The Terrifying Trip to the Zoo

It's been an "interesting" week. But as I say this, I realize that I've been saying it for the last several years on a regular weekly basis. I guess I'm waiting for that quiet idyll where everything works like it should to come back into our lives. I wonder if that will ever happen?

Well, this week, on Monday, it was Jared's class field trip to the Woodland Park Zoo up in Seattle. I've been eagerly waiting to go ever since I heard that that's where they were heading. So, naturally I volunteered to be one of the parent chaperons so that I could go. I haven't been to the Woodland Park Zoo since Maia was a baby. That was back when Mike's health first started to decline and we had no idea what was happening to him.

That seems like an eternity ago. Another lifetime. That was a scary time when his heart would skip beats or beat in crazy rhythms and there were days when he'd be so exhausted that he would fall asleep mid-sentence in the middle of the day. We learned a while later that he has hypothyroidism that was probably exacerbated by his work environment (chemical exposure in an ill-vented warehouse). We're still, nine years later, trying to dial in his prescriptions. How crazy is that?

Anyway, this time, I was looking forward to visiting the zoo without a cloud of worry and uncertainty hanging over me. I was ready to enjoy the zoo, to take in the sounds and sights of the animals, to delight in the beauty of the worlds' nature, to capture a moment of relaxation in my world of perpetual worries and stress.

My plan would have worked had it been for the fact that I was put in charge of three young men - two of which were feral. Yes, my son was one of those two. I had hoped that he would've behaved himself much in the way he normally behaves himself when we go out as a family to do stuff. He's pretty well behaved, so it was quite alarming to me that he had turned into a crazed monkey in the presence of the other feral boy in our group. They just kind of bounced off each other. The third boy, to my amazement, was quite thoughtful and far less rowdy than the other two.

In fact, he and I had a pretty good time together. He would let me explain things about the animals I knew something about. He would laugh at my stupid jokes. He even tolerated me helping him sound out the words to signs we saw along our route. It felt nice to be able to help him read, as I got the impression that he had been struggling with it and might not have had anyone at home to help him. I hope he appreciated my efforts.

But back to my two feral boys. I expected a certain amount of excitement. I mean, this was their first field trip after all. That's a very exciting thing. But these two took things to an absurd level - climbing on EVERYTHING, pulling me in opposite directions to look at different displays so much that my shoulders hurt at the end of the day.

At one point, the two reach a fevered pitch and run totally amok. I was flabbergasted. We went into a building, I'm not sure what it was for to be honest. I was trying to control the two and so I wasn't as observant as I ordinarily am. While I was chasing down one of them, Jared bolted out the door and disappeared. Gone. Vanished into thin air. I tried to tamp down that feeling of dread growing in my stomach that my child had gone missing - the parents' worst fear. I called out his name and there was no response. Dread, cold and unyielding, overtakes my reason. I go back into the building, thinking he must've slipped back in unnoticed, because there was no way MY son would do something so stupid as to run off and get himself lost. There was no sign of him at all. Desperate, I go back outside and call, once again, fearing that he's been snatched away and I'll never see him.

I spot some movement, hidden in some bushes away up the path. The form of a hunkered down child and the impish grin on his face fills me simultaneously with rage and relief. Jared's head pops up, all smiles and lightness, completely oblivious to the terror he raised in my heart. I explain, very carefully, very slowly, to him the error of his judgement. I'm quite pleased with myself that I didn't scream or unleash the irrational demons in my head. I wanted this to be a reasoned conversation so that I could impress upon him that running off at the zoo (or anywhere else for that matter) was not the wisest of choices. He nodded his understanding and reluctantly accepted his punishment of having to hold my hand for the rest of the field trip. He was considerably more subdued, but no less enthusiastic about the zoo.

The other feral boy, however, was not deterred by Jared's confinement. He continued to run and jump and climb and shriek at the animals and bang on the glass windows. At the end of the walk through the zoo, while we waited to board the buses, he threw himself on the ground, rolled around in circles, and howled that he needed a penny for the souvenir penny machine. It was embarrassing. Finally, I had enough and told him to get up off the ground. To my surprise, he actually listened that time and got up and was "normal". Weird.

Meantime, the perfectly behaved young gentleman had turned sour all on account that I wasn't buying him ice cream. It didn't matter that there was no one at the ice cream stand, nor that I informed him that I didn't have any money to buy anyone any ice cream. Suddenly, his perfect day at the zoo turned into the "worst zoo visit ever". He became sulky and sullen and dragged his feet and was generally unpleasant until we got back on the bus.

But you know, none of that mattered. What mattered was that I had Jared with me and hopefully he learned a valuable lesson about running off. At the end of the day, I had my perfectly Jared young boy, who in the grand scheme of things is pretty well behaved, and not some other feral child who yells and screams when he doesn't get his way. I have my children and that's what's important.

The Meaning of Life

Well, it's been an interesting couple of days. We went to Roseburg to visit Mike's parents. While we were down visiting, a dear friend of the family passed away, Penny Gerking. It brought into sharp focus the transitory nature of life. You never know when someone who is close to you will be gone forever. It makes you stop and think about things.

Penny was a beautiful, grandmotherly type of a woman. She had befriended Maia, our daughter, a few years ago at our church. Penny volunteered as a teacher in the children's religious education program as well as sang in the church choir. She was always generous with her spirit and was always happy to see us, particularly Maia.

She and Maia became better aquainted when they became Lighthouse Pals, an interegenerational activity at our church - something along the lines of Secret Santas, but designed to bridge the gap between the generations and foster stronger connections within our church community. Every week they would exchange notes and gifts and try to guess who their Lighthouse Pal was. Maia would be delighted with the little notes and presents Penny would leave her. One in particular was a crown made of streamers and this became Maia's favorite thing. We kept it safe so it wouldn't get ruined in the kids' rooms. I think Maia still has it hidden in one of her treasure boxes.

Penny's death was out of the blue. Well, not entirely. Penny's family kept the church community aware of what was transpiring after Penny's initial stroke, subsequent coma, and final passing. But it happened in the span of a week or less. A blink of an eye, really.

And then we were in Roseburg, hanging out with my in-laws. It occured to both Mike and myself that Kay and Marilyn won't always be around, that one of these visits might be the last one of its kind. That's kind of sad, really. I have always enjoyed my visits to Roseburg. Kay always cooks me my favorite foods, although this trip there was a decided lack of buffalo steak. I enjoy Kay's diatribes. They are entertaining and educational. All his kids have heard them before, so he seems to enjoy the fact that he has a willing audience in me. This visit presented me with the topic "The Tomato Garden Theory of Child Rearing". Strange as the topic may sound, Kay is a bright man and he has some compelling theories on life.

Marilyn is such a wonderful source of comfort for me. I can call her and talk to her about my problems and she listens carefully and gives me sage advice. I love the fact that she can fall asleep in the middle of a maelstorm and won't even bat an eye. I wish I could sleep through most things. She bakes really lovely pies, too. I think between her and Kay's cooking I gained two pounds while we were visiting.

It will be sad when things change for our visits, but we know that at some point they will. It is inevitable. So we did the best we could to enjoy the time we had while we were there. We'll try and make it down more often, now that we have a reliable car to drive.

When we came home, or rather a day after we came home, my grandmother collapsed in the home she's staying at. She was rushed to the hospital where my mom and dad met her. Her blood pressure was unusually low and they suspect she suffered a TIA. She's still in the hospital and the doctors still don't know what's going on with her.

I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, I love my grandmother very much. On the other hand, she's 92 and has Alzheimer's. I know that the grandmother that I know doesn't exist anymore. This is just the body of my grandmother - still deserving of love and attention, but just not the same person she was. She is incapable of being that person and I have come to terms with that.

But I feel for my parents, who are the primary ones to take care of her. They visit her frequently at the assisted living facility and they make sure that all of her needs are being met. They really do take good care of Grandma, and I know that it's hard on both of them, particularly my father. It's his mother who is gone and still there.

So what do I hope the outcome of Grandma's hospital stay? It's hard to say. I don't want to have to say good-bye to someone I love very much, but at the same time, she's slipping further and further into her dementia and it's taking its toll on my parents, whom I also love.

Why does life bring us so close to one another that we can hear each other's heartbeat only to snatch it away, leaving only the faint trace of the connection in the void left between us? Why must one go quickly while another lingers, transformed into something unrecognizable? Both losses hurt.

Whether or not we like it, no matter its form, death does come. But life wouldn't be as virdent and meaningful if we kept our distance in order to avoid the end of life loss. We must connect and love otherwise we grow cold as stone and our own soul dies long before our flesh. We risk the loss at our first embrace, but I would have it no other way. I have grown knowing my grandmother and loving her. I have grown knowing Penny and loving her. I have grown knowing both my grandfathers, knowing Donna Frisk, knowing Cheryl Kreibl, and loving them all.