Warning: baby talk involved

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Please notice the sink is clean

OK, first things first…I have ants in my bathroom. Lots, and for the first time ever. This weekend I bought and placed ant traps, but I’d sure like to know if these little boogers are doing evil things to my wood. Anyone with ant expertise, please weigh in (extension agents, that is a direct hint).

Then, because I had 10 extra seconds in my weekend, I decided to try something new. I have this water spot on my 63-year-old hardwood floor that is not an area easily hidden by rugs or furniture. For the longest time, I hid the whole shebang with a plant.

But, no, couldn’t be content with that. So I took this ugly canning monstrosity of my grandmother’s (which we’ve used for holding firewood), turned the lid over and made a little interior rock garden. I stuck a couple of battery-operated candles in the mix (in case my insurance agent is reading this, I would like kudos), because we didn’t want to set the curtains on fire, now did we?

I kinda like it, so far anyway.

Last, and maybe least, one of my favorite things to do during the wait time from walking in the door to seeing the pediatrician (this used to be David’s job and I’m not so happy he got out if it) is looking through the magazines I never normally have time for.

Of course, as soon as I hear footsteps, I instantly brighten my voice and sound like I’m fully engaged with my bored teenager, rather than both of us deeply interested in a Field & Stream article (note to docs: I know money is tight, but could we have some decent magazines in the waiting rooms again? More than the freebies from whatever publisher?).

Yes, pediatricians, every parent telling the truth will admit we all do it. By the time we’ve gotten to your place of biz, we are exhausted from whatever illness we’ve been battling at the house. Even well-child checks take a lot out of us, what with all the schedule-arranging and trying to make sure the kids are wearing something that shouts out “responsible parent on board.”

BUT, here is what I am most often doing: taking pictures of recipes of impossibly-beautiful food. With the idea that if I photograph it, it will create itself, I suppose.

This season of grief in my life is just not ending. It started in 2004 and is about ready to do me in. I mean it.

Jim died this week, at age 64 chronologically, but forever an adolescent. Stuck developmentally, for the most part, and in an elfin body.

Jim was my brother Dwight’s roomie and friend. “Home Place” column readers  remember I talked about Jim now and again as I chronicled Dwight’s 40 days from diagnosis to death from esophageal cancer in 2007.

(I’ve added that column under a new page on this site, Home Place Reading.)

At the time, Jim was most easily characterized as curmudgeonly. BC, or Before Cancer, I could never tell where I stood with my brother’s roommate. He seemed disgusted whenever we invaded his space to visit Dwight. I dreaded calling the house, knowing an interrogation by Jim would have to be fought through.

“Earl Lane, Jim Batt speaking,” he would answer in a husky singsong.

“Hi, Jim, I am calling for Dwight.”

“Who’s this?” he would demand.

“Dwight’s sister.”

“Huh?”

“ANN! It’s ANN,” I would shout to counter his hearing loss and vent my frustration. He knew who was calling, nothing got by Jim. He even knew Ann is the name given me by my siblings, which he used to his advantage.

“Oh,” Jim would sneer into the phone. “Is this Sheeeeeela?”

“YES! IS RUTHY THERE?”

I never won the phone wars, finally reduced to begging for a staff person to force Jim to behave.

My late husband, David, was much better. Since he knew that Jim knew exactly who was calling, David appealed to Jim’s inner jokester.

“It’s the IRS calling,” David would shout to Jim. “Did you pay your taxes this year?”

“No!” Jim would yell back.

“Oh, man, you are in trouble now!”

Hard to say who acted the most childish in that case.

Eventually we got Dwight on the phone, but only after entertaining Jim for several minutes.

Jim’s dog, Rosie, was equally obnoxious and acted like she might nip us at any moment.And should we try to shoo Rosie away from attacking our ankles, we had Jim’s self-righteous indignation to reckon with.

Everything changed by the time Dwight was seriously ill from his cancer. As my brother’s life ebbed, Jim’s love for Dwight blossomed, unexpected and lush — like discovering an orchid growing on a tundra.

Jim couldn’t do enough for Dwight. If you have never seen one disabled person caring for another, you have missed something heavenly. You’ve been denied a picture of a far better world.

The ministrations ran the gamut. Jim softened his raspy voice and began calling my brother “Dwighty.” He kissed Dwight’s limp hand, smoothed his fevered brow and hustled to get him cool liquids. Jim, encumbered by a body that held his spirit hostage, moved faster than I’d ever seen.

That wasn’t the only relationship changing. Jim began calling me “Mommy,” and David, “Daddy.” My daughters became his sisters. Jim and I started hugging — hard — when I arrived and departed.

After Dwight died, my family continued to visit the house for a while. We felt bound to his roommates…to sit in the living room and talk to “the guys” was the closest we could get to still having Dwight.

My daughters would bring lotion along to offer amazing hand and foot massages, a gift all my girls have. Jim, who claimed to dislike being touched, let my girls slather almond-scented love on him.

We brought snacks and watched TV. David took Jim out a few times for coffee. We both called Jim up now and again. We shopped for Christmas gifts for all “the guys.”

Our attention drifted away from the  Earl Lane house after a time, but sources say Jim continued to be happier, contented and more social. He attended church in a tossed salad approach, throwing in some Catholicism with the Protestant greens.

When David died, I dreaded Jim hearing the news that his “daddy” was gone.

A call came this week…Jim was in the hospital and close to death. Not an unfamiliar position for Jim, who had bounced back more times than an ousted politician. When I went to see him, his color was good. He was responsive to some, although he kept his eyes firmly shut.

“Not so bad,” I thought to myself in the elevator down. “Jim might pull out of this one.”

He didn’t.

I feel terrible for Jim’s mom. “Who else is going to call me three times a day and ask me what I was going to cook for dinner,” she asked me before Jim died. “And if I didn’t know the answer, he’d tell me.”

Yet, and I hate to write this out loud, there is a part of me that is really happy for Dwight and David. Jim is once again with that part of his family, and Dwight can cross one more off his prayer list.

If you never knew Jim Batt, I’m sorry for you. If you did, I’ll see you Tuesday.

Of the 47 patients who received the medication and later died, 36 had taken the lethal dose and seven died without taking it. Four others died, but it’s not known whether they took the medication.

The Death with Dignity law, similar to one that’s been in place in Oregon since 1997, was passed here in 2008. The report covers the period from March 5, 2009, when the law took effect, through the rest of 2009.

Some 53 doctors prescribed the medication, according to the state report. Patients who filled those prescriptions during that period and later died — with or without taking the medication — were between 48 and 95 years of age. Seventy-nine percent had terminal cancer, and 89 percent had private, Medicare or Medicaid insurance. Ninety percent lived in Western Washington.

Medicaid in this state does not pay for the medication, which ranges from $400 to $600 for capsules, and up to $3,000 for liquid. Most Medicare plans and private insurance plans that cover prescription drugs do pay for the drugs.

Nearly all of the 47 who died — 98 percent — were white, 46 percent were married, and 61 percent had some college education.

Of the 36 who died after taking the medication, nearly all — 94 percent — died at home, and 72 percent were enrolled in hospice care when they took the medication. Three had complications, including two who woke up after taking the medication.

Most were unconscious within 10 minutes, and most died within 90 minutes though at least one patient remained alive for 28 hours.

Doctors said loss of autonomy was an end-of-life concern for all 47 patients. Ninety-one percent of them were concerned about losing the ability to participate in activities that made life enjoyable, and 82 percent were worried about “loss of dignity,” their doctors said.

Here are the stats broken down:

Medication was dispensed to 63 individuals:
• Prescriptions were written by 53 different physicians
• Prescriptions were dispensed by 29 different pharmacists
Of the 63 people to whom medication was dispensed:
• 47 individuals have died
• 36 of these people died after ingesting the medication
• Seven of these people died without having ingested the medication
• For the remaining four people who died, ingestion status is unknown
• Status is unknown for the remaining 16 people
Of the 47 participants who have died, their characteristics and underlying illnesses include:
• Age range, between 48 and 95 years
• 94 percent lived west of the Cascades
• 79 percent had cancer
• 9 percent had neuro-degenerative disease, including Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis
(ALS)
• 12 percent had respiratory disease or other illnesses
• 89 percent had private, Medicare or Medicaid insurance
Of the 47 participants who have died, Death Certificates were received for 41 of these
individuals; their characteristics include:
• 98 percent were white, non-Hispanic

• 46 percent were married
• 61 percent had some college education

Of the 47 participants who have died, After Death Reporting Forms were received for 44 of these
individuals; their end-of-life concerns include:
• All were concerned about loss of autonomy, 82 percent about loss of dignity, and 91 percent about losing the ability to participate in activities that made life enjoyable

Of the 36 participants who ingested the medication and died:

• 94 percent were at home and 72 percent were enrolled in hospice care when they ingested the medication• Complications of ingesting the medication were reported in three individuals

• Emergency Medical Services (EMS) were not called for any intervention after ingestion of the medication; EMS was called to pronounce death for two participants.
Sex:
Male 26
Female 21
Age:
45-54 — 6
55-64 — 6
65-74 —18
75-84 — 10
85+ — 7
Age Range  48-95
Race and Ethnicity:
Non-Hispanic White — 40
Hispanic and/or Non-White — 1

19 were married, 11 were widowed, 9 were divorced and 2 had never been married. 44 lived West of the Cascades, 3 lived East. 15 had graduated from high school, 16 from college.

37 had cancer, 4 had neuro-degenerative disease, 4 had respiratory disease and 2 were identified as having other illnesses.

Under “End of life concerns,” the report listed:
Losing autonomy  — 44

Less able to engage in activities making life enjoyable —   40

Loss of dignity  — 36

Losing control of bodily functions —   18
Burden on family, friends/caregivers  — 10
Inadequate pain control or concern about it  — 11
Financial implications of treatment —  1

You can read more of the report HERE.

A lot.

We tried to return the favor and spoil her rotten. Which, of course, has the ulterior motive of enticing her to return.

Here are the pictures of one outing, sister day at the spa. Be jealous — be very, very jealous…

Fresh flowers to start

Products so smart

Tea for the spirit

Earrings from a parrot

An owner full of spice

Emilie..she's nice

A soak for the feet

Laurie's bliss is complete

A little background. I first met Laurie 12 years ago, even though she’d been married to my little brother Kenny for 15 years or so by that point.

But things happen in families and that can be especially true in step-families.

Long story short, as soon as I met Laurie, I fell in love with her as a sister. She’s fun and she’s kind, witty and wacky and deeply compassionate. And she can wipe down a kitchen like nobody’s business.

We’ve only been in each other’s company at very busy times — weddings, new baby and death. We have never had the opportunity to celebrate our sisterhood.

That will be history after Wednesday night when Laurie flies in from Minnesota. Lucky for me, I have two days I can take off, making a four-day weekend. I’ve scheduled facials and she’s tagging along on some work-related errands, at which I will strive to appear professional.

But I am totally up for suggestions of lots of fun ideas. I’m discovering I hardly know how to act with company that doesn’t include a parcel of kiddos. So send me suggestions, but hurry!

And, please, if you see us around town, act like I’m nice. We both know the truth, but Laurie doesn’t.

You’ve seen them where you work, some people skipping the step between toilet and exit. You decide on the spot to never participate in a company potluck again.

Nothing will convince some people to wash their hands after pottying, but the new Sanidoor might help the rest of us not reap the result of what can only be viewed as oblivion or laziness. Not to mention disgusting.

According to the marketing release, Sanidoor system opens public restroom doors with the wave of a hand.

They had me at “sani.”

According to a company press release, only 43 percent of men and 54 percent of women wash their hands after using the restroom.

That means many public restroom doors are often contaminated with an array of germs.

Yup. Practically visible.

But Sanidoor is  helping to flush away that

spread of germs at more and more public restrooms nationwide.

Did they laugh when they wrote that?

“The Sanidoor is a touch-free door opening system designed to reduce the
spread of germs through eliminating door surface contact going in and out of
the restroom. Doors equipped with the Sanidoor system open with a simple
wave of a hand, much like hands-free faucets and towel dispensers. Sanidoor
is currently popular in many restaurants and businesses in Florida and is
now poised to launch throughout North America with its new second-generation system, which will also feature models developed specifically for swinging doors and single-use locking public restrooms.”

A mother’s dream come true.

Sanidoor can be retro-fitted and is approved to meet all U.S. standards for automatic door openers, the company said. The door system costs $850 plus $200 to $300 for installation by a  professional electrician.

The price of two bouts of flu, a chest cold and a case of pinkeye, once you throw in time lost at work.

Like rotgut vodka.

At least that’s how it feels.

Actually, Neighbor, you did something equally as un-neighborly in today’s cultural climate — you let your horse of a dog poop there on the sidewalk.

It looked like a small mountain.

This is as least the third time. And you? You just walk on, your giant dog on the leash, your arm threaded through your walking partner’s. You laugh together, oblivious of your dog’s greeting card behind you.

So you hope we believe.

And there’s the poop, growing ever squishy in this rain. Just waiting for someone to step in it.

Like my kids.

Why didn’t you just swill beer at a public playground or smoke indoors while you were at it? Or…yes, that is true — I can’t know that you don’t.

Or pick your nose at the library.

However, if you need to borrow $3 for a batch of those little poo bags, you’ll know where I live. It’s the house with a large pile of dog poop on the sidewalk.

Waiting for someone to track in the house.

Sincerely,

Sheila

Some of you know I sometimes whine about how difficult it is to buy my favorite — only — uncle a meaningful gift.

Part of the problem is, actually, rocket science.

Since he has worked his entire adult life for NASA as an engineer, there are no real gadgets or boy toys Fav Unc doesn’t already know about.

I’ve had some success with some Garrison Keillor CDs, a calendar made from pages that turned into paper planes, a cool bird feeder. A memorial brick at our city pool one year…you know, that stuff you get for men because you have no idea what else to do.

But nothing, NOTHING, that ever felt “perfect.”

Ha! This Valentine’s Day is going to be different.

′

My friends Brad and Ruth are partners in a local winery and they produced their first commercial (I know that’s probably not the right wine lingo, so no snickering) bottling this past fall.

I’m not a “pink” wine person, as a rule, but the rose made by Brad may have changed my mind. It’s more complex than a rosé can usually claim, for starters. And there is, I dunno, a delicacy to its sweetness that does not cause the eyes to squinch or the lips to smack.

So much for being a wine writer.

More importantly, I realized the delightfully pink fluid was perhaps born specifically to be the perfect Valentine for my California people. The rosé is romantic and cheerful, the color of happiness and, best of all, mailed off by the winery!

It’s like I gave myself a gift.

And because the Riordans love me, they threw the following recipe into the mix. Which I am now passing to you — it sounds too delicious not to share. Happy Valentine’s Day!

“This dish pairs wonderfully with the Robison Ranch Rosé,” notes Ruth, who may be biased since she is, after all, married to the winemaker.

It all sounds good to me.

(Peanut and dipping sauces can be prepared ahead of time)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thai Burritos

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I think God gave us Jerry because he knew we’d need a man to spoil us.”Another gem from the lips of the littlest child floated past me once again in the bathroom last week. It is amazing how many conversations take place at our house in the main powder room before 7 a.m.

I suppose it’s because I’m trapped for a few minutes, trying to disguise lack of sleep with the magic powders. Thus I am target for everything from grade-school jokes to signing permission slips overdue by days.

Now, there will be among some of you a raising of hackles, a rearing back on mental haunches at my daughter’s declaration. Relax. This kid has a tremendous contingent of strong women in her world. This past year has pointed out only too well the need to be independent and wise in the ways of fixing things, the value of the company of women, the importance of self-worth and a deep faith. Trust me on this.

But this is the same girl that lived for nearly 11 years with a man who knew how to treat women. All my children watched David surprise me with flowers, sneak gifts under my pillow, leave frothy cards propped on the steering wheel for me to find.

Every daughter watched their daddy delight me with my first cell phone, secretly purchasing it, hiding it in my purse, then calling me on it as I headed off to an interview — I thought the engine was going ballistic.

His generosity and spontaneity, that sheer sense of fairy tale, were infamous among our friends. No one begrudged my situation, but I sometimes heard “You are so lucky!” or “He is such a romantic.”

Oh, he was that. This is the guy who kept checking with the phone company until my childhood phone number was open and we could get it for the fax line, all undercover. The man who came by work and left candy bars in my desk drawer when I was out on assignment. Who brought sushi home in ice before it was available locally.

Sigh.

As strange as it sounds, this whole last year has been more of the same. We’ve been “spoiled” and then some, through surprises and open acts of great kindness and fun twists. Like a year of Valentines. Not so much acting as a dam to our flood of grief, but lifeboats we could board for a little rest from the river. You know all that, I’ve recorded many of those events in this column and on my blog.

And then there is Jerry.

Just so you know, Jerry is a very shy guy and I will probably be in trouble once this publishes. But if you’re going to suffer through the hard stuff, you get to rejoice in the good.

Jerry has always been very nice to all of us, greeting us warmly as soon as we arrive at church. He and his wife have brought us meals and — woe is any diet — the incredible desserts she makes. He used to joke around with David and trade car talk. Jerry’s smile is quick and genuine and it’s difficult to stay grumpy in his presence.

Sometime in the past year — for some reason I am the most sad at church over the loss of David and the last 12 months have been a blur — Jerry began filling Dad’s shoes, just a little. He never fails to ask the girls how things are going, then really listen to their answers. He’s got a joke or two and a big hug the minute we step into church.

And Jerry has gum.

I’m not sure if this is a conscious thing or not, Jerry and his Trident or whatever it is for the week. Gum was something for which Dad could always be counted on. It was dispensed at church or on car trips to quiet talkative mouths. Stick by stick, gum was handed over as payment for a load of laundry folded or the dishwasher unloaded. Not by me … my policies were tighter.

Chewing gum was Dad’s currency and love note all in one.

Even so, it was one stick a time. Youngest daughter pointed that out, too. “Jerry gives us a whole pack,” she said, her eyes checking mine to see if this news was going to raise an objection.

It’s not. I love that there is a wonderful guy in my daughters’ lives, someone who has added to a template for the traits they should look for in a partner. A man like Jerry, who treats his wife with respect and kindness and offers my girls the same.

With a fine sense of humor as a bonus.

I just want to tell the humble and modest Jerry that he is our Valentine of the Year, and I want to tell him right here in public. He’ll blush, but he’ll get over it.

For all the men reading this, let me encourage you to think about Jerry’s example. My children are blessed by a number of honorable men in their lives, but that is not the case for every fatherless child. Kids are growing up all over this Valley with no role model in men’s clothing.

It’s not so hard, buying a pack of gum for a kid. Ask Jerry.