This was a great concern to us because her top speed was 35 mph and she was driving on a two-lane, curvy mountain road. I'm sure the long line of cars that were stuck behind her featured drivers cursing under their breath the entire time. We were afraid she would pull out in traffic in front of someone and cause a serious wreck. Finally my husband resigned himself to the fact that we couldn't stop her from driving and it might just happen, so he made a big sign with her name and emergency contact info on it that he placed in the car. At least that way the EMTs would know who to call.

As her 89th birthday approached last August, Dair noticed that her NC drivers license was due to expire. There's no license testing facility in her county, but a mobile unit comes to town once a week, so in July she went to renew her license. Thankfully NC does not automatically renew a drivers license for elderly folks and requires that they take a test. Dair failed the test. Undaunted, she had her grandson drive her to the neighboring county, where she took the test again. Failed again. As they were leaving the testing office, she announced very loudly to her grandson, "well, just see if they can catch me."

Hot to Trot

A few years ago my divorced, 89 year old mother-in-law, Dair, was asked what she looked for in a man and she replied, "he needs to be clean." After hanging around with octogenarians for a while, I understand. Personal hygiene pretty much falls by the wayside after 80.

Last fall a former co-worker of Dair's got in touch with her after not having seen her in a while. Mr. X (names concealed to protect the innocent) gave her a call and talked about having helped her move several times, the most recent was when she moved back to her hometown in NC. Well, Dair couldn't seem to recall this man and told him so. He finally told her he'd send a photo of himself as a reminder. The photo arrived and showed a tall man with a shock of white hair. The note accompanying the picture stated that the photo was about 15 years old. Dair was delighted and said, he's a "good looking man."

After that, Dair obsessed about getting together with this man, though he lived about an hour from us and she still wasn't sure she remembered him, saying "he claims he helped move me to the mountains." Finally, this week, we made it happen. Days before the meeting, she was asking me to help her pick out what she would wear, and the day before the luncheon, she had to "get up early" so she could take a bath, wash her hair and paint her nails in preparation.

Mr. X was able to convince his daughter to bring him to meet us for lunch at an Atlanta restaurant where Dair and several of her friends enjoy gathering periodically. One of the friends who ususally joins us just happens to be Mr. Y, a fellow American Legion member of Dair's with whom she was once romantically involved. So, here we are, Dair, me, Mr. X and his daughter, Mr. Y, and my husband Karl, enjoying lunch together.

Needless to say, Mr. X did not in any way resemble the photo he sent. He was missing more teeth and had less hair, but he was very nice and genuinely happy to see Dair. She sat next to him and was so excited she never did eat her lunch. She frequently touched his arm or shoulder, and twice I saw her reach up to his head and smooth down his remaining hair! (This is highly unusual because this is not a "touchy-feely" kind of woman - at least not with family members.)

Karl and I have speculated - was she really so enthralled with this "new man in my life" as she called him or was she just trying to get in a little jab at Mr. Y? Guess we'll never know.

On the drive home, Dair said, "he used to be a good looking man," several times. I finally asked her, "Are you disappointed?" "No, not really," she replied. Then a few minutes later she said, "I guess we wasted our time figuring out what to wear."

You Are What You Eat

If left on her own, my mother in law will consume a diet of bread, cheese, cereal, milk, ice cream, and cookies, with a banana thrown in there once in a while. And yes, there is one train of thought that tells me that at 89, you should be able to eat what you want all the time. However, good sense rules my brain and while I do keep her cookie jar filled and ice cream in the freezer, I try to make sure that at least most of the time she is getting healthy, well balanced meals.

For the most part, the woman will eat anything you put in front of her. She's not partial to anything green unless her grandson prepares it (that's another story for another day), but otherwise, she'll try most anything. Blissfully unaware, she's tried calamari and sushi, and liked them both pretty well.

I'm usually home at lunch time so I can prepare something healthy for her to eat, but some days I just can't be there to feed her. On one of those days recently, I reminded her where the sandwich stuff was and left her some fruit to go with it.

When I returned home, earlier than expected, she had made a sandwich, but had gotten interrupted after only one bite. The sandwich was sitting on her plate. I called my daughter in to get a good look at it. The sandwich consisted of a piece of bread, a piece of cheese on top of the bread, and a chocolate chip cookie on top of the cheese, and one neat little bite taken out of the whole thing!

Circle of Hell

We are really lucky that my mother in law is a Navy veteran and receives VA benefits. She volunteered thousands of hours at the Decatur VA hospital, so she often tells people, "I used to work there," making it sound like more than it really is. The good thing about her having spent so much time there as a volunteer is that she does still have a good bit of familiarity with the place, which is helpful when she goes there for medical treatment.

The thing about this VA hospital is that the parking situation there is woefully inadequate. So many patients are trying to get there each day that they finally instituted a free valet parking system. The problem is that you must drive into one of the two entrances at the facility, then circle the building, eventually merging into one line that files into the valet stand. This whole process can easily take an hour. So, we leave home in time to get to the VA with an extra hour to park, but when you've got an impatient 89 year old who also needs to "make her bladder gladder" pretty frequently, and has dementia on top of that, it's a gamble.

Inevitably I have to let Dair out of the car well before I can park, so I've come up with the solution of giving her a piece of paper with her appointment time and location as well as my name and cell number on it and sending her into the building to find the bathroom. I just pray she makes it to her appointment by the time I finish parking. I've decided that if Dante had known about VA parking, he would have included it as one of his circles of hell.

Bowling

My mother in law is an awesome bowler, regardless of the fact that she's 89. The last time our family took her out to bowl, she finished with a 171. I can't even break 100. She's been in a bowling league for years and regularly comes home with cash winnings. She's very proud of the fact that she won several gold medals in the Senior Olympics.

Now that she's living with us, I decided it was time to find Dair a bowling league near our house. A new season started January 4th and I signed her up for the senior league. At the first meeting, I introduced her to the group and right away she and an 80 something gentleman hit it off. They were whispering to each other and nudging each other all during the meeting. I sent my husband a text that his mom "already had a boyfriend."

During the meeting the woman in charge asked me if I was going to bowl with them. I said "no, I'm terrible," having only bowled a handful of times in my life. "It doesn't matter," she replied. "We have all skill levels here." "Well, I figured you had rules about age, since this is a senior league," I answered (since I am still in my 40s). "Do you have kids," she asked. "Yes," I replied. "Do you have gray hair," she asked. "Yes," I replied. "You're in," she responded. So, now I am playing on my mother-in-law's senior league team, the Oldies But Goodies. This is not what my mid-life self image needs!

There was one woman there, also in her 80s, who was clearly a talented bowler. She was petite and dressed in multiple layers on this frigid day. She was bowling in the lane next to us and doing quite well. Dair rolled a strike and walked back toward us, patting herself on the back, and the fellow next to us patted her on the back as well. The petite woman came over to Dair and instead of patting her on the back, swatted her on the butt, like the pro football players do it.

Later, after we returned home and were recounting the events to my husband, I mentioned the butt swatting incident and Dair said, "She did what to me?" She seemed really worked up about it and began to criticize the "ugly" woman, in all her "ugly clothes." It dawned on me then that she realized that this woman was her rival, the one to beat at the bowling alley, and she was psyching herself up. That night Dair was talking to a friend on the phone and we heard her refer to this woman as "one of those other kind," meaning lesbian! All that from a pat on the butt.

Things Said

So, you may be wondering about the title of the blog. Well, it's one of Dair, my mother in law's favorite sayings. Even though she has new, state of the art, digital hearing aids, provided free of charge by the VA, invariably they are not in correctly, turned down, or the batteries are dead. When that happens, it is as if she has two oversized ear plugs in. Such fun! So, when you say something and she doesn't hear it, she says, "What did you say you said to me?" It cracks me up every time. The tone sounds accusatory, as if we've misled her somehow.

The other day Dair was asking about the name of my stepson's girlfriend and though she has met the girl numerous times, the name escapes her. My husband replied, "Tiffany." "Phiffany," she asked. "No, Tiffany," my husband replied. "Siffany," Dair asked again. "Tiffany," my now exasperated husband yelled. "Well you don't have to yell," replied my mother in law.

Life as We Know it Has Ended

Life as my family knew it ended in December 2008 when my then 88 year old mother in law moved in with us. Until then we were a pretty typical suburban family - husband, wife, two kids, two cats, one dog, three goldfish who refused to die (even though one spent more time upside down than rightside up), and half a horse. My mother in law is an amazing woman, and quite a hoot, but when you're dealing with a person who has early dementia, you learn anything can happen.

Born in 1920 in a small town in western North Carolina, Jessie Dair S. was the youngest of five children, and by her own admission, spoiled by her mother. She graduated as valedictorian of the local high school, and once when she told me that, I replied, "well I graduated 11th in my class," to which she promptly retorted, "How many were in your class, 12?" Ouch! (and no, there were 151, thank you very much).

Jessie was the only one of her siblings to attend college, and after earning her associate's degree, she went to work. After the US entered World War Two, Jessie and some girlfriends dared each other to join the military. According to her, "they all chickened out" except for her. She joined the Navy and served most of her time in DC. She must have had fun; there sure are a lot of photos showing her with her buddies at various DC restaurants, enjoying the nightlife.

Following the war, she returned to NC and the routine of work. When the Korean Conflict broke out, she got a letter from the Navy asking her to report for duty in Columbia, SC. She loves to tell the story about her arrival there. She said she walked in the door and the officer behind the desk was quite upset to see her. Jessie asked him what was wrong, and he replied, "we were expecting a boy." To which she replied, "so was my mother." Needless to say, they just assumed someone named Jessie had to be male. The Navy facility in Columbia was not set up to take female sailors, so they shipped her to Charleston, SC, where she ended up meeting her husband, a fellow sailor from Detroit (and 10 years her junior).

Two children and six years of Detroit winters convinced Jessie is was time to move back south, so she told her husband that she was going to Atlanta and he could follow if he wanted. He tried it for a few years, but called it quits and returned to Detroit. From then on, Jessie often worked two jobs to make ends meet and raise her kids. She did the best she could, but I know it was tough for everybody involved.

Jessie retired from a Federal job in 1981 and began to spend more and more time back in NC in her hometown. She had always golfed and bowled and she continued to pursue those activities, as well as volunteering thousands of hours at the VA hospital. She was also a member of the American Legion and even served as a Post Commander, something she documented in a large scrapbook that we look at often!

Seven or eight years ago she decided to move from Atlanta back to NC and over the years we began noticing subtle changes in Jessie's mental state. An older sister of hers had died several years earlier, not recognizing anyone, so we kind of knew what we were getting into. Fortunately for us, Jessie lived only two hours from us, so we could check on her frequently and moniter her situation. But in the spring of 2008, after she fell and injured an arm, it was suddenly obvious that her mental state was going downhill. There was no way she'd consider moving in with us permanently, so we spent the summer wondering what we were going to do. This woman is fiercely independent, so it was not an easy task convincing her to move in with us. After all, she was still bowling weekly (and bowling well I might add - a 180 game is not unheard of in her career), and playing 9 holes of golf regularly - at 88 years old!! And she was delivering meals on wheels.

Finally, after another tumble in the fall of 2008, she agreed to move in with us "for the winter" when the bowling league took a break. So, as I mentioned earlier, she and her lab, Sandy, moved in with us last winter. And that's when life as we knew it came to a halt.