The Other Side of the Bleachers

My son started playing football at six years old, and after just a few weeks of practice his Dad, Roger, and I were hooked. Fortunately for us, Shane liked it too, and football became a family affair.

This past August marked the beginning of our seventh season. After serving as Head Coach for two years, and assisting for a third, Roger opted for what he imagined to be a less hands-on position this year, by volunteering to act as Commissioner for the seventh and eighth grade teams. I had done my time early on, serving as Team Mom for three seasons before opting for an “early retirement”. The break was a welcome one, allowing for more time spent writing while the boys were playing in the dirt.

This year, two weeks into the new season, we found our team without a volunteer to act as Team Mom. There are a number of reasons why this is a liability, but to illustrate without belaboring the point, I’ll employ the image of launching a canoe without benefit of oars. And as large, brown boxes of brightly colored spandex were unloaded in my garage, I felt a touch of spray upon my face, and the familiar warmth of well-worn wood sliding into my reluctant hands.

Last night was Halloween, and I had governance of twenty-three boys, all dressed as football players. Our team made the first round of play-offs, appropriately ending a season of unprecedented rain-outs on what amounted to a mud-pit bracketed by goalposts. They made an impressive showing, losing by only two points to a team that had suffered just one loss through two seasons. Leaving the field wet, muddy, tired, and defeated, the boys were greeted by a rainbow of umbrellas held by wet-footed parents eager to retreat to the relative warmth of their vehicles while racking their brains for plausible arguments against trick-or-treating. Post-game speeches given by rain-soaked coaches were barely audible above drumming canopies and “shishing” rain gear. Cheerleaders held trays of soggy cupcakes, and clocks ticked inside every prepubescent head as the witching hour waned carrying the threat of unmanned Halloween costumes. Within minutes the boys collected a pillowcase, seeded with candy earlier in the week, and struck out, undaunted, in search of more mischief while soggy, preoccupied parents slogged through the mud behind them.

My official duties aren’t finished. I have gifts to order and a party to plan. There has been some talk of an All-Star tournament that will require my organizational skills. But as I eased into my office chair this morning, it was with the knowledge that the worst is over. Most of the mistakes that could be made have either been fixed or avoided entirely; and the boys had a good season, ending the year on a positive, if not winning, note. As I heaved a satisfied sigh into my coffee mug, my inbox blinked.

I clicked before I noticed the email was from “The Parent”. You know the one; the negative parent, the parent who can’t find the time to attend a game, but always finds time to complain about the outcome; the mother who, despite her absence, assures everyone within earshot that her son didn’t get his league-mandated allotment of playing time; the parent who prefers to spend her time critiquing the work of others rather than volunteering to help. An educated eye can spot this person at the beginning of the season. It’s all in the facial expression, the set of her mouth and the turn of her nose, as though she walks ensconced by a noxiously odoriferous cloud no one else seems to notice.

I read the note and decided, without hesitation, to ignore it. I mean, what can she do? Fire me? But her ingratitude did inspire me to put down some words of hard-earned wisdom, a kind of “Everything I Needed To Know I Learned In My First Year As Team Mom”, if you will. This is my swan-song. I’ve tossed my muddied shoes, and advise the next person filling them to invest in a good pair of galoshes. Were I asked to compose a handbook for parents of children playing recreational sports, it would be just this simple:

HANDBOOK FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN PLAYING RECREATIONAL SPORTS by Stacye Carroll

1. Observe the adults who are working with, and for, your child with the knowledge that each of them is a volunteer. And remember that the amount of time you see them sacrificing is but a small part of the actual time spent.

2. You may assume that every volunteer working with your child does so with the best of intentions. They do not undergo rigorous background checks and mind-numbing training sessions with the purpose of undermining your child’s efforts.

3. No one enjoys asking another person for money, but quality sports programs require a large amount of funding. If your child has expressed an interest in playing youth sports, it is your responsibility to determine the costs involved and whether or not your family can afford to participate. This should be done prior to signing up.

4. Many programs mandate a specific minimum number of plays, per child. Coaches spend a considerable amount of time trying to satisfy this requirement regardless of your child’s ability. If you doubt this, please reread bullet point number two.

5. By the time your child has played a specific sport for a number of years, both you and he should be aware of his skill-set. Be reasonable about your child’s ability to play proficiently. Put another way, some children play sports with an eye towards competing on a higher level, while others play for fun. Be mindful as to which description fits your child, and allow him the freedom to be what he is, instead of what you would have him be.

6. Your athletic ability, or lack thereof, does not necessarily transfer, genetically, to your child. Please reread bullet point number five.

7. If you don’t have anything positive to say, keep your mouth shut. I borrowed this advice from my mother, and have found it serves me well in almost any situation, but is particularly effective when it comes to the emotions evoked by our love for our children. And, in case you missed it, the key word in that last sentence is “love”. Love your children, don’t brow beat them. They are truly doing the best they can do today, which isn’t necessarily as good as they did yesterday, and may be better than they will do tomorrow. Through it all, what they need from you, their parent, is love.

8. Go back and reread bullet points one and two again. If you still feel like your child isn’t being well-served, then it’s time to take a stand, as in stand up and volunteer. Your perspective will change, along with your viewpoint, as you view things from the other side of the bleachers.

Inevitable

I’ve written, before, about Miss Lucy…

She was among the first patients assigned to me when I began work as a hospice volunteer. As I recall, I fell in love during our first visit.

Miss Lucy loved flowers…all flowers. Most appreciated was the large pot of mauve hydrangeas I tucked into a corner of her window last spring. She liked the curtains opened.

There was a small, unattended bird feeder just outside the window. I always wondered if birds would perch there if I filled it. I bought the seed, tossing it into the trunk of my car amongst an assortment of variously filled, environmentally friendly grocery sacks. I wonder if it’s still there…

Miss Lucy died two weeks ago. Ironically, after a year of service, she had been removed from hospice care about a month before.

After completing a six-week hospice volunteer course, the director presented me with a pre-printed “Certificate of Completion”, asking that I hold still while her photographer shot smiling stills of the occasion. A couple of weeks later, a glossy newsletter appeared in my mailbox. I made the cover.

None of the available assignments were convenient, so I accepted the least burdensome; three women housed in a nursing home thirty minutes from my house. Adding to my convenience, two of my patients shared a room.

Ms. Blackmon occupied the far bed, though until the last, I only saw her bent double in a wheelchair. The director cautioned me not to expect too much. Ms. Blackmon was uncommunicative. I watched as she spoon-fed Bible verses, and cranked the volume on gospel music acquiesced to through silence.

The next week, I visited the girls’ room alone, bypassing her sleeping room-mate in my approach to Ms. Blackmon. Remembering the sneer pinching her chapped lips as Jim Nabors crooned “How Great Thou Art”, I ignored the CD player and began to talk.

“How are you today?”

“Did you eat your breakfast?”

“Was it good?”

“No? Well, it wasn’t like it was at home, was it?”

The next week I plucked Shane, ripe from the football field, to join me.

“How are you today?”

“Did you eat your lunch?”

“This is my son, Shane. He plays football. Do you like football?”

All at once, Ms. Blackmon’s back straightened, slightly. Her eyes, under a blue, hand-crocheted skullcap, sparkled.

“I like football.” And, just as quickly, her back regained its inquisitory posture.

Her room-mate, Savannah, had given up. Her family was present during my first visit. Savannah sat on the side of the bed, leaning slightly against her daughter’s prominent shoulder, as she raised a spoonful of pabulum in the direction of her mother’s mouth. As we approached, Savannah managed a weak, drooling smile, while her daughter encouraged us to call her “if you ever need anything”. In the seven months I visited Savannah, it was to be the only time I ever saw her daughter.

In the interest of jumping the highest hurdle early, I always crossed to Ms. Blackmon first. As her head descended again in the direction of her lap, I smoothed the blanket covering Savannah, before perching, gingerly, on the edge of her bed. Often, an untouched tray of food crowded my perch.

“Savannah?” She always appeared to be sleeping.

“Savannah? It’s Stacye. Your lunch is here. Wake up and let’s eat some lunch, ok?”

She always woke with a smile, preceding the same three words.

“I’m so tired.” Pernicious anemia stole the volume from Savannah’s speech.

“I know, honey. Should I let you sleep?”

Sometimes she didn’t even bother to answer, turning into her pillow with drawn eyes. Sometimes, though, she tried.

A slight lift of her bonneted head from the pillow was my signal. Taking her shoulders, I helped her up before swiveling her kneels into a sitting position beside me. Savannah was a fan of iced tea. She ate very little, but her tea glass was almost always drained.

Miss Lucy lived in the same nursing home on a far hall. I usually saved her for last. For one thing, the “Alzheimer’s Hall” was on my way. For another, I chose to end my visits on a positive note…and Miss Lucy was sunshine.

Sometimes I found her sleeping. After several such incidents, I left her that way. More often though, I found her with her good eye trained on whatever television program her caretakers had chosen for her.

”Hey, Sweetheart! How are you feeling today?” Miss Lucy occupied the bed closest to the window, allowing me ample time to finish my greeting before reaching her bedside.

As my hands went to the curtains, she answered. Most days, bright sunshine lit her oiled face before she finished.

“Oh….I’m alright…” Years of protecting the mound of snuff, deposited in front of her bottom teeth, had trained her speech.

We had a ritual. Immersing the flowers I brought her in water, I brought them close to her right side, her good eye.

“Look what I brought you!”

“Oh…they are so pretty…” A succession of strokes had robbed her of movement, but I still saw her hand as she raised it to touch the blooms.

On good days, she regaled me with tales of earlier times; her daughter’s triumphs on the basketball court, bus-rides across town to work in the “white woman’s house”, and her “no count” man. And, good days were frequent. Bad days were only designated “bad” because I chose not to interrupt the rhythmic rise and fall of her slight chest.

Ms. Blackmon was the first to go. One Saturday I gingerly pushed the latest copy of “Sporting News” under her perpetually bent head. The next, I found her writhing, senselessly, in her bed. The sweats she had worn since I’d known her had been replaced by a worn hospital gown. And, minus the cap, her gray plaits were sparse and haphazard. I looked around for assistance, and finding none, dialed my director. Savannah worried the lip of her blanket as I listened.

The director encouraged me to find Ms. Blackmon’s nurse who took one look, and seeing nothing out of place, returned to her desk. I left thinking dying shouldn’t be so hard, especially when anticipated.

Much less dramatic, Savannah’s exit began just weeks later. I entered a room crowded with family, and remnants of the previous night’s vigil. They were happy to see me, beating a quick retreat. Occasionally, I felt that she heard me. Regardless of my pertinence I continued to talk.

Two nights later I entered a room empty except for Savannah, whose bed had been moved against the wall. She lay in a quiet I chose to honor, employing touch in place of words. The pallets that had decorated her room on my previous visit remained. I left, assured by their caring. It took Savannah two weeks to die.

Two down, one to go…

Miss Lucy thrived. During one visit, despite her inert state, I felt compelled to restrain her as she threatened an orderly who deigned to suggest she give the pummeled green beans another go. Her weight was up. Her spirits soared, and after a solid year of hospice care, her insurance company refused to renew. A month later, she died.

I’m not suggesting a relationship. I’m not implying any culpability on the part of her insurance company. But, I am struck by the irony…

My inspiration to become a hospice volunteer sprung from experience. During the final days of his life, my ex-husband’s journey, and more importantly the lives of our children, was greatly eased by the angelic presence of a hospice volunteer. As I watched her minister to those I loved, I vowed to give back.

Last weekend, I stowed my name-badge in the back of a dresser drawer. My yen to volunteer is colored by my insistence that Shane participate, and the sights and smells of a nursing home are too much for him. There is a food-bank across town in need of volunteers.

I am left with the knowledge that death, even when anticipated, is not easy; that there is a pattern, even in the final days.

And, no matter how hard we try…some things defy planning…

Saturday Morning

The warm sun and gracious breezes of yesterday are gone. The morning dawns on rain; a reminder to be careful what you wish for….

I’ve sat here for too long, as per usual. So many distractions, so much ether-noise. I’m contemplating creating a net-free day; just one day, every week, during which the rolling chair in my office is allowed to grow cold. I’m warming to the idea.

I prefer lazy Saturdays. Yawning days upon which I can paint whatever vista my mind creates. Today is not one of those days. After struggling to bring some semblance of order to my domicile, I will pull on my warmest athletic clothing and accompany my son to his basketball game. We’ve had fun this year. We are winning, due in large part to my son’s ability. Success breeds fluidity.

A more expansive frame of mind encouraged me to contact a friend and arrange a dinner date for later this evening. As happens so frequently, now that the time is upon me, I consider offering my regrets. But I won’t. I’ll go. We’ll meet in the parking lot, and exchange the usual feminine greetings, or perhaps commiserate about the weather. Once inside, we’ll sit on opposite sides of a highly burnished wooden table and scan the crowd with full knowledge that we are miles from familiar faces. The menu will provide a private moment in which to compose our made-up faces while we flip through a mental tickler file of conversation topics until a particularly savory offering captures our attention, bringing us back to the task at hand. I’ll consider ordering something fatty and delicious, but I’ll give a cursory look at the column featuring soups and salads. I’ll make a choice to keep in my back pocket until time to order, when I’ll encourage her to choose first. My choice will be incumbent upon hers. After all, if her attempts at conversation are punctuated by forkfuls of vinegar-spiked, leafy greens, a beefy morsel won’t rest easily upon my palate.

I was reminded, this week, of the psychological benefits of good works. Today, I am returning to the nursing home. The hospice is housing four patients there. I will visit those I can find. Ms. Lucie is still there. I am looking forward to seeing her. I wonder if she will remember me. Of course, she rarely knew me when she saw me every week, so the question seems a little ridiculous. One the other hand, it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t seem important to her that she know who you are, it is only important that you are, and that you are there. I never left her without a smile. I’m looking forward to wearing one today.