Change is Strange

Dear Readers,

And I do mean dear. Thank you for sticking with me and my Ordinary Life blog, which I have been posting on Google's free Blogger platform sporadically since my first entry on June 2, 2009.*

 

Lost in techie wilderness!

The freaking tech giant (Google) announced a couple months ago that it would be discontinuing emailing posts to blog subscribers as of July 1, 2021. They suggested bloggers find some other way to get their posts to subscribers. 

What was a techie dunce to do?  The answer arrived in a timely email targeting bloggers left in the lurch. A company called follow.it offered to take on the subscription task and extended technical help to install a new subscription "gadget" on blogs and to import existing email subscribers at no charge. I did end up paying someone to help me, but I appreciated follow.it for their gesture. 

Perhaps you'll notice on this post the new email subscription form on the right, which is larger than before. If you got this post via email, no need to reenter your email address. (If you have a minute, though, I'd appreciate knowing that this post arrived in your mailbox, even if you're reading it on Facebook.)

How and why you subscribed to my blog (thank you again!) is a mystery. Except for family and friends, drawing new readers is a challenge. You might notice in coming posts invitations to "share."  Please consider doing that. 

*That first post in 2009 was titled Another Day, Another Storm.  I accidentally discovered much later that Blogger tracks readership stats for every post. NO ONE READ IT.  Here's a screenshot of my first attempt at blogging 🤪. Probably best it wasn't seen.

John Day River trip - old friends, peace, and elaborate geology

I wasn't expecting much from our mid-May float trip on the John Day River in North Central Oregon.

A couple decades ago, PK and Chris (when he was between 8 and 11) floated the river a few springs with two other dads and their young sons. I heard stories about fishing, sleeping on tiny prickly, rocky beaches with rattlesnakes, and running one significant rapid.

No thank you.

Not once did my husband or my son mention the John Day River's fantastic scenery and fascinating geology. I'm glad I saw it. I came away with a camera load of eye candy and warm feelings induced by longtime friendships forged, in part, by shared river trips through the decades.

Sue Orris nearing the top of an overlook behind one of our John Day River camps. 

The John Day cuts through 281 miles of Central Oregon's high desert before converging with the Columbia River. One hundred and forty-seven miles of the John Day are designated Wild and Scenic, including the 72-mile stretch we navigated. It is the longest undammed river in Oregon, and one of the longest undammed rivers in the USA. On the map, our put-in at Clarno is just off the bottom (sorry) and the take-out is at the Cottonwood Bridge. In between is a serpentine river whose curves and canyons have been formed over millions of years. On the scenic scale, I give it a 7+ with the Grand Canyon being 10.

I all but gave up river trips about 14 years ago.  (Links to river-related blogs follow.)

However, running rivers remains WAY high on PK's must-do-whenever-possible list. I've I agreed to one trip a year with him. This year, I'll do two. The John Day trip was the first. 

The trip reminded me of what I like about river running, and what I don't.

What I really like is great scenery, and crazy geologic features such as this.

And this jumble of folds, creases, and layering.

Next time, we must have a geologist along to interpret. Google led me to the fact that the John Day basin is part of the massive Colombia River Flood Basalts, one of the largest of such formations on the planet.

The outrageous rock formations and land forms just kept coming.

What's good about river trips

• Camping in sublime surroundings with a few good people.
• Being untethered from technology - five days and the only screen time witnessed was me using my iPhone to take photos.
• Experiencing total quiet, except for river and wildlife sounds. (Occasional 💤 noises coming from certain tents)
• Starry skies without light pollution
• If the trip is longer than a few days, getting into nature's rhythm: up at dawn, to bed when darkness descends.
• Seeing wildlife up close, even bears and snakes. (Not rattlers, though)
• Beautiful natural surroundings - of course

In addition to osprey, we saw bald and golden eagles, ducks and geese, California big horn sheep, scarabs, thousands of swallows and boatloads of small mouth bass.

• 
  
• Being self and group reliant
• Traveling with my life partner, who is happier on the river than anywhere else, except perhaps with his grandchildren.
• Photographing everything. It helps me see and appreciate.

• 

  Clarno Rapid is the only significant rapid on this section of the river. We scouted on the left and also ran it on the left. At this water level, it was probably Class 3.5 on a scale of 6. It is reportedly not runnable at low water. The boating season ends sometime in June once snows in the Strawberry Mountains, where the river's water originates, dry up, and agricultural operations continue to draw irrigation water. The water quality when we ran the river in May was already compromised by agricultural run-off.
  
  Cattle (pic below) are a major pollution source. These guys were miffed because we took their spot our first night out. It was evident that they favored this campsite as cow pies of various ripeness were all over the place. PK and I pitched our tent not too far from a fresh pile, which we marked with a shovel, and also a red ant hill, over which we placed sticks so as not to step on it.
  
  

What's irksome about river trips

• Getting ready - requires planning, packing and prep sometimes out of proportion to trip enjoyment.
• Setting up our 30-year-old old Moss tent. The damn thing never wears out!
• Lugging heavy containers up steep river banks, then down again to the raft
• Sitting for hours at a time, even with great scenery (Even in the Grand Canyon!)
• But the worst thing? Using the loo.

The loo is always situated in a private spot with a scenic view.

The lid opens to a plastic bag, supported by a mesh bag, with a scoop of chemical beads that somehow renders the contents acceptable for tossing into waste receptacles. 

Once closed,  the plastic bag, called a Wag Bag, joins previous days' bags in a plastic bucket with a secure lid. Then somebody gets to carry it on his or her boat. Lucky us!

Overall, this toilet system is good. Common sense and wilderness etiquette dictate that human waste — all waste— be carried out. No trace left behind, even it it comes from behind. Ha ha.

But here's the thing. Liquids are are no-no  in the loo. Instead, river trippers  pee in the surrounding area, the river, or into a can. Only solids are directed into the Wag Bag.

I find separating elimination functions problematic, as may other women past a certain age. Enough said!

Overall, this river trip leaned heavily into the pleasure category, despite the few disconcerting moments at the loo or fleeting boredom floating for hours at a time. 

Just the dog and I were up early enough to admire the sunrise at this, our first camp of the river trip. Three nights to go. I loved this camp. Loved them all, really.

The John Day River experience reminded me that a majority of people who read my blog (thank you!)  haven't experienced self-guided wilderness river trips. Here's what it's like.

First somebody gets a river permit, or a wild hair, and sets in motion the mandatory planning and preparation, which I do not enjoy.

In our group of eight, Beth and Jeffrey had the wild hair and they instigated and led the trip. Permits are required, but anybody can get one. (On the John Day River, at least. Other river-permit applications are lotteries that disappoint the majority.)

Once a permit is secured, meals, transportation, shuttles, toilets, trash disposal, composting, water, clothing, etc. etc. must be organized, which requires people with better-than-average organizational skills.

I admire well organized people.

I'm not one, but I'm married to one, and at least four in our group could be in that category.

Beth is top dog. She has her shit together, always. On this trip, she used a 20+-year-old guidebook, plus experience with two previous trips on the John Day, to help us locate camps, petroglyphs, and keep track of historic events that had transpired along this stretch of river. Although a current guide lists 92 camps (!), few are obvious.

Beth may be addressing the wind on this blustery day.
She is unable to organize wind and weather.

Beth rows as Jeff, a fishing aficionado, tempts small mouth bass with lurid flies. He was not disappointed. The catch-and-release victims did not like the surprise, I'm guessing.

But back to the beginning.

Somebody gets the river trip urge. We plan. We pack. We drive close to 300 miles (on this trip) to the river. We look at all our stuff piled on the boat ramp. We balk.

Rafters are not minimalists. The packing-light conversation happens but does not result in restraint. Gotta have options. Right? We got em.

The put-in for our 72-mile trip on mostly flat water began at Clarno, where a bridge crosses the river and easy access is provided by the BLM, which manages the area.  According to the BLM website, one other party was putting on the river this day, but we never saw them. We had the ramp and river to ourselves

A fraction of our gear stacked up at the Clarno put-in.

What do we need for our river trip?

Everything! Including a toilet, water treatment (and/or clean water in containers from home), tents and sleeping bags, pads, food for five days, shelter in case of rain. We also bring a kitchen including stoves, Dutch ovens, charcoal, and every person's coffee-brewing device.

On a long-ago river trip, someone even brought a gasoline-powered blender to make margaritas. At least we got over that.

But I may be the worst offender since I packed clothes I never wore, food we never ate, and
a recently purchased solar panel to charge devices I never used. 

Finally we're on the river, which meanders through agricultural flat land for several miles before squeezing into scenic canyons.  In mid-May the river was still flush with snowmelt from the Strawberry Mountains, where it originates. We had strong currents, gentle wind, moderate temperatures and ideal spring conditions. By the end of June, I understand, snowmelt stops, and irrigation draws down the river until li's suitable only for canoes or kayaks. Agricultural runoff was evident even with spring flows. 

Downstream vista under a cotton tufts  sky.

What goes out of the raft must be repacked and reloaded, which requires
a couple hours each day, altogether. 

Sue and Ferron brought their dog, which fulfilled our needs for canine charm. The dog was easy to pack. I like that about well-behaved dogs. He also scarfed up leftovers.

Curry, rescued from the Curry County Animal Shelter, worries about his people.  He doesn't want to be apart from either one, hence he traipses back and forth, benefitting from their patience and skillful rowing. A reluctant swimmer, he fell in only once.

The kitchen set up includes two three-burner stoves and three tables.The tarp was erected because we'd had heavy but brief rain earlier in the day. 

PK spent hours every day performing catch and release operations on small mouth bass.
Sometimes I rowed while he fished.

I loved that Beth figured out where some hard-to-find petroglyphs
were located and led us to them, despite our doubts. 

Who were the people who survived this harsh land without
portable toilets,inflatable mattresses, and more food than they could eat?
 More resourceful than we are, no doubt. But it's unlikely any of them
lived as long as our group of mostly sixty-somethings.

Lichen decorates petroglyphs.

Margaret has been rowing for at least 30 years. Greg isn't interested, but he goes along for the ride. Near the end of the trip here, I bet he's thinking about baseball. 

We saw scarab beetles in most camps. 

Sheep in the John Day River wilderness are primarily California Big Horn sheep, which are smaller than Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep. We saw a lot of them, including one that picked its way down an impossibly steep cliff to reach the river as we watched from our camp.

Our tent across from the cliff navigated top to bottom by a sheep.

Lichens, natural rock hues and a bit of photo enhancement give this wall a mid-day
glow. I'd love to see this in magical light - sunrise or sunset. 

A wind turbine and power towers signal we're back to civilization.
We'll see hundreds of these on our way to Moro.
Goodbye, John Day River.

BLM How to get a permit for the John Day River

Posts about earlier river experiences

A River to Run  - the Mighty Rogue

Near Drowning at the Picket Fence

Camp cooking on the river

Korbulic family history regarding the Rogue

Bears on the river

Second thoughts about running the Rogue

Loving the Rogue and why I mostly gave it up

Nomad kayaking son....Will I survive?

Easy as falling off a cliff?  

Nile River - Class 5 Fright

Near drowning at the Picket Fence - and a back story

PK and I returned yesterday from a three-day 35-mile rafting trip on Oregon's Wild and Scenic Rogue River. Our group of six included two novice river runners in inflatable kayaks (IK),—a recent high school graduate, and his 16-year-old sister.  Our trip was fun, successful, and safe. The young man debated about running Blossom Bar, a class 4 rapid, that he'd never been through. The adults made the decision for him: get a good sense of the rapid's power and the path through it, and run it next time. If you choose. My sense was that he was relieved.

It got me thinking about a 2015 trip when I witnessed another young man almost succumb to Blossom Bar's  Picket Fence, the row of rocks in the rapid that have given rafters and IKers serious trouble through the decades.  Rafts get stuck, drift boats bend around the rocks, and paddlers in IKs go over the fence and can't get out. That's what happened to the young man. 

The Rogue River's 35-mile Wild and Scenic section is touted as a "family" trip with all but three rapids falling into class one, two, or three difficulty level meaning that with reasonable safety measures, including wearing life jackets and staying sober, people who get dumped into the river won't drown.

But a young man on a recent Rogue trip nearly did drown at Blossom Bar, one of two class four rapids. Although pinned underwater at the rapid's Picket Fence, he survived. That's good. What isn't good is when we fail to take a lesson from near-disasters, which is why I'm writing this post. I invited the near-drowning victim to tell his story, which follows. I also have a personal tale about running Blossom and the Rogue in general.

A paddleboat crew stares down the Picket Fence in Blossom Bar during a 2014 mid-June trip. The "fence" comprises a line of boulders, some submerged, some not, that present a significant danger at all water levels. To miss the "fence" boaters, must navigate right, duck into an eddy behind the large rock, then spill over a narrow pour-off not visible in this photo. 

But first, let's clear up the idea that Blossom Bar is invariably deadly. It is not. Many reports state that 99.9 percent of everybody who runs the rapid does so without significant trouble.

Check out these two excellent articles:
Blossom Bar is a dangerous rapid, a column by outdoor writer Zach Urness, formerly of the Grants Pass Daily Courier.
Recent history of drownings on the Rogue River by Daily Courier's Jeff Duewel.

A 2013 rundown that starts with how Telfer's Rock in Mule Creek Canyon got its name. 

I have personally navigated Blossom Bar more than 100 times over the years, most often rowing a raft, and have never had trouble with the Picket Fence, although I've hit plenty of rocks below and almost flipped once. PK has run it successfully even more times. We have, however, witnessed numerous accidents at the "fence", serious inconveniences that have resulted in rafters abandoning their crafts, jumping into the rapid, and in one case, stabbing the raft to deflate a tube and thus send it spiraling into the current.

(Interestingly, son Chris Korbulic rowed a trip that ended July 27, 2015, just a few days after our trip. When he went through Blossom on July 26, a bunch of rafting gear was on the Picket Fence. In a rafting accident the day before, a large boat got wrapped there and all four adults aboard an abandoned ship. Before they left the scene, they planned for the raft to be rescued and emptied a lot of the gear onto the fence. Apparently, two men jumped into passing rafts but the two women were too scared to do so and spent the night on the rock! When Chris went through, the boat was still stuck on a rock in mid-rapid, and attempts to rescue it were underway. Chris didn't know exactly how the women escaped.)

That said, the majority of drownings in the Rogue's Wild and Scenic section do occur at Blossom Bar, and the victims are invariably sober, wearing life jackets, and most get "pinned" in powerful hydraulics created by the horizontal line of rocks dubbed the Picket Fence.

This mid-July trip was the first I've been on in 30+ years when someone in my group got snagged by the fence.

The potential drowning victim is an athletic 25-year-old from the East Coast who has lived in Oregon for a year. He asked to remain anonymous, citing the Internet's power to store information forever and nefarious people's capacity to misuse it.

He plays water polo and is a strong swimmer but has scant whitewater experience. On our trip, he paddled an IK (inflatable kayak). Our group included an experienced hardshell kayaker and a skilled canoeist, who coached the novice boater. He had capsized his IK a few times on Day 1 of our 3-day trip, but successfully negotiated the Day 2 rapids, including the Class 4 Mule Creek Canyon. He says:

Midway through the second day, we pulled out of Mule Creek Canyon and I was feeling confident after easily navigating the "White Snake" and "Coffeepot" rapids after they had been talked up a fair amount. Approaching Blossom Bar, we pulled off the river to scout the rapid for at least 15 minutes. I was told exactly what I needed to do and given the option to walk around if I wasn't feeling up to it. 

We had practiced my "right hand eddy turns" several times throughout the morning. We watched a few rafts go through, navigating the Picket Fence and the area below, and making it look pretty straightforward. I don't think we saw any smaller crafts go through while we were scouting. 

Note: That's because most commercial outfitters no longer allow passengers to take IKs through the tricky and potentially lethal upper section of Blossom Bar. Instead, clients walk around the rapid. MK

Eventually, I got in behind the experienced kayaker and followed close. The plan was to start left, then paddle hard to get into the eddy to buy time before navigating a narrow slot at the right end of the Picket Fence.

A screengrab* of IKs on a different trip negotiating the entrance to Blossom Bar and past the Picket Fence. This photo was taken at a higher water level than we had. But in any case, from the top of the rapid, the eddy (green relatively quiet water) that must be reached is not visible. The current on the left is extremely powerful.

It was made clear to me how dangerous the Picket Fence could be and how important it was to get into that eddy. I saw it approaching, but I was out of position and was sucked directly between the last two boulders where a post of sorts sticks up, to form a V. I tried to push off,  but my boat climbed the rocks, tipping me out.

What followed was a fight for my life, and it was instantly apparent that was what it was. I was sucked under my boat between the V-shaped boulders. I struggled to get to the surface, clinging to my boat with one hand, instinctively grasping at the floating thing above me to pull myself up. It didn't work. 

I fought for air four or five times in what seemed like a minute but was more like 20 seconds. I couldn't get my head above the water. The sensation of being sucked down, and fighting repeatedly to get air, was terrifying. I could hear my kayaker companion screaming to let go of the IK, so I did, and quickly caught a breath and found myself out of the water crouching on a rock. Keep in mind, all of this is happening incredibly quickly and was overwhelming. 

Whew! He had escaped the Picket Fence but still had a little problem. 

Anyways, when I stood on the rock at the end of the Picket Fence, I was in a bit of a shock about what had just happened. A whitewater canoeist in our group was near, and I could hear him yelling directions. But my kayaker companion was too far away to be heard.

I understood that swimming was the only way out. Getting back into the water was the last thing I wanted to do, especially as I was unsure about whether I would get sucked down again. The prospect of the swim after the near drowning was much scarier than the swim itself. I slipped into the river, floated through a couple of turbulent areas, then swam hard into the eddy on the left bank where my kayaker companion was waiting. 

I hadn't witnessed when the IK capsized and the young man disappeared beneath the "fence." But I was among those who watched first with trepidation and then amazement, at what happened next. Most people in his situation, when forced to "swim" the surly rapid, actually float with their feet in front of them to ward off rocks, working their way to one side of the river or the other. Not this guy.

His first adrenalin-fueled swim was to river left, maybe a third of the river's width, to reach his kayaking buddy. Then, after they discussed his options, he turned around and swam from one side of Blossom Bar to the other, power stroking the extreme and erratic current in between eddies. I held my breath the whole time. Especially when a commercial raft cut in front of him as he rested behind a rock. The canoeist waited on the other side with a throw rope and the kayaker stayed close to him during his heroic swim. He says:

Fortunately, frequent eddies broke up the current and provided rest stops, which allowed me to make it almost straight across to a raft waiting for me, and I didn't need the throw rope there either. In retrospect, it may have been possible to bushwhack/hike down on the left side, but we didn't consider that in the moment, and I felt ok about the swim.

A raft of rubberneckers blocked me on the last leg of my swim across, which was frustrating and got me extremely upset. If you see someone in the water, either offer to help or get the hell out of the way! Finally I made it to the far shore to one of our rafts and I climbed aboard.

I knew the person rowing the commercial raft. She didn't see him. It is uncommon to see someone swimming across the rapid.  She was fixated on the people in her group who'd walked around and were waiting to be picked up by her.  

The swimmer's brother and I were anxiously waiting in a raft for him to hop into if his swim was successful. I cringed when the hapless guide cut him off. But I got a front row seat to one of the most remarkable athletic feats I've ever seen. I rowed the two down the remainder of the boulder-strewn rapid where our relieved group 

This paddler has successfully steered around the Picket Fence and is navigating the boulder field that comprises the rest of the rapid. Photo taken in June 2014, a trip that sent four inexperienced boaters in IKs through the rapid without incident. The water level at that time was higher than on our recent trip. The red IK is just above where our heroic swimmer powered across the rapid.

 

Overall, it was a true near-death experience that I survived due to good luck, strong lungs/legs, and good advice at a timely moment from my experienced kayaker companion. I also got excellent support from the rest of the group to allow me to return to normalcy the next day and enjoy paddling the tamer rapids on the way out.

                                                     THE LESSON

If I return to Blossom Bar in an IK I would have a 90% chance of navigating it successfully. On the other hand, I have a lot of fun things I like to do not involving rivers, and I would like to continue doing them. It's not worth it to prove to myself, or anyone else, that I can do it.

Next time I would absolutely walk around or ride in a raft, and would recommend others do so until they have lots more experience and practice than I did that day. There are a lot of fun things to do and see on the Wild and Scenic trip, and skipping Blossom Bar would not take away from that at all. I also want to reiterate that it was my informed choice to try it and my mistake(s) that put me in that position.

In other words, next time he doesn't need to prove to himself or anybody else that he's man enough to take it on again. Amen!

Ok. My puny little story. 
How was it that I was rowing a raft in Blossom Bar after giving up rowing about 8 years ago? My difficult decision then had an impact on an annual women's river trip that had continued for 18 years during which I was one of four women rowers. I attempted to sort through my conflicting emotions in this August 2009 blog post and I still stand behind the major reason, which was that I just got sick of river trips of all sorts.

I now go once a year, maybe, as a passenger. I have no regrets, except that I lost my identity as a stud-woman. You’d be surprised at the people who marvel when women can do things done most often by men. You'd also be surprised at how cool it is to be a stud woman if only pretend. I knew it was only pretending because every trip I was sick with anxiety before running that damn rapid. Seriously. I did run it more than 100 times, most often without a hitch, but I never got over the anxiety. And I hate anxiety.

On day two of our recent trip, a novice rower was hurt in an incident unrelated to river running. I was the only person who could jump in and take the oars. In the meantime, he replaced me as a passenger in the raft piloted by PK. Several hours later, he recovered and was ready to row the mostly flatwater to camp.

In the meantime, I was navigating relatively easy class two and three rapids, but I knew class 4 Mule Creek and Blossom Bar were coming. I'd rowed Mule Creek last summer when the novice rower, in whose raft I was a passenger, got pitched out. I had to take the oars, get the boat into position to pick her up, then row the rapid. I was surprised and relieved to learn that I could still do it.

And so on the recent trip I found myself dipping the oars alone on the long flat mile between Mule Creek and Blossom Bar, deliberating whether or not to row Blossom. Actually, I knew I didn't want to. But my not rowing meant that  PK would have to row our raft, "park" it ASAP after passing the Picket Fence, then walk over the hot steep rocks to where I was in a holding pattern.  What is a good husband for if he can't hot steep rocks to rescue his wife?

He said he was good with it, and when I saw his face on the rocks above me, I knew it was time to boogie down the right bank to where our raft was parked about a quarter of the way through the rapid. But PK handled the hardest part.

Last words about this: I'm 70 years old. I will likely not row Blossom Bar again. Unless I really must. If I do, somebody will probably video it, and, depending upon the outcome, I will either be the "amazing elderly woman who rowed Blossom Bar" or the "the poor elderly woman stuck on the Picket Fence" or wrapped around a rock below. Or worse.

                        I think I'll settle for no amazement and go on my ordinary way.

I love river camping but not river running. Took me about 
20 years to figure that out.

SOMETHING FUN TO WATCH

                                                
           A video of another trip at Blossom Bar at the same water level we experienced.  

Check out the next video in this link above, too, the one entitled "Blunder at Blossom Bar."  No terrible outcomes, but lots of laughs. This will alert you to the rapid's danger and how hapless rowers can run amok. Or even non-hapless ones. Shit happens, even when you're experienced. Especially at Blossom Bar.

Previous  Ordinary Life posts about the Rogue

Camp cooking on the river

Korbulic family history regarding the Rogue

Bears on the river

Second thoughts about running the Rogue

Caregivers—Angels at the End of Life

It is not easy when your mother dies, as mine did in early September.
I've been paralyzed in the writing department ever since. Even though she was almost 99 and I knew she would die soon, I'm sad. She wanted release, and I wanted it for her, but death is cold and difficult to fathom. I can't get over that she no longer exists. And I also can't get over that how, near the end of her life, amazing people appeared with palliative care and great big generous loving hearts, and eased her passing. 

Angel in chief at Rose Cottage Adult Foster Care, Kimber Vaccher, transferring my mom from her wheelchair to a recliner. Transfers always involved  hugs and talk and the warmth of human hearts beating inches from one another. We all need that, don't we? Right here is the essence of excellence in end-of-life care: human touch and genuine caring. What you don't see is all the difficult and emotionally draining "dirty work". Sore backs, sleepless nights, and the grief that inevitably comes when the people you've cared for die.

Aside from the grieving part, I've been muddled about what aspects of my mom's last six years—ages 92 to 98,  2008 to the present, to write about. Those were the years that she lived near me for the first time since I left  my parent's home as a young adult in the 1960s.

Here in Oregon, she became part of my every day life. I discovered how funny she was, and what a great spirit she possessed. Despite being nearly deaf and with ever-worsening vision, she was game for almost anything. It was only during her last nine months that she started to act like someone who was nearly 100 years old.

Her progression from a lively 92-year-old who ripped  through bridge and cribbage games, relished country drives, even when we got lost, and enjoyed a bloody Mary before dinner, to a sad and weary 98-year-old hospice patient, was bittersweet. It was heartbreaking to see her through so many losses. She'd been hard of hearing for years, but that worsened and she was essentially deaf and terribly isolated. Her vision also declined and she couldn't see to play cards let alone read or watch TV.

Her arthritic hands refused to perform simple tasks. The handiwork she'd done most of her life was beyond her. She had nothing to do, a torment. What is life without purpose or at least activity and entertainment? Boredom and lack of purpose is a double whammy for elderly people who were accustomed to enjoying full lives.

I visited her most days, and often found her here, alone in the dining room staring out the window. 

Enter the Caregiver Angels

Before moving into assisted living, my mom resided in an independent living "retirement home." It became clear that the activities offered were not enough to keep her occupied. I  hired caregivers to spend a few hours a day to relieve her boredom and loneliness and help her with exercise.

Our elders are so often drowning in a toxic sea of boredom, inactivity, and isolation.  It is terribly sad.  Even though I spent time with her most days, she had countless unfilled hours. I can't listen to John Prine's brilliant song "Hello In There" without tearing up. Don't listen unless you feel like having a cry.

First Angel on the Scene.  Her name was Doris. She was 80 years old. 

Doris had spent her working life as a nursing-home aide. Now caring for an aged and sick spouse, she still needed to make money. Plus she needed out of her house. She was skilled  and incredibly kind, patient, and loving. She cared for LaVone a few hours a day for about six months.

After a series of falls left my mom pretty much confined to a wheelchair, we relocated her to assisted living, Doris showed up , off and on, for THREE YEARS unbidden, with homemade goodies and to hold her hand and just be present. Did my mom care that Doris wasn't "family" and that she'd known her for  just a short time? Not at all. 

Then there were the Morrow Heights angels
in Rogue River, just a mile from my home.  Assisted living provided 24-hour care, so my days of hiring caregivers were over. Morrow Heights caregivers weren't all stellar,  but the majority was great and several stand out.

The truly caring ones recognized her boredom and agonized. Yes. they suffered as I did, seeing her staring out the window with nothing to do. Assisted living caregivers have too many "patients" and too little time.  Caregiver Gail took LaVone under her wing by wheeling her along as she traveled the halls caring for other residents. She also wheeled her to a small garden to smell  the roses on warm sunny days. Such small acts of kindness, but so meaningful.

Others followed Gail's example, and for a time, my mom was no longer consigned to spending hours alone each day.

When my mom  took to excessive napping and had trouble feeding herself, it was time to kick up the care level. She'd lost interest in most activities and seemed terribly weary.  She'd became someone who was busy dying, although I didn't recognize that on a conscious level.

So away we went, to a remarkable refuge called Rose Cottage. 

It is so odd, and I've heard this from others, that strangers appear at the interface of life and death to ease the transition. They showed up big time at Rose Cottage.

Husband PK tells the story of his father, broken and longing to die, in a New Jersey nursing home. PK's father died the day after PK flew back to Oregon,  cradled in the arms of a caregiver who came to be with him on her DAY OFF.

So little respect is afforded the people who care for our young children and our elders. Care giving compensation at both ends of life is abysmal. Most places, caregivers start at the minimum hourly wage, which, in Oregon, will be $9.25 in 2015,  a 15 cent increase.  That comes to about $1,480 a month. Try living on that after you get home from eight hours of back-breaking and emotionally taxing work. (Rose Cottage wages start higher and compensation increases more quickly.  Not sure if this is true with all foster care homes, as each is independently operated.) The cost for my mom's care at Rose Cottage was basically the same as in assisted living. Do you really want to know? $4,200 a month. (Price at both places based on level of care. My mom was at the highest level.)

The biggest difference? Unhurried personal skilled compassionate care. 

The caregiver-to-resident ratio at Rose Cottage is one to four, and often, two to four. I'm not sure what it is in assisted living facilities, but my guess is somewhere around 1 to 15 or more.

Rose Cottage is a regular house in the country that accommodates up to five  residents who need a high level of care.  The owners live on site, as do a flock of chickens and a couple sweet dogs.  It's a home, not an institution. 

But let's get real. Foster care aides may have time to sit and chat with their patients, give them manicures and read to them. But, like caregivers at all levels, they also wipe butts,  clean up smelly messes, transfer what amounts to "dead weight" from one chair to another, turn immobilized patients over in bed several times a night, clean false teeth, and feed people who can no longer feed themselves (my mom) a slurry of  Ensure, oatmeal and bananas with a spoon. 

But they do it all with patience. With supreme compassion. With the belief and knowledge that this is what the cared-for person needs and wants.

Plus they also  manage to love and speak in the ways that perhaps matter most when you're ancient and vulnerable and clinging  to what remains of your dignity and you are at their mercy. Mercy they have in abundance. They are not afraid to touch and hug and kiss. They show no revulsion at dealing with body fluids and solids, no shirking from cleaning teeth or trimming toenails.

Perhaps they're the lucky ones, to be present in the most elemental ways, as dying people transition over months or weeks or days to take the last breath and slip, finally, into whatever lies ahead. 

Pet therapy at work in Rose Cottage. My mom wasn't much of a pet person, but this resident poodle, one of three pooches, and my mom seemed a comfort to one another. Disabled and elderly herself, the dog often snuggled up on mom's chair or bed.

Death with Dignity

At Rose Cottage, the owner took a special role. She made it her mission to make my mother's last months, and especially her death, free of pain, fear, and anxiety. Despite an extremity infection, pressure sores, and mental and emotional agitation—all of which Kimber Vaccher, Rose Cottage owner, mitigated—my mother died peacefully in her sleep. It was the die-in-your-sleep death I hoped for her.

My mom had been sleeping 20 to 23 hours a day for weeks. I went for visits, but she'd be sound asleep. The day before she died, Kimber, called around 8 a.m. to say that my mom was awake and this might be my opportunity. I was there within 30 minutes and am so grateful to have had a wakeful hour to speak into her good ear.

She was unresponsive, but I hope she could hear me say that I loved her and that she was the best mother ever. What's the best mother? It's one who loves unconditionally and never leaves her child wondering if she's good enough. Really. I think that's the key.

I tried to be a good daughter and return the favor as our roles reversed at end of life.  During her last hours I stroked her papery hand and spoke love into her best ear, hoping that on some level, she'd hear and know her life had meaning.

As for the caregiver angels, their wings were pushing sweet air into the  room where death was visiting to take my mother away.

Early the next morning I got "the call." My mother was gone. Did I want to come out before the funeral home people arrived to collect the body? The body.

My mother was gone but her body remained on her death bed. I steeled myself and drove out.  It was a beautiful September morning. Rose Cottage looked like it always did, except that I knew my mother's body was in there. We're so shielded from death and dying, and seeing only the bodies that have been all fixed up at the mortuary. But my mom's body looked, well, like she was asleep. She looked just like she did the day before, the day I whispered into her ear when she was still "in there."

I spoke into her ear again, but her cheek was cool. She wasn't there. Imagine that. She'd escaped! 

Kind Kimber Vaccher with my mom's body. My mom's spirit? Gone someplace, to the heaven she believed would welcome her, or to an otherworldly ether that accommodates peaceful spirits freed at last from their wrecked bodies. Wherever you are, I am grateful that you were my mother. I thought a lot about whether to use this photo. But I think the look on Kimber's face conveys a lot about who she is. And my mother's shell? Just a shell. Empty of her. Not offensive, just real. 

This photo was taken a few months before my mom started her precipitous slide. I'm interpreting her wave  and thumbs up as hello and goodbye to all the wonderful people who loved and cared for her. Especially the angels who appeared at the end to validate her existence and ease her passage. May you rest in peace, dear mother. And say hello to Dad, aunt Mick, Uncle Ken, and all the others . I'll be seeing you soon enough. 

NOTE: My mother's long life was mostly happy and productive. For more cheerful posts, here are a couple most posts:

Turning the Tables on Elderly Mom

Bragging about her as she used to brag about me, and coming to know and appreciate her even more in her nineties.

Headed for Africa! Sorry Mom

About the decision to leave the country for a few weeks of adventure travel with my husband. Dealing with being torn, at times, between  my  mom and my marriage.