Today We Danced

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In my real life I am a nursing attendant and I have worked with people who have Alzheimer's Disease. Here is a short story I wrote about it.

Today We Danced

        There is entertainment this afternoon. I punch in the code that unlocks the door and take you to the dining area of the other side of the facility. The tables have been pushed to the walls and the residents sit in their wheelchairs beside them. A man has brought in a portable organ and his wife a violin. They play the old songs, the songs we grew up to in the 1940s and 50s when I wore a flared skirt and bobby socks and you had a crew cut. You sway to the music. It is as if you recognize the tunes.

       When they play a waltz, you bow and hold out your left hand. With delight, I slip in my right one. You put your right arm around my waist. I place my left hand on your shoulder. You pull me close and we waltz to the music. Your eyes sparkle the way they always did when we danced. You smile down at me and my heart quickens. It is a smile I haven’t seem lately, the smile of my truelove.
       The music ends and we hold hands. We talk, remembering the first time we danced as sweethearts. For me it is one of the hundreds of memories I have of our life together. For you it is one of the few memories you have left.
       When the entertainment is over, I push the button that unlocks the door from this side. We step back into the locked section, your home now that I can’t look after you anymore. We walk along the hallway in the midst of your fellow residents. Most are about our age, some, unfortunately, are younger. Everyone is mobile but in varying degrees. A man, who is only in his sixties, spends his days hurrying up and down as if late for something. A woman shuffles, holding onto the rail. Another man stands with his coat on. He is adamant when he tells the nursing aides that he has to go home.
      As we stroll, you say. “I come from a family of eleven children and none of us robbed a bank.” You are full of surprise sayings like that. Many times you state. “I want to go home to the farm to see my mother.” Once, you said. “If I climb onto the roof, I can look down on the valley and the farm.”
       I ask if you have to go to the bathroom. You are incontinent but sometimes you will go on the toilet if asked. You say yes. I lead you to the room you share with another man. A woman is making and remaking your bed. Every day she is busy doing something like washing the tables or fixing the beds, or cleaning the sink and counter. I guess in her mind she is doing the housework as she has done for years.
       I take you into the bathroom and undo your pants. I remove the diaper, which is soaked and sit you down on the toilet. While you stay there, I unlock your closet beside the bed and remove a plastic bag for the diaper. The staff does not refer to them as such. They call them briefs or incontinent products. But it doesn’t matter how they try to disguise the name, they are still diapers, just like the ones put on babies.
       There is a foul odour when we go into the hallway. One woman is standing against the wall. Her pink pants are wet and have brown streaks on them. A nursing aide approaches her.
       “Come. We have to change you.”
       “I don’t need changing.”
       “Yes, you are dirty.” The nursing aide puts her hand on the woman’s arm.
       “Leave me alone!” She pushes her away. “I’m not dirty!”
        Another staff member comes to help. They each take one of woman’s arms. She yells at them as they pull her towards the shower room.
      “Stop it you damned bitches!” She twists her arms and kicks out at them. “Leave me alone! I’ll kill you!”
       One of them looks at us. “It’s not her,” she explains to me. “It’s the disease.”
       She fights and kicks all the way to the shower room and I still hear her yelling behind the door. Later, when she comes out washed and changed, she sits in a chair in your dining room and ignores everyone.
       It is suppertime. The food services people push the cart with the hot food on it through the opened door. I stay to help. The nursing aides have a hard time keeping everyone seated while waiting for their food. Some, if not served immediately, get up and wander away. I help pass out the bowls of soup and get one for you. With a little prompting you can feed yourself.
       The residents with teeth get a regular plate of food, the ones without get pureed food. Most of them can feed themselves, but some use their fingers instead of cutlery to scoop up the meat and mashed potatoes and gravy. One woman refuses to eat. She hasn’t eaten much in days. It is as if she doesn’t know what she is supposed to do with the food anymore. She won’t let anyone feed her and gets mad when they try. She has lost a lot of weight.
       Back at your room I get you ready for the night. I wash you and put on your pajamas. I remake your bed. When I kiss you goodnight, you say.
      “Don’t ever come to a place like this. It’s not pleasant to be here.”
       I have no answer to that. I leave
       We have both lost our lives. Your life has narrowed to your room and the hall. Mine is coming to visit you.

                                                 *   *   *   *   *

      The disease had crept up on you, on us. First there was the lack of concentration, then the memory lapses. You sometimes didn’t remember where the dishes went or where our bedroom was. The repetitive movements, like the constant smoothing of your hair with your hand, bothered the children and me, but we tried to hide what was happening. We laughed and made excuses.
       You began roaming the house at night. You were so restless, walking from room to room. I got scared when you started to go out into the yard during the day. I watched you as much as I could while doing my housework. Then you wandered away from home. The first couple of times I managed to find you on my own. I told the children and they installed a lock high up on the door where you couldn’t see it.
       You would get so mad when you were unable to open that door. You’d pound on it and kick at it. I would try to get you to play cards with me or watch the television but you couldn’t be distracted. Finally, I just had to let you be. One afternoon, somehow, you got out. I couldn’t find you and phoned the police. They asked all the bus drivers and taxi drivers to watch for you. A taxi driver found you late at night on the other side of the city. He took you to the nearest police station. They brought you home and you didn’t remember where you had been or how you got there.
       The children and I took you to the doctor the next day. After many tests, he said those two words that we all had been denying: Alzheimer’s Disease.

             *   *   *   *   *

       When I come today, I am told you were resistive during your morning wash and change. You yelled at the staff and tried to hit one. The disease is progressing.
       I find you sitting at a table rubbing your hands over the surface and saying. “Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another day.”
       “What are you doing?” I ask.
       “What are you doing? What are you doing?” You begin repeating.
       You have done this before. Once, when the episode was over, I asked you if, at the time, you knew you were doing it. You said yes. I asked you if you could stop it. You said no.
       A fellow resident walks by saying. “Where are my clothes? I need my clothes.”
       You say. “I need my clothes. I need my clothes.”
       Your eyes are begging me, asking me for help. The look of fear and confusion in them makes me cry. I take you in my arms and hold you.
       One day, while you were still at home, you tried to make me promise to help you commit suicide before the disease robbed you of most of your mind. I was a coward then. I love you and I couldn’t promise.
       I am so sorry now.

Gold Fever

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Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder

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4 REASONS FOR MAKING TIME TO READ by Rita Karnopp

I think all of us on this blog love to read. I’ve often heard people say, “I absolutely love to read, but I just don’t have time.”  WHAT?

     Even if you read while in line at a restaurant . . . or a page every night before bed… you'll finish reading a book. When I had three jobs and kids to handle . . . I still ‘found’ time to write.

1-Reading Nourishes Your Writing – I don’t think I’d have written a single book if I hadn’t been a reader. There were times while reading I’d tell myself, “Now why didn’t that author do this or that?” Or I’d ask, “Really?” to the ending.”  Now it’s a given, if I’m writing Native American – be sure I’m reading my favorite Indian historical or documents on Native Americans. I go as far as to watch movies and documentaries about the genre’ I’m writing. Same goes for when I’m writing suspense; I’m reading suspense books, I’m watching suspense movies, and I read books on killers and why they kill.  You get my point.

     I also find reading novels and documentaries inspire my creativity. I have more ideas come to me when I’m reading historical facts than any other place. When does inspiration strike you? Once you figure that out – there is an endless source of book fodder for you to cultivate!

     Reading opens a world of new styles of writing, and although one wouldn’t ‘copy’ another author’s ‘style’ it will inspire you to ‘create’ your own style with the information.

     I recently read an article where an author said, “You should read something from every genre to ensure you haven’t missed a tool from another novel style.”  That’s great advice – one I’m working on for sure.

2-Reading Builds Confidence – When I first started writing – I studied my favorite author’s style; was pacing even and pulling me through the book? Did characterization make me fall in love with the hero/heroine and hate the protagonist? Was setting written so I felt I was right there with the characters? Did the plot make me turn those pages?  etc. NO, I didn’t copy the writing, but I learned a lot from writers such as Stella Cameron, Roseanne Bittner, and Dee Brown. I knew there were great writers right in Montana; such as Kat Martin and BJ Daniels, whom I might add were great inspiration to me when I first started writing, and still are.

     A spanking new author carries so many insecurities, that it’s frightening to share even one sentence – for fear of it being torn apart.  At the beginning the thought of sharing a completed manuscript with a friend or stranger was scary enough to send me running hysterically into a closet, slamming the door, trembling – manuscript gripped tightly in-hand.

     Once I got over the fear of having my manuscript critiqued, then came the heart-pounding fear of reading what was said about my ‘baby.’ I have to be honest here; the first critique I received was from a contest. The person who marked in red all over my manuscript was not kind. She was honest – brutally so – and not concerned with my feelings. She said, “Learn to write before wasting time creating such a disaster.” I was devastated! I was going to throw my Selectric IBM typewriter out my front bay window. I cried for days. I ranted and raved to my friends. I secretly called the author (whom I truly admired and liked – until the critique) just about every name I had in my ‘bad name’ arsenal (I’m not much for swearing – so there weren’t many … but I was angry and hurt!).

     Two weeks (or more) later, I decided I would read through the comments again – just in case one or two of them made sense, and perhaps I could learn from them. With a new attitude about reading those comments, I found there were a lot of them I could learn from.

     I went through the entire manuscript and rewrote … rewrote… and rewrote. I asked this ‘author/critique guru’ if she was willing to review it again – and see if it was better. She suggested I learn on my own.

     Hmmmm that was not a good beginning. So I got angry and when I get angry – I get determined and stubborn! That was good for me.  I started reading ‘how to’ books, and from there I pushed myself to apply what I learned into book after book.

     Then I stopped. I could read and re-write until I’m blue in the face. What I needed to do was WRITE. From that point on I started my writing career and wrote Whispering Sun, my first Indian historical romance.  Ask me how proud of that novel I am!

3-Reading Enables Revision –  My point here is that after years of confusion and frustration, what I learned is there is a time when you just need to write and learn how to improve each novel as you go. I believe it’s important to study books you totally enjoy and become a better writer for it by learning what worked in someone else’s writing. That helps you become a better writer in your own work.

     When I find things that don’t work in a book I’m reading, I learn it won’t work in my writing either. You want honest feedback?  This can only happen when you’re ‘honest’ with yourself. Evaluate your work as though it were someone else’s work. You’d be surprised how many things glare back at you then.

     What this consequently does for you is builds confidence and helps you improve the quality of your writing. Good writers are always learning and improving their craft. You need to be a ruthless editor of your own work. You are only as good as your next novel.

4-Reading Helps You Sell – There is one added-plus if you're well-read. If you're discussing your work with other writers, authors, or even editors, you will be prepared if they ask, “Where do your books fit in today’s market?”  You'ill know, with confidence, where to pitch your work and how it will fit into the universe of existing books..

     My advice is to never stop reading . . . always find time to read. Life is too short not to be enjoying a good book. It’s my goal to read a book every week. When I was so busy that I didn’t have time to think – my goal still was to read at least one book a month. I couldn’t bring myself to stop reading.

     My ultimate goal is to have readers out there wanting to ‘fit my book’ into their busy schedule. I want to be the author of the book . . . that took them away from it all.

The Wearin' of the Green (and Purple) by Karla Stover

The Wearing’ of the Green (and purple)

 

     It’s March—that time of year, again when people eat corn beef and cabbage, drink green beer, wear something green, and celebrate a saint. Any excuse for a party, right? Well, not for the Finns who, as is well known, are of a reserved nature. Fortunately, for them, celebrating St. Urho Day on March 16^th doesn’t require much in the way of revelry.

     People became reacquainted with St. Urho in the 1950s although opinions differ on whether he grew out of tales told by one Sulo Havumaki of Bemidji, MN, or from the whimsical stories told by Richard Mattson of Virginia.

     According to a man named William Reid, Sulo was feeling bad because there were no Finnish saints. The Reid family had relatives going to Finland and William’s father “got some very old pieces of old human bones and wood and gave them to the relatives to take to with them along with a letter and the following instructions:

            (1) Find a recent obituary in a Finnish newspaper.

(2) Have the letter translated into Finnish and insert the deceased's name.

            (3) Mail the letter to Sulo Havumaki by air, and send the bones and wood to Sulo by sea.” In time,

     Sulo received both and held on to them until Reid senior finally fessed up when Sulo was terminally ill with cancer.

     However, Mattson’s son says “his father, a fun-loving Finnish-America and employee of Virginia’s Ketola’s Department Store, created the saint, after which female employees threw a St. Urho party in the store’s lunchroom and a woman read a poem she’d written. The local newspaper ran an article about the event and, Bob’s Your Uncle, a legend was born. Either way, St. Urho’s legend has grown to where he is celebrated across the United States and Canada and even in Finland. His claim to fame:  he chased the grasshoppers out of ancient Finland, thus saving the grape crop and the jobs of Finnish vineyard workers. Contemporary wine drinkers are well aware of the quality of Finnish grapes and wine.

     Thirty-five years ago, Minnesota Governor Wendell Anderson issued a proclamation naming Minnesota as Saint Urho’s unofficial home. And the saint has been recognized with proclamations in all 50 states. So wear your green but add Urho purple, make a Kalakukko (fish pie) and give thanks to the saint for Finland's amazing vineyards.

On March 16th everyone's Finnish.

 

 

 

 

and give thanks

 

 

to the saint for Finland’s amazing vineyards. On March 16^th, everyone’s Finnish.

The Wearing' of the Green (and Purple) by Karla Stover

The Wearing’ of the Green (and purple)

     It’s March—that time of year, again when people eat corn beef and cabbage, drink green beer, wear something green, and celebrate a saint. Any excuse for a party, right? Well, not for the Finns who, as is well known, are of a reserved nature. Fortunately, for them, celebrating St. Urho Day on March 16^th doesn’t require much in the way of revelry.

     People became reacquainted with St. Urho in the 1950s although opinions differ on whether he grew out of tales told by one Sulo Havumaki of Bemidji, MN, or from the whimsical stories told by Richard Mattson of Virginia.

     According to a man named William Reid, Sulo was feeling bad because there were no Finnish saints. The Reid family had relatives going to Finland and William’s father “got some very old pieces of old human bones and wood and gave them to the relatives to take to with them along with a letter and the following instructions:

(1) Find a recent obituary in a Finnish newspaper.

(2) Have the letter translated into Finnish and insert the deceased's name.

(3) Mail the letter to Sulo Havumaki by air, and send the bones and wood to Sulo by sea.” In time,

     Sulo received both and held on to them until Reid senior finally fessed up when Sulo was terminally ill with cancer.

     However, Mattson’s son says “his father, a fun-loving Finnish-America and employee of Virginia’s Ketola’s Department Store, created the saint, after which female employees threw a St. Urho party in the store’s lunchroom and a woman read a poem she’d written. The local newspaper ran an article about the event and, Bob’s Your Uncle, a legend was born. Either way, St. Urho’s legend has grown to where he is celebrated across the United States and Canada and even in Finland. His claim to fame:  he chased the grasshoppers out of ancient Finland, thus saving the grape crop and the jobs of Finnish vineyard workers. Contemporary wine drinkers are well aware of the quality of Finnish grapes and wine.

     Thirty-five years ago, Minnesota Governor Wendell Anderson issued a proclamation naming Minnesota as Saint Urho’s unofficial home. And the saint has been recognized with proclamations in all 50 states. So wear your green but add Urho purple, make a Kalakukko (fish pie), and give thanks to the saint for Finland’s amazing vineyards. On March 16^th, everyone’s Finnish.

 

Swing into Spring Contest ~ New, Easy Entry!

 To celebrate the Spring Season, BWL is giving away a Kindle Fire HD 7, 7" HD Display, Wi-Fi, 8 GB

All you have to do to win is visit the Books We Love home page  browse our "Coming Soon" and new releases books and tell us which book you would like to read.

Send an email to bookswelovecontest@shaw.ca with your selection(s) and your email address and home state/province. One entry per subscriber. Multiple entries do not increase your chances of winning. Sorry, this contest is only available in the US and Canada - not valid in Quebec or where prohibited by law.  Winner's name will be posted on the website on June 15, 2015.

Good Luck!

Swing into Spring Contest from Books We Love

 

The Apothecary's Widow by Diane Scott Lewis

Just released at Amazon.  Don't miss this exciting new historical mystery.

Books We Love's newest release from the legends of Haida Gwaii

http://amzn.com/B00UBARFE8

What if a native legend came back to life and was saddened by the destruction of his people, their culture and their environment?

What if that legend was the Haida creator god Raven and he spirited away the girl you were falling in love with?

What if you didn’t believe in native spiritualism and found yourself battling Raven with only a shaman to help you?
Inspired by true events that took place on the Queen Charlotte Islands, Raven's Lament centers on a journalist who investigates a killing tied into the destruction of old-growth forest and becomes tangled up in a spirit war. He finds love and meaning as he encounters a centuries-old Haida prince, formerly imprisoned along with Raven in a rare Golden Spruce tree.



Endorsements:

"After being stranded twenty kilometers from the nearest road at the tip of Rose Spit, Haida Gwaii, and having to push his spanking new SUV a few kilometers along the beach before the tide came in and we ran out of booze, my first reaction on being asked to write a back cover blurb was, “over my dead body." Some people will do anything to get an endorsement.” Susan Musgrave

From the lands and legends of the Haida Gwaii of Northern British Columbia Canada comes a paranormal suspense rich in traditional lore mixed with modern environmental concerns and forgotten taboos. You won't be able to put this one down until you've reached the surprising conclusion. Jude Pittman, author of Healing Spirits, Book 1, Bad Medicine

Diorama Card by Cheryl Wright

I am very lucky to be part of a tight-knit group of cardmakers on Facebook. When one of us finds a new-to-us idea, we share links, then challenge each other to attempt the card technique in question.

Recently someone found these fabulous cards, and a video on how to make them. I am talking about Diorama cards.

They are a little fiddly, and they do use slightly more cardstock than a regular card, but they are worth the extra effort for someone special.

This card was my first attempt. I had to watch the video a second time as I was having some difficulties, but it turned out okay in the end.

From the outside, it looks like a regular card, but when you open it, it's a whole different story:

There is so much scope for these cards, and you really could get carried away if you let yourself.

If you would like to see the video instructions, or would like to view a masculine version of this card, go here.

Thanks for looking!

Til next time,

Links:

My website:  www.cheryl-wright.com 
Blog:  www.cheryl-wright.com/blog
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/cherylwrightauthor 
BWL website: http://bookswelove.net/authors/wright-cheryl/

Stephen King: My Favorite Teacher by Joan Hall Hovey

The year was 1984, a lovely summer’s day and I was sitting in the packed, buzzed audience waiting for Stephen King to appear.  To say I was excited is an understatement. Uncool? Totally. I’d bought my hardcover copy of his book Different Seasons for him to sign.  I wouldn’t be denied. I had all his books in hardcover – Carrie, Cycle of the Werewolf, Danse Macabre, Salem’s Lot -  there would be  many more to come. He was my hero in a time when I was already much too old to be star-struck.  I’ve read that it is mainly teenagers who are addicted to Stephen King’s work, and I was hardly that.  Though probably immature.  I’m at a much more more advanced age now and that hasn’t changed, and I hope it never does.  Stephen King was  the Elvis Presley of the literary world.

I hadn’t had a novel published yet; that was still a dream, floating somewhere above the horizon. But I’d written and published some articles and short stories, enough to make me eligible for a travel grant through the NB Arts Council to London, England to the writers workshop at Polytechnic Institution  on Marylebone Road, aptly across the street from Madam Tussauds wax museum.  Stephen King would be a panelist, along with authors P.D. James, Robert Parker and some others.  I was eager to hear all the celebrated authors, but I’d flown all this way from New Brunswick, Canada to see and hear Mr. King. 

He came into the large room through the back door and I swear I knew the instant he did.

You couldn’t miss the rising buzz of the audience, of course, the shifting of bodies as people turned to look, but I also felt the change of energy in the air. On stage, Stephen King joked about his ‘big writing engine’ and I had heard (within my third eye – yes, it can hear) its power, its purr.   Or maybe there’s more to it.

As he talked to us about writing, he spoke about seeing with that third eye.  The eye of the imagination.  He told us to imagine a chair.  Then he said it was a blue chair.  I saw it clearer now.  He added the detail of a paint blister on the leg of the chair.  Now I saw it close up, with my zoom lens.  We hung on his every word.  He was funny and brilliant and entertaining, and we learned. Everything he said was not necessarily something brand new, but were reminders to pay close attention to details.  To always tell the truth in our writing.  I even got to ask a couple of questions.   And his answers to all our questions were thoughtful and insightful.   I try to pass along a few of those lessons to my own students.

Stephen King has been teaching creative writing to aspiring and even established writers for decades, long before his wonderful book On Writing came out.  Such a gift to writers that is, regardless of the genre you write in.   I am gushing.  I don’t mind. It’s true. I have been fortunate to have had many highlights in my life –  an anniversary trip to Niagara Falls with my wonderful husband, the births of my children and grandchildren, great-grandchildren – a trip to the Bahamas with my eldest son – my own first novel published and several more after that - and I have to say that that workshop in London, England, where Stephen King spoke to us about writing, is right up there.  Thank you, Mr. King.

I want to leave you with a quote from an interview with contributing writing for the Atlantic, Jessica Lahey, published in The Atlantic,  Sept  2014.  She asked him if teaching was craft or art.

“It’s both,” he said.  “The best teachers are artists.”

Stephen King is an artist on every level.   He tells the truth.  In his fiction.  And in his teachings.

~~

By Joan Hall Hovey, author of The Deepest Dark

www.joanhallhovey.com