Leta gets sick, part two

After several months of a chronic sore throat accompanied by bouts of coughing and difficulty swallowing, Leta took her discomfort to her general practitioner. After he examined her, he sent her to an ear, nose and throat specialist. This doctor believed that she had some lesions on her throat and sent her to another specialist, an oncologist who performed an esophagogastroduodenoscopy. This doctor passed a flexible tube down her esophagus to examine the wall, took biopsies of several suspect lesions and sent the samples to a laboratory for analysis. In the meantime, he prescribed a couple of medications to numb and soothe her throat so she could eat.

Her son Dale and daughter-in-law Kate were with her when the doctor shared that several of the tumors were malignant, diagnosing an advanced level of cancer of the esophagus. While there were several treatments for the cancer, including removal of the infected area, burning the lesions with lasers and chemotherapy, Leta’s age and the advanced stage of the cancer indicated that the most he could do was try to keep her comfortable for the next several months.

Although she was near 90 years old and had over the past several years felt more than once that she was near death’s door, the severity of her situation was shocking. Dale immediately excused himself from the room. Kate grabbed her hand and inadvertently squeezed so hard it hurt. Leta felt her entire self fall into a deep cave. The rest of the world was there, but blocked by an invisible wall of inevitability and finality. The world would never be the same; from this point forward it would be something outside of herself, apparent but unrelated.

“If you are willing, Leta,” the doctor said, “we can try some radiation. It’s less painful and taxing on the system than chemotherapy, but could shrink the tumors, or at least keep them from growing. There aren’t many side effects.”

“Radiation won’t make her hair fall out?” Dale inquired.

“That’s chemo,” Kate whispered sharply.

“Won’t even make her sick, I don’t think,” the doctor added. “She might not feel better at first. The therapy tends to dry out the throat a little. You may have some burning. But overall it’s fairly gentle on the system.”

“It sounds like she might feel worse,” Kate noted.

“That can happen for a little while,” the doctor agreed, “but then she should feel better.”

“Well, Ma, what do you think?” Dale asked.

Leta was unusually quiet. Even her generally heavy breathing had slowed to the silence of a person in meditation. She could hear them talking, but was still in a state of suspended animation, frozen in the moment she was informed of her illness. She wasn’t sure when Dale had asked his question, but she slowly returned to herself to answer it. Then she swallowed, and the saliva scraped down her throat like nails on a chalkboard.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s do that.”

“Excellent,” the doctor smiled and rubbed his hands together as if in victory. “We’ll start on Monday—“

“—That soon?” Kate interrupted.

“I’d start tomorrow if I could,” the doctor started. “I’m going to put you on an aggressive regiment. Every day, Monday through Friday, for three weeks, maybe four. I need to perform a review at the end of the second week before I finalize my decision. Also, I want to see how the radiation treats you.”

“Ma,” Kate said, “you’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’ll do whatever I need to do,” Leta said purposefully.

“And someone can bring her to the clinic every day?” the doctor questioned.

“Yes,” Leta said before her son or daughter-in-law could hesitate.

Over the next few days, the medication helped Leta to feel well enough to eat better. Eating more increased her energy. The hope for the success of the radiation therapy raised her spirits. Now that she was more cheerful, she was distressed by how she had been behaving toward her fellow residents, the nursing staff and the beloved Sisters that managed the facility where she was living.

During the four weeks of radiation therapy, she was most pleased to spend the time with her son. He had retired a few years earlier, but lived 25 minutes away. Traveling that distance to her was burden enough, but then to take her to the clinic, wait for her treatment and then bring her home was nearly three hours out of his day. Of course, she thanked him repeatedly, but he would pass it off, ask her how she was feeling and share his activities of the previous day. Although the conversation was superficial, simply being together helped Leta to feel better connected. She valued his presence and his care of her.

Her former daughter-in-law Pat visited several times during her treatment, sometimes bringing her youngest child, a lovely and engaging six-year-old boy that reminded her of her oldest grandson Don, Pat’s ex-husband who was not the little boy’s father. Although Don and Pat had been divorced for nearly ten years, the two women had bonded during a lonely time for both of them nearly twenty years earlier, so her presence raised Leta’s spirit. Also, it was Christmastime, and during the holiday, she had more visitors, including several grandchildren and two of her great-grandchildren, one who was home from college.

After the first month, her throat began to feel better. The cough diminished, the rasping disappeared, she could eat, she gained weight, and she had more energy. But she still felt as though something dark was lurking in the corners of her life, watching her and waiting for a moment of weakness to appear. It was a cold something, a quiet and certain something. While she tried to ignore it, she could not. Her senses were too alert to its presence.

At nearly 89 years old now, she had learned to live in the moment as much as she could. She liked to sleep and watch talk shows on television. Dale and Catherine visited twice per week. Pat visited once or twice per month. This was her life.

Leta Gets Sick, part one

Again Leta found herself waiting for the doctor. This time with her son Dale and daughter-in-law Catherine. She was 88 years old and spent more time than she liked being examined, having her blood tested, trying out new medications and feeling poorly. Sometimes her back ached. Sometimes she felt too weak to walk. Sometimes her head hurt. Sometimes she would find it difficult to breathe. Sometimes she did not have the strength to bring her arms to her face.

Lately her throat felt rough and dry. She had little saliva. She could hardly swallow. She first noticed the discomfort a few months earlier. It seemed like something viral. After all, she had been around for some time; she knew about sore throats. She also lived in a closed community—with 50 elderly individuals with weak immune systems. Colds and bouts of influenza raged in waves through the nursing home. She was feeling well, but her roommate Dolores caught a cold. The two women she sat with at meals coughed for three days. Four of the sisters and two of the nurse’s aids were also absent for several days. It was only a matter of time before she, too, would succumb. So when she awoke early one morning with a little rasp in her throat, she anticipated that a full-blown cold was settling into her system.

She always liked to keep butterscotch candies at hand, but with the sore throat, she alternated between lozenges and starlight peppermints. She found the latter more soothing. As expected, the discomfort did increase and included some fever, a lot of coughing and headache. She was old. It was winter. The cold lasted a couple of weeks before symptoms of the virus began to disappear. By the end of a month the fever and headache had disappeared, but her throat still hurt and the cough continued, although not consistently.

She drank tea and returned to her favored butterscotch candies. The ache in her throat and occasional fits of coughing continued. She also had difficulty swallowing, which she attributed to the rawness in her throat. First it was solid foods, like meat and vegetables, although most of the vegetables served in the cafeteria were cooked to a near paste-like substance. She could not eat fresh fruit or vegetables. Hot foods, in particular, burned her throat, so she started to let her tea and coffee become lukewarm before sipping.

Finally, her daughter-in-law suggested that she visit the doctor.

“I asked him about it last time,” Leta said. “He told me to keep drinking tea and using throat lozenges.”

“But, Ma,” Kate protested. “This has been going on for a long time now. Weeks. You’re having trouble eating. You’ve lost weight. I think you should get your throat checked. Do you still have your tonsils?”

“My tonsils?” Leta snapped. “What am I? Eight years old?”

“I’m just saying something could be irritating them, if you had them.”

A brief outburst of coughing finished the conversation before it could escalate. Each cough felt like someone dragged his claws down the inside of Leta’s throat and then jabbed her.

A few days later, she went to the doctor’s for an examination. The doctor expressed great concern and lightly scolded her for waiting so long before visiting. He asked her about smoking, an activity she enjoyed for many years of her adult life, but stopped shortly after her husband Richard Eckman died. He asked her about her alcohol intake, which was minimal to non-existent, although she had enjoyed alcoholic beverages for most of her adult life. He asked about her eating habits, which she confessed had been reduced lately to mashed potatoes with gravy, cream of wheat, creamed corn, pea soup, applesauce and the juice of fruit cocktail.

Her general physician sent her to a specialist—an otolaryngologist that focused on ears, nose and throat. By this time, Leta had become more irritable. The discomfort in swallowing had increased, and she could hardly stand drinking a glass of tap water.

“How long has this been going on?” the otolaryngologist inquired.

“A long time,” she gasped.

“Weeks? Months?” he persisted.

“February, I suppose,” she answered. “But before you get all surprised and nasty, I thought it was just a cold. I’m old. I live with a bunch of sick old people. I get colds all the time.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Leta,” the doctor said. “This does not look good.”

To be continued.

Vivian and Don Move in, part two

In 1942, Leta's daughter Vivian and three-year-old son Don moved in with her and her husband Robert Fields. The situation was temporary. Vivian’s husband Edward, like many American men, was participating in the war effort. Edward had been summoned to develop and install radio equipment in aircraft. While the young family’s financial situation was secure enough for Vivian and Don to remain in the rental house, other considerations indicated that the young wife and mother would adjust to being without her husband better in the company of others.

After Edward left for Washington in September, their earlier reasoning proved correct. The loneliness that the young woman expressed infected the entire household. Normally friendly, outgoing and even tempered, Vivian became irritable and impatient. Where she previously observed Don’s antics with fondness and adoration, she more often than not was constantly chiding him to be quiet or settle down, which confused the little boy tremendously.

Vivian herself became restless. Leta could hear her daughter up at all hours of the night, simply pacing through the house. Sometimes she would rise as well and try to engage her daughter in a game of rummy or gin, but Vivian would play two or three hands and then become impatient with that, as well. Always a reader, Vivian would sit for only a few minutes with a book or magazine before casting it aside with a loud sigh. Even in the kitchen, where Vivian was normally a dedicated cook, the young woman would become distracted. One afternoon she measured the sugar into lemon custard for a pie twice, and then curdled the custard by adding milk as if she was making two different kinds of pies at the same time. When she realized her mistake, she collapsed in tears.

“Darling, it’s all right,” Leta said soothingly. “We have enough lemons to start over.”

But the young woman would not be consoled.

When Leta touched her arm, the skin was as hot as the oven.

Just then Don entered the kitchen, saw his mother in her distraught state and also began to cry. Leta stood helplessly between them, but only for a few moments.

“Enough!” she ordered severely.

Don, who was basically crying emphatically ceased, but Vivian persisted, although more quietly.

“Come on, darling,” Leta said to the little boy. “Let’s go into the living room and read a book. Your mama needs a few minutes alone.”

She took his hand and headed toward the doorway. Before she left the room, however, she turned to her daughter, somewhat of a heap on the table.

“Vivian, pull yourself together,” she instructed.

Once she had calmed and distracted her grandson, feeling very fortunate that the child’s emotions were quickly altered, Leta returned to her daughter in the kitchen. Vivian was still sitting at the table, but the crying stopped. The effects, however, persisted. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen, her breathing barely perceptible.

Leta didn’t say anything, but immediately returned to the task at hand—the lemon pie.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” Vivian gasped after a few more moments. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t seem to have a handle on my emotions. I can’t concentrate on anything. I am tired half the time and too unsettled to sleep the other half. I jerk awake in the middle of the night and have to move. I’m just so confused.”

Leta stopped what she was doing to face her daughter. She knew exactly what the nature of Vivian’s behavior was. She had felt it many times before, and most acutely after the death of her beloved Albert. It was a raging of emptiness that grabbed hold of a person and squeezed. The constant grip was deceptive. Sometimes a person could believe that the hold had loosened, but without warning, it would resume. There was no rhyme or reason. There was nothing but the cavernous emptiness.

“I know you miss Ed,” Leta said. “That’s good. But you still need to function. This behavior has got to stop. You’re not a school girl.”

“I know,” Vivian agreed. “But how?”

“Do you trust me?” Leta asked.

Vivian looked at her with curiosity.

“What do you mean?”

“Just do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Vivian said, although there was uncertainty in her voice.

“Good. Now help me finish this pie.”

That night Leta and her husband Bob took Vivian to Tom’s Place, a local tavern. This was Leta and Bob’s usual Friday night repast, but Vivian was never much of a drinker. She would have a glass of wine on a holiday, but not much else. At first, she resisted, using Don as an additional excuse. But when reminded that she had previously agreed, her parents were watching out for her, and she could bring her little boy, she acquiesced.

After they finished with the supper dishes, the quartet walked the five blocks to the tavern. It was still early and nearly empty.  Bob ordered beer for everyone. “My grandson gets the kids’ beer,” he clarified for Vivian’s sake.

First, the bartender served Don. “Here you go, young fellow. Try this.”

“What is it?” Vivian asked.

“Yummy!” Don exclaimed after his first sip.

“You like?” Leta asked.

“Oh, Grandma, it’s great!”

“What you are drinking, little man,” the bartender said, “is called root beer.”

“What?” Vivian gasped.

“Entirely non-alcoholic. Like Coca-Cola,” the bartender said.

“Oh, okay, then,” Vivian said softly.

“But for you,” Bob said, “we have something a little bit stronger.”

Over the next two years, Vivian and Don would frequently join Leta and Bob for a Friday night of beer. While the regular repast did not remove Vivian’s loneliness, it did reduce it for a while and make her far easier to live with.

Vivian and Don Move in, part one

The house had to be perfect, Leta thought as she scrubbed the insides of the kitchen cupboards. While she had never been a sloppy housekeeper, she had rarely shown this much devotion to cleanliness, except for maybe her annual spring cleaning. However, the opportunity presenting itself to her called for an exceptional action.

A week earlier, her daughter Vivian visited her. In itself, this was not unusual. She and Vivian spent time together at least twice a week, and they spoke on the telephone frequently. Leta delighted in her three-year-old grandson Don. Both of their husbands were working. Leta’s husband Bob held a foreman position at the Spicer plant and Vivian’s husband Ed worked for an electronics company.

It was July1942, and ever since the attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbor the previous December, U.S. participation in the war against the Axis powers was growing very quickly. Every day more men were signing up to serve and more were being shipped out to Europe and the Pacific. The desire to fight the Germans and Japanese was enveloping everyone they knew. Even Bob at age 48 was contemplating adding his name to the registration.

Vivian’s husband Edward had been for some time a member of a team of radio technology specialists that was working on communications devices for aircraft. Now his skills were being called upon to support the war effort. The U.S. had just launched its first air missions in Europe, and the plan was to continue participation in the War with many more. Edward and his team would spend the next several years in Washington, DC and various locations in Europe, as they continued to improve the radio technology.

During that time, Vivian and Don would live with Leta and Bob. The decision to cohabitate was as much an emotional one as a financial one. Since their marriage in 1936, Vivian and Edward had renting a house near his parents in Oregon Township. It was a one-bedroom that fit within their budget. While Edward was gone, Vivian and Don could have remained there, but Vivian didn’t want that.

When she called her mother, Vivian told her that she and Edward had a discussion and wondered if Vivian and Don might stay with them until Ed returned. Leta and Bob had plenty of room. When they married in 1937, she moved into his large three-bedroom house. Vivian proposed that she and Don would sleep in the guest room, assist with the housework and cooking, even pay rent. Everyone was cutting corners, and it seemed foolish to her thrifty daughter and son-in-law for mother and son to remain in their own rented location for an indeterminate time. Besides, now that the economy was improving their landlord had indicated he wanted to sell.

Bob agreed with the plan immediately. He was very fond of his stepdaughter and her family. Besides, a vivacious little boy around always picked up everyone’s spirits.

They would move in by the middle of August, and Leta wanted the house to be perfectly ready for them. Providing a clean and polished house was the least she could do for her daughter. She even helped Vivian clean the rental house to leave it in better condition than when she and Edward moved in. Leta also helped pack up their scant belongings, which would be stored in their attic until Vivian or Edward needed them.

On August 12, Vivian, Don and Edward moved in, as Edward was not to leave for Washington, D.C. until September. He had already made one trip during the summer, but returned temporarily before his complete immersion in his assignment.

One week after Edward left, Leta understood completely why it was important for her daughter to stay with her during the separation.

To be continued.