Ahhh... Monday. A sweeping plain of a week through which we'll wander. It's always interesting to me to look ahead. What do I have to do? What do I need to do? What should I do? What surprises are in store?

I count down the days by my mother-in-law's pill boxes.  She has three, seven-day holders that I fill up every Sunday.  Supplements and prescriptions; one here, two there, three over there, all to keep her going for another week. Saturday comes and the week is done.  Sunday arrives and I start again.

Sad as it is to see her in the state she's in, I realize that at least some of it comes down to choices.  Much of it is the crap shoot of genetics, granted, but some is directly tied to what we do.

My parents were both active for as long as they could manage.

My mom drove until her late 80's.  The idea of that scared the crap out of me, but she did it. Then, when she was ready, she turned the keys over, herself.

My dad was busy and active his entire life.  When he developed the lung cancer that ultimately killed him, he hauled his oxygen tank around until he couldn't any more.  Somewhere I have a picture of him, up on Skinner Butte in Eugene, Oregon.  They wanted to show me the views and despite it being hard to breathe, he walked the loop trail around the summit.  The picture shows him with his oxygen line and a big smile.  That was in June.  He didn't run marathons or climb mountains, but he walked and he drove and he did as much as he could of living before the end came in late August 2002 - two months after the picture was taken.

They lived in the house in which I grew up until dad couldn't negotiate the front steps any longer.  Then they moved into an over-55 community where they lived on their own terms in a small house with fewer steps.

They were happy and, after dad died, mom stayed there, living on her own and being checked on daily by my older brother and his wife, until she was ninety-two.

At ninety she decided to move a one-hundred pound glass-topped patio table from the back of the house into the garage.  Did she raise her hand and ask for help?  Heck no!  She got that baby turned onto its metal rim and rolled it to where she wanted it.  Once there, she wrestled it back upright and (probably, knowing her, dusted off her hands with a grin of satisfaction). When we heard about it, my bothers, sister and I just shook our heads but, hey, that's Mom.

Then, in 2012, she decided it was time and moved into an assisted living facility, where she died six months later, at ninety-three.

Three words that best describe my parents are:  Stoic, Determined, Self-Reliant.

I want to be like them. To get out and live life and do the things I like to do.


Comparing the two women isn't fair, really.

My mom never gave up, never, ever complained. She exercised, smoked until she was in her fifties, liked her Martinis and Manhattans - one, maybe two per night, but no more - and always watched her diet. Into her eighties she took vitamins and two medications - insulin and warfarin - that was it.

My mother-in-law...  Well, we could open a pharmacy and much of it is right down to the choices made.  Over-eating, never exercising, sitting and watching instead of out and doing.

I think I'm going to go out for a long walk at lunch today.

Best~
Philippa

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