My folks had an "open house" for kids from about '56 to '76. It was on Parita Place in Ancon, Canal Zone (central America that is). It was known as "Belden's" or just "B's". In the twenty years it was open, nearly 5,000 "kids" hung out there. The rules were - no dope, no booze, no fighting and no cussing AND "one foot on the floor". There was TV to watch, a stereo to listen to, a dining room tableon which to play cards (pinochle, bridge, hearts, poker) or chess or monopoly, a living room to hang out and talk in and a kitchen with free pepsi or coca cola (one per person per day), usually a pantry with munchies and my dad made killer hamburgers for a select few. It was safe and clean and friendly - and there was an adult who would always listen - most adults didn't listen to "kids". Parents were relieved to know there was a place their kids could go and not get in trouble and it was a good place to meet people who could become lifelong friends.
During the school year, on week nights, there'd be 10 or twelve folks stop in and on weekends it would be more like 20 to 40 coming over. For special occassions, like Easter, Christmas, New Years Eve and during Carnival the numbers might go up to 70 to 100. I've got the "sign in" books from about '62 to '76 so I know these numbers are good.
What made the place special, aside from the fact that it existed, were the "kids". They were a pretty accepting group, and it didn't matter where you came from, or who your folks were, or what language you spoke at home - it was what kind of a person you were that was important. If you were an idiot, the other things didn't matter. If you were a good person the other things didn't matter either. Idiots seldom made a second visit to "B's".
My dad, "Mr. B", understood "kids" (read teenagers). He knew what a trying time that period of not being a child and not yet an "adult" was, with all its insecurities and confusion. His gift was helping "kids" going through tough times, helping them understand that it wasn't fatal, wasn't unending and that things would get better and life would go on - just what they needed to not give up and pack it in (I know of at least 20 people who are alive today because someone was there to show them that suicide wasn't the answer). And it was often "love" that caused the most grief and the most joy, with parents running a close second.
Did you know that Mr. B was a regular guest lecturer at the University of Panama - teen psychology was his topic and he knew a lot about the subject. Many of you may have used some of what Mr. B told you way back then to you r kids when they hit that critical age.
My mother should be nominated for sainthood, putting up with the mob of kids that flowed into and out of the house. Fred Huddleston really tried her patience though. Seems Fred and a few others decided that a party would be a great way to meet girls. Unfortunately, his parents weren't supportive of having such a party at their house. So "B's" would be the logical place.
During the week before the "party", people would come up to me at school and say "Big party at your house this weekend!". "Yeah right!" I'd say sarcastically.
The Friday afternoon of "the Friday Night", my mother had a shower for one of the women from church. At seven that night the punch bowl was still out, as was half a cake and a boatload of cookies and finger food with dip. And when kids started wandering in it wasn't unusual. But when the 200 th kid walked through the door and stuffed themselves into the living room there was a realization that something different was going on.
At nine o'clock she announced that there were no more cokes, no more pepsis, no more Orange Crush, no more munchies and no more food in the house. She said someone had better go get more if this "thing" was to continue. Then she went back to talking with the kids and making her rosaries (the woman could take a spool of wire and some beads and crank out rosaries like a machine!). When I came home about ten o'clock I saw all the cars parked everywhere and assumed someone was having a party. When I tried to get into MY HOME, people asked if I'd been invited and wanted to know who had invited me! Such was life living at "B's".
And there were the "outings" (no, not that kind of "outing"!). My dad would take 10 or 12 of us out to K-9, or K-6 (rivers in the jungle) or to Goofy Lake, ( a guy damned up a valley and made his own lake - people called him Goofy when he told them of his plan) or Santa Clara Beach, or Gorgona Beach or Rio Mar Beach (remember the black sand?) etc. We'd pile into the '57 red and white Ford station wagon, sometimes two deep, and take off for some adventure. How he put up with all the jostling and foolishness is beyond me. When we got too obnoxious he'd yell "Quit horsing around!", what ever that meant, and we'd quiet down - for a minute or two at least.
In 1976, my dad "retired" and my folks bought a home in Dothan Alabama. A lot of Canal Zone families had retired in Dothan and the pace and the climate were sort of like the Zone - slower, hot, humid and rainy. Their place had three bedrooms, 2 and a half bathrooms, small formal living room and dining room, but fair sized family room. But it had a huge playroom - a converted three car garage - carpteted, paneled, with lots of windows and built in shelves and cabinets. They put in a bumper pool table, the old rattan chairs from their place in the Zone and the bamboo beds from my old room. There was a TV and a stereo and lots of pillows to put on the floor and sit on - why do kids like to sit on the floor? There were books and board games and a bumper pool table.
Since most of their neighbors worked (both mothers and fathers), their kids soon discovered "B's Alabama". They'd come over after school and hang out until dinner time and come back over "to do their homework". And soon there were many - like the Zone B's place. Kids wandering in and out, getting ready to go "do something" or coming over "after doing something". There were trips to the Panama City Florida beach and amusement parks, trips to the many lakes nearby and an occasional trip to Six Flags and Stone Mountain up in Atlanta.
And so it went - until '84.
My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in '84 and went through surgery and rehabilitation. But it came back. Nearly a year of chemotherapy didn't help and she died in late '85. My son and I were there for the last month. She'd play cards and read to my son and when she was too weak to read to him, he'd read to her. Sometimes he'd just crash on the couch next to her hospital bed in the living room and read to himself. He wanted to be nearby in case she needed anything. My son just turned 21 in '98 and he's still a good "kid" who looks out for others and is there to help if needed. I'm proud of him and I'm sure his grandmother is at this moment bragging about him to the angels.
But 1984 took a lot out of Mr. B. Never one to ask for help, he tried to take care of my mother by himself. And since he wasn't good at brushing people off , especially nosey ones, he got tired of all the questions about how my mom was doing. How do you tell other people that she's dying when you don't want to believe it yourself?
So he withdrew. My mother's death in 1985 hit him harder than any of us knew.
By late '85 most of his "kids" had grown up and gone off to college or to work and families. But two of the remaining kids "got pregnant" in '87. They were married in dad's living room - both high school drop outs, one an orphan and the other funcitionally an orphan. Without dad's help they were in for a lot of hard times.
Six months after the baby was born, a little girl, the father split. Dad started baby sitting while the mother returned to finish high school. For a while it was for half days and then when the mother started working for entire days. Sometimes he'd have the baby for two days at a time. Our weekly phone conversations were mainly about how amazing Kimmy was - she was at least a genius according to dad.
When the babies mother went after the father for child support, the father turned dad in for running an illegal day care center (if there's a God the child's father has some heavy duty explaining to do). The law in Alabama stated that unless you were a blood relative, you could not have a child in your home for more than 12 hours in a 24 hour period. By now the baby was a significant part of dad's life - actually she was a reason to live - someone who needed him. And the mother couldn't make it if there weren't "pappa" to watch her daughter while she was in school or at work. Things got pretty tense for a while. Dealing with beauracracies was not Mr. Bs forte.
Dad got his property rezoned, got a day care license, and a business license and went to the loacl junior college and took the classes required to be a certified day care worker. The day care license stated that it was specifically for one child only, by name. That caused a few problems. When folks saw the signs that his property was being rezoned for a day care center they callled to get there child in it. Dad explained the reason for the day care thing and explained the "one child only" restriction. Most understood. But one couple threatened to file a law suit if dad didn't take their kid into his day care center. (I think there may be far too many lawyers in this country)
The Baby, Kimberly Marie or Kimmy, was growing up. When she obviously needed to be around other kids her age, dad found a day care center near his house and got her into daycare. At first he'd hang around after dropping her off and coming early to watch before taking her home. Pretty soon he was a volunteer full time. He'd keep an eye on the more rambuncious kids when the others where down for naps and occasionally watched the infants when a regular staff member was sick or had an appointment.
And Kimmy was growing up. When she started school dad had less to do. When the child's mother remarried he "baby sat" once in a while and they'd stop by for visits often. But when they moved twenty five miles away things tapered off a lot and the time between visits grew longer. Phone calls from "pappa" became less important to an eight year old. Days can get pretty long when you don't have to be anywhere and don't have to do anything. Not doing anything is not good for you.
So life became reading the paper, watching TV, going out to eat every other night. Sleep when you're sleepy and be awake when you're not. So he'd be up 'til 2 or 3 am and sleep 'til noon or one or two. Naps and sleep happened at all hours of the day and night. You ate when you were hungry and if there was food to eat. Cooking was not dad's strong suit so most "meals" were sandwiches. Tried getting him into microwave meals but he vehemently was opposed to microwave ovens. "I wouldn't use one, even if it was a flotation device and I was drowning!"
Our now daily phone conversations gave no hint of how really lonely and isolated he was. Our annual three week visits did point up the need for some serious house cleaning and home repairs also occupied a good hunk of that time. But things seemed to be more or less OK. And dad rejected all suggestions about moving out to California to be closer to my son and I.
On my '97 annual visit it became apparent that a big house was requiring more time and energy to keep up than dad was able to muster. Shopping and cooking was getting harder and harder. So we looked into local assisted living places and found one a mile from his house. The young couple with the little girl were going to move into the house and dad and I would subsidize them. In time they'd be offered the house at a very good price. And dad could come over a Saturday or two each month and Kimmy could come over to see him at Somerset just up the road. Looked like a good deal for all concerned.
Then we found a growth on my father's neck the last week of July of '97. Made some quick arrangements and my cousin, in the medical field, pulled some strings for dad. We saw a surgeon on Wednesday, the tumor was removed surgically on Thrusday and he was back at the house by 11 am on Friday.
Now picture this. An 81 year old is leaving a hospital after surgery on his neck. He has 32 staples in his neck, 5 stitches behind the ear and four in front, with a plastic drain tube coming out of his neck and connected to a little pump thing in his pocket. He gets into the car and LIGHTS A CIGARETTE!
To his credit, he was a fairly good patient and I was an excellent nurse. But he hated going to doctor appointments.
Dad had a private room with a private bath at Somerset. Got him a recliner and a TV and portable phone. We brought out some of his furniture, an oriental screen, artwork and lamps from the house. then we did morning half days for two days and then afternoon and overnights for two days to work out the bugs. There were a few bugs to work out.
Sundays in the South are church days. Dad, being a Catholic in a Southern Baptist dominated place, found himself on a couch, wedged between an overweight lady resident in her Sunday finest wearing a bit more perfume than the EPA recomends, and the minister's wife. In front of him, just beyond arms length were three guitar strumming, hymn singing guys backing up the bible bearing orator/singer/preacher. Now if you've never heard a Southern Baptist minister "preach" you really must experience it at least once in your lifetime. But under no circumstances do so in a confined space - stay at least 25 feet away - 50 feet or more if you're able to get back that far. And bring a fan, even if the place is air conditioned - folks can work up a sweat during the services.
So there dad was, wedged in and surrounded by "musicians" and "church folks", with all their goings on - for over an hour! "Why didn't you just skip it, or get up and leave?" I asked. Dad didn't want to be rude. Hell, I'd have resorted to vomiting if that's what it took to get away - but not dad. So I had a long conversationwith the administrator and explained that dad was a Catholic and not that into demonstrative religion - he preferred a more quiet God. Problem solved.
So by the time I left Dothan, dad was settling in, the young couple was working on fixing up the house and I came home to two weeks with my son before he left to work in Munich Germany (5,800 miles and 9 times zones away from home).
Sometime after I phoned him on August 6 th, dad took a fall lin the bathroom at Somerset. I got a call from the administrator at 1 AM Califronia time. She was at the hospital and dad was gettting X-rayed. He was not in any danger but they thought he may have broken a rib and or a broken leg. Twelve hours later I was talking to an orthopedic surgeon. Dad had fractured the neck of his left femur, between the vertical part of the thigh bone and the piece that goes to the ball that goes to the hip socket. The plan was to make a 2 inch incision and put in two screws to stabilize the fracture. Dad's sister, who lives in Dothan was giving me almost hourly reports of dad's condition. I was going to fly back there but she suggested waiting. There wasn't anything I could do that she wasn't already doing. the surgery was successful and apparently uneventful.
Three days after surgery, dad was moved to a rehabilitiation center for 4 weeks of rehab. That was the plan at least. But the fall, the surgery , the anesthetic and the pain pills were too much. He was delerious for nearly a week and the estimate of rehab time went from a month to two or three months. Ten days later things changed dramaticallly and a little over two weeks later he was up and about, though using a walker, mainly for support. He returned to Somerset assisted living and things looked like they were going to settle down.
Dad had been back at the assisted living facility about a week when I got a call from the administrator. Dad was getting bored (not a whole lot of activity at a Seniors Home) and when bored had begun doing annoying things. When you've got a lot of people with hearing aides that are particularly sensitive to high frequencies, whistling is not a good idea. For whatever reason, he was unable or unwilling to stop whistling at the dinner table. Then he began exploring - particualarly the kitchen and especially when cooking is going on. Checking out kitchen drawers and knives is not cool. Wandering off towards the road is not cool.
On a Friday afternoon in early September, I got a call from the place dad was at. "We can't keep you father here for much more than a week and the nearest place that will take him is 25 miles away. What are YOU going to do?" A week is not a long time under normal circumstances, but was extremely brief when it required finding doctors, local assisted living facilities, airline tickets, etc. Did a lot of running around and lots of phone calls before the next Thursday when I flew back to Dothan. Got in around 4:30, saw dad and began packing up the house for the next two and a half days.
On Monday flew back with dad to California. He stayed with us a few days and then moved to Cedar Creek Assisted Living just down the road. For the next several months I'd pick him up around 10 am and get him back for dinner or pick him up after lunch and take him back around 9 or 10 or 11. Things settled in and were pretty good.
Just after Christmas I got the flu. Then dad got it and I had to take him to the emergency room. His doctor was afraid he might have pneumonia. He was delirius - seeing gorillas in the trees and hearing things. I on the other hand just felt like I'd already died. Two Charles Beldens in the same emergency room can get interesting/ I kept pointing out that I was the younger one and that there was an older one around somewhere. Four hours later and a chest x-ray and blood test later we left with a prescription for antibiotics for each of us.
I returned him to Cedar Creak and went and got his prescription filled. I left him and his antibitoics with the full time nursing staff of Cedar Creek and went home and crawled into bed where I would remain for the next 7 days - literally. He had nurses taking care of him, I had to fend for myself. At least that's what I thought.
One of the nurses at Cedar Creek called me a week later. Dad was running a fever and his doctor had ordered chest x-rays "stat", which turned out to mean six and a half hours later. Unfortunately, by the time the x-rays were available to the doctor he was gone for the weekend. But I did reach the on call doctor and convinced him to come over to see my father since he couldn't be moved. Mr. B looked as close to death as can be imagined. Seems as though no one noticed that he wasn't eating OR drinking much for three or four days - not the thing to do when you've got the flu and are running a fever. The doctor ordered a series of blood tests and the next day the results were back.
Dad was severly anemic and dehydrated and was in renal failure (kidneys were shutting down). He was also down to about 92 pounds. On January 12th dad was admitted to the hospital directly into the acute care wing. They started an IV and continued the antibiotics he'd been taking. He was one very sick puppy and I wasn't sure he was going to make it.
Began spending two hours in the morning, two hours around lunch time and two hours around dinner hanging out on the ward or in dad's room. Lots of details to watch out for and inform the nursing staff of. Even being there a lot and keeping an eye on things doesn't guarantee things won't happen . . .
Dad had a living will that stated "no heroic measures", "do not resuscitate" and "no stomach tubes or ventilators". His doctor therefore ordered "food by mouth only"and assumed that the hospital staff would order a pureed diet and thick fluids (dad would choke on water and was too weak to chew). But the speech therapist checked him out and because of his weak swallow reflex ordered "nothing by mouth", assuming he'd get nutrients by stomach or nasal tube.
Two days my lady Elaina and I were visiting dad and Elaina asked if the IV was glucose. I checked and it was saline. "When does he get the glucose?" Elaina asked. "I'll check with the nurses" I sadi. "There are no doctors orders for glucose." said the nurse. I can't repeat all the things I then said but it wasn't long after that dad started getting pureed food and thickened liquids. Medicine is now a business and when dealing with business, especially life and death business be very very careful and very very thorough. The life you save could be your mom or dads.
When he was feeling a little better the rehabilitation people started working with him. One of them was named Cesar and I asked if he spoke spanish. He did. So I told him dad could also speak spanish fluently. The word got out and all the staff who spoke spanish would talk to him exclusively in spanish. Dad repsonded well to spanish and the spanish speaking staff enjoyed using their native language. Spanish also got dad extra dessert on a regualr basis.
As Mr. B's condition began to improve we began looking for a long term care facility with "skilled nursing" for him. (there are assisted living facilities, rehabilitation facilities, and long term care facilities - and only a lawyer could sort out what differntiates one from the other). If you find yourself ever needing one of these places use the following rule of thumb - "if the lobby is expensive looking but the "residents" are four to a room and most of the care givers don't speak english though viet namese, thai, cambodian, chinese and korean are common - go look for another place."
We finally found Almaden Care and Rehabilitation, a half a mile from home. As we walked in the front door we encountered a cat, followed by a little girl of 3 or 4 who picked up the cooperative cat and walked down the hall and into one of the resident's rooms. That was the first good omen. There were a fair number of visitors about - another good omen. When we met the admissions person, it was in her small but functional office (look for small ooffices and large resident rooms). Elaina and I liked her within five minutes. We got a tour of the place and were told the services they provided and the price. We wandered around some more, talking with residents and staff people and got a real good feeling about the place. Three days later we brought dad over from the hospital and things started settling in.
For the first ten days at Almaden Rehab dad was on an IV. His kidneys hadn't kicked back in yet. But I got together with the nutritionist and made sure dad got the pureed diet and thickened liquids he needed. And when you make friends with the kitchen staff you can get extra mashed potatoes and extra gravy and soup and often an extra dessert.
Since dad was still having trouble eating I'd stop by for lunch and again for dinner. Once the routine got established and I started trusting the staff I stopped the 3 times a day for two hours each visits and went down to one visit a day. As dad grew stronger he no longer needed the IVs though still required oxygen. That sort of limited his visits to our house though the weather didn't permit it either. We had almost two months of rain with 2 or 3 days of some sun but mostly overcast and cold. In that time I was able to take him outside in a wheelchair with an oxy bottle and did get one trip back home before the bad weather returned.