The Death of My Father

Wednesday night while I sat at the airport, waiting for my sister to pick me up and take me to the hospital where my father lay dying, my father’s heart stopped for the very last time.

My timing is often off, but this is a new level of inept, even for me.

                

My father and I had our differences, though I think he was unaware of them. Okay, so I had my issues. The last time we talked on the phone he’d called me, which was unusual because he usually waited for me to call so he could complain about how long it’d been since he’d heard from me. But he needed to talk, and I heard from him a deeper level of sadness than I’d heard before. He was tired, he was sick, he had outlived his siblings, and he was, as far as I could tell, just waiting.

He’d been waiting for years. He didn’t expect to live to the age of 83, so when he did, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Around thirty years ago I was told I’d better get home for Christmas that year, because he wasn’t expected to live much longer. His heart was going. He’d had a stroke, a heart attack, lost a kidney, and he was, according to his doctors, a walking time bomb.

So I traveled from Europe to be there for Christmas, and can you believe it? He kept on living. I didn’t mind so much. It was a relief to have him still around.

We expect our parents to just keep going, to always be there because they always have been, and then suddenly they’re not, and it’s as if they’ve abandoned us. This is because they have abandoned us. The nerve of them.

During our last phone conversation I let him talk, as I always did, because he did love to talk. Mostly about himself of course – his world had become so small that all he really knew about was himself, and so he talked and he talked and he talked, and I’d interject the appropriate comments when needed. He was insistent on staying in his own apartment, though it wasn’t feasible. He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t take care of himself, but he didn’t want to go in a facility, and he didn’t want to pay anyone to take care of him. I told him we just wanted what was best for him, because we only wanted what was best for him. My sister was at his beck and call for years, and he counted on her to keep him in his own place for . . . ever.

Last week he went into the hospital. He had an infection, he wasn’t well, and they talked of sending him home in a few days, but not home, to a rehab facility, perhaps assisted living after that, but he kept getting worse instead of better, and suddenly decisions had to be made. He never wanted to talk about his wishes, just that he was going to die in his own apartment, thank you very much, though he never shared with us how he saw that happening. Perhaps he would go to sleep one night and not wake up. Perhaps he kept finding himself alive each morning and wondered “what the . . . ?”

He thought about what would happen afterwards, and he prepaid for his cremation. When his wife died, suddenly and unexpectedly of a massive heart attack (she who thought she was going to outlive him and had planned her life for after dad), he had no money, and we, his four kids, paid for what needed to be paid for. We were glad to do it, and one of us was her child too. He didn’t want that to happen again, and so he made sure it wouldn’t. But he didn’t plan for up to that point because how could he? How can you plan for something when it can happen so many different ways?

Maybe he would die quietly one night, his once frail heart giving up, the ticking time bomb finally going off. Perhaps he would die in a car accident. Maybe he’d be stricken with an illness and go slowly. Who knew?

Years ago he had cancer. This was long after his heart attack and his stroke and the loss of his kidney. Or was it two heart attacks? Two strokes or one? No matter. After his wife died he lived alone, and then, one day, he was diagnosed with bladder cancer. He went into the hospital, they removed his bladder, and he had a long and difficult recovery. But he recovered, cancer free, and after recovery he was moved into an apartment close to my sister.

I was there when we packed up his old apartment, up at Big Bear where he’d lived for years. His move to this apartment had left with fewer possessions, and this next move would leave him fewer still. He didn’t much.

But it seemed like no matter what happened to try to kill him, he’d just slough it off and keep going. And then he has the nerve to not even wait an extra hour for me to get from the airport to the hospital. Can you believe that? I got here as fast as I could. I made plane reservations, packed, got to the airport, made it through security in record time, even trying out the new scanner thingy, made it to my gate when they were doing last call, and got on the plane. Gosh darn it, I was going to be there to be with him!

I’m good with dying people. I’m good at sitting with them and holding a hand, or listening to them if they can or want to talk, and I’m good at being a calming influence. I can sit for hours next to their bed, just in case they need me. I can tell them what they need to hear, and I can reassure them. I can make sure they’re not alone. (It’s the living I have a problem with. The dying are easy.) He had no appreciation for any of my other talents, but this was one that I could use, and then he dies before I can swing into action.

Possibly the only thing I could have ever given him, other than the annual slippers he liked for Christmas, and he leaves before I can be useful. I could have been a better daughter, but I wasn’t, and there’s no going back. But that’s okay. We only do what we can when we’re doing it, and there aren’t any do-overs. If there were, so many of us would be doing over we’d never get anywhere at all. Besides, it took me a long time to accept myself the way I am, and damned if I’ll feel guilty now.

He was my dad, and I’ll always remember how hard he tried to take care of us when he was on his own, between wives, a single dad who kept us fed and clothed and secure, and how he gave me some fabulous siblings who I love very much. He produced some awesome human beings (not me, but the others), so he deserves a lot of credit for that. He was stubborn, often difficult, self-centered, and not very imaginative. But so what? I wanted so much to help him – I didn’t want him to suffer, or be in pain, or be sad and alone. And at the end, he had my sister, as he had for years, and she and my brothers, were there for him, and with him. And three out of four ain’t bad, is it? But he knew I was coming, they told him so, and so I expect he knew we all wanted the best for him, whatever form it took. I like to think he was happy at the end. Let’s go with that theory, since there’s no way to know for sure. 

Better Pain

There’s worse pain, and there’s better pain, and I’m currently experiencing better pain, though it sounds worse than it is. Or does it sound better? Less pain, that’s what I mean. I’m not trying to say that I’m a masochist and the quality of the pain is suiting me nicely, thank you very much. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m totally on your side if you’re into pain. I won’t be inflicting the pain because I’m not a sadist either, but yeah, whatever makes you happy.

After a weekend wherein both legs decided it would be fitting to punish me for my lack of attention to their needs (whatever those might be) I’m quite happy to have less pain now. As if the fibromyalgia by itself isn’t bad enough, one knee is also inflamed and has been for weeks. I think the anti-inflammatories are starting to kick in though, just in time for the Thanksgiving Marathon.

This isn’t a real marathon, in case you were wondering where to sign up. It’s the standing in the kitchen type of marathon.

 I wonder how people with real pain, as opposed to my whiny, self-indulgent pain, deal with it. I can well imagine how frustrating and annoying it must be, as well as painful. For weeks I’ve been consigned to keeping off my bad knee, keeping my legs elevated when possible, and cutting down on my trips up and down the stairs. I went to Las Vegas in this condition, knowing it was a bad idea, but committed to a work conference I didn’t want to miss. When I returned home three days later my right knee was twice the size of my left, but the conference was worth it.

Since then, my efforts to keep up the appearance of occasionally taking care of my house have been stymied. I’m fortunate that I have 1) a desk job, and 2) a desk job in my own house, so I can keep the traveling to a minimum. How do people not as lucky as me deal with it? If I had to go to a job every day I’m pretty sure I’d be damn bitchy about it.

Yes. I’m pretty bitchy anyway. It’s always “me, me, me, ow! My legs hurt!” like anyone cares. And really, how bad can it be?

I am extremely lucky in my pain. I may wonder when it will ever end, if it will ever end, because sometimes it seems to go on forever, but that passes, and each day I decide that the next day will be a better pain day, and that I will wake up cured.

Over the weekend, when it was at its worst, I really missed running. I haven’t run in years, and I don’t really wish to return to it now, but the idea of it sounded very appealing, and that’s because, no doubt, I couldn’t do it at all. I used to run, and once, when I was quite a bit younger, I was even fast. I’m no longer fast, and I hobble more than I walk.

We’re often like that, I think. When we can’t do something we weren’t that interested in to begin with, we wish we could do it. It’s the possibility of it that we miss more than anything else.

I don’t, however, wish I could date again. I’m so happy to never have to go through that again. And high school. There’s something I’d never want to repeat. Talk about pain. But running? That wasn’t painful, and while I wasn’t thrilled about it overly much after high school, I could, and did, do it. Wishing I could again isn’t because I miss running, it’s because if I could run, that would mean my legs weren’t all washed up, and if my legs weren’t all washed up, I could do a lot of other things that are hard for me now. Like exercising – I’ve had to stay off the recumbent bike for a few weeks so it sits there in the corner of my office, all sad and forlorn, and I’m thinking that in the next few days I’ll give it a shot again. It misses me so, after all.

To everyone who has pain, I wish you less of it, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional. Whether you have pain or not, I ask that you not inflict any pain on yourself or others. Life has enough pain in it all by itself that we don’t need to make more of it. Everyone gets their share, fair or not, and if there’s anything I could do to alleviate yours, I would. Not to get all sentimental on you or anything, but you often don’t know what pain others are in, so keep that in mind.

Let’s avoid causing pain of any sort, because there’s certainly enough to go around already. Instead, let’s see if we can alleviate pain. It may not make it all better, or any better, but at least we won’t make a bad situation worse.

Anyway, we’ve got Congress for that.

Sorry. I had to slip that one in there. I could just use the generic term government though. All the same to me.

Happy Veterans Day. Really.

We love us our veterans, don’t we? As a peacetime veteran, I’m all about Veterans Day. I didn’t spend several years of my life hanging out in a uniform so I could get a day off once a year, which was just as well since it was many years before I had Veterans Day off. And I wasn’t in when there were conflicts and wars, only pretend let’s-get-ready-just-in-case practices. It was no big deal for me, because I am lucky.

But here it is Veterans Day again, as it rolls around each year, and I want to thank everyone who served. So there you go.

Last week I was in Portland, and on my way home. One of the freeway entrances that I frequent often has people on the corner. Cardboard signs abound, pleas for help, and sometimes cardboard artwork. The clientele differs. Sometimes they’re young and healthy looking, and I wish they had other options than to stand on a corner and wait for people to hand them money.

I know, I’ve been told many times that “they” make more than I do, that “they” could work if they wanted to, and that “they” will just spend any handouts frivolously. I don’t hand out money, but that’s mostly because I never carry cash. And I don’t carry cash because I probably would hand it out. And then there would be none left for me. I wouldn’t hand it out to everyone, but there are times when I see someone and I think, “I wish I could give that person something.” But I can’t do everything I want to do.

On this one day there was only one person on that corner, and he was old, and thin, and his sign said he was a veteran, and he was homeless. He couldn’t move very well, but there he stood, with his cardboard sign, inviting anyone to stop.

Was it true? As far as I know. People have said I should be more suspicious of others, but I’m not, and that’s just the way it’s going to be. He looked like a veteran, worn out and used, and then discarded because, well, he’s no longer much use to us, is he? He can’t be sent overseas to fight, and he can’t be put to good use, so there he is, on the street corner.

“He doesn’t have to be homeless,” people say, but I don’t know. I do know that many are homeless, and many have problems that aren’t addressed because there isn’t enough money to take care of them all, and we easily assume that their problems are because of who they are, not because we’ve let them down.

He reminded me of Fred, my once hospice patient who was also a veteran, until he retired. He went to war, he came home with health issues, and as he was dying he was still awaiting word on whether his exposure to Agent Orange qualified him for disability. He was dying from a respiratory disorder, but the VA said it wasn’t their fault – it was his own fault for smoking.

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. I don’t know.

I’m not nearly as knowledgeable as I would like to be. I don’t have answers, only questions.

On this one day I had a ten dollar bill in my wallet. This happens very infrequently. I pressed the little button on my fancy car that tells the window to roll down, and the man with the sign hobbled over to me. I handed him the ten dollar bill, and then he grasped my hand firmly in his, and told me to enjoy the day, for it was sunny, the sky a clear bright blue. I told him to enjoy the day also, and he smiled, and then the light changed. He hobbled back to his spot, and I drove onto the freeway, lighter for the loss of ten dollars.

Sometimes being lighter is the best thing that can happen to us.

People will say, “He’ll only spend it on booze, you should never give them money,” but I don’t really care. Get this: I don’t even care what he spends it on. That’s his business, not mine. I’m not his mommy, I’m not even a social agency. I gave him a gift of ten bucks, and what he does with it is up to him.

What we do speaks volumes about what we think of our veterans, and no matter what we say, it’s our actions that tell the truth, not platitudes.

My nephew recently came home from war. I want to thank him, and tell him I love him, and I hope he never needs to rely upon the government, for it may let him down. But that doesn’t mean people will. The government is one thing. People are another.

People are what I still have faith in. 

Living On The Edge

Despite my current occupation, I’m a daredevil at heart. Accountants get a lot of bad press, and I’m not sure why. After all, engaging in mortal combat with the IRS isn’t for the faint of heart, is it?

But it’s more than that. It’s a reckless disregard for my personal safety, a willingness to go right to the edge of propriety, a longing for just a bit of almost danger, all while avoiding the IRS because we’re not, y’know, besties or anything.

Today I outdid myself, and I removed all the privacy settings on my Facebook account. I KNOW! I’m courting disaster and I feel all energized!

Since that worked so well for me (though there hasn’t been time yet for my new settings to put me in danger, though I’m sure by nightfall I’ll be totally sorry), I’m also going out to lunch without a knee brace or a patella strap. It’s all about living on the edge, though being unable to get either of those on underneath my jeans helps.

I’m considering having a milkshake on my way home. A totally milk-based product! If that’s not living on the edge, I don’t know what is. (And I’m not just referring to the edge of the toilet seat that’s probably in my future, if I should carry out this plan.)

I may leave my driver’s license at home today. How’s that for potential danger? What if I get pulled over for going 25 in a 45 zone? “License and registration,” the mean cop will say, and I’ll come back with, “Ha! Left my license at home! Now what are you going to do?” I really have no idea. I’ve never done anything as dangerous as this.

I’m just getting started here. I could write myself a really large check, more than I have in my account, and deposit it into another account, hoping I get more checks in the mail today! Well, wait, that’s a little too daredevilish even for me, so we’ll skip that one.

How about this one? I’m not going to floss tonight. Nope. No flossing tonight. Am I courting potential tooth decay and loss of teeth? YES!

I’ll check in later and let you know how it went. If I end up in jail, I’ll be calling for bail money. 

“It’s Like Going to War”

I heard this on a commercial the other day, maybe for The Next Iron Chef. You know, where chefs compete to become television stars, if they aren’t already, by participating in cooking contests. I love a good cooking contest as well as the next person, so don’t get me wrong. Cooking competitions are fun. But apparently for chefs, it’s like going to war.

Really? Are people shooting at them while they’re cooking? Are bombs going off around them? Are IED’s littering the countertops? When they’re done with the competition will they return home with PTSD and an overwhelming urge to assimilate while being unsure how? Will they suffer bouts of anger, depression, and ennui? Or do they run the risk of not returning home at all when one of the competitors decides to Take The Competition Seriously and stabs them with a boning knife?

Okay, it’s true that I have no actual war experience myself. When I was in the military we were, nominally, at peace, and though we played at war for practice, there’s no way it could have been anything like actual war. I was aware of that when I was told to please lay on the body bag and then climb up into the truck myself, because if they’d zipped me up into the bag I’d 1) be unable to breathe, and then 2) gotten hurt when they’d throw my body bag up in into the truck, which is what would have happened if we’d been at war. Also, at the end of the day I got to leave the morgue and go back to . . . work. There’s nothing like a real war to show us that indeed, there’s nothing like war.

War is messy and icky and painful, and at the end the people who do get to come home don’t get awarded with a starring role in a television show. Though that’s not a bad idea, is it?

“It’s like going to war,” except it isn’t. But hey, who am I to say?

We love to exaggerate. Personally, I love to throw things in my writing like, “There’s absolutely nothing worse than . . . “ because, in real life, there are many worse things than whatever I’m saying, and while I’m not sure everyone else gets the irony, I do, so what else matters?

We love to appropriate inappropriate words and use them in a different context, especially if they’re powerful words. A favorite of mine is rape. “I’ve been raped by the government!” “I’ve been raped by big business!” “I’ve been raped by society!”

Whatever. When I hear this I immediately disregard whatever else the speaker is trying to say. If that’s the best they can do to describe what’s happening to them, I’m not inclined to hear any more. Maybe they’re right, and maybe they are being raped by amorphous entities who are holding them down and threatening their lives while . . . well, you know. Rape is a sexual assault. Maybe we should create a new word to describe what people think is rape, but isn’t. You go first. I’ll pick up on it later and find fault with it, if I can.

It’s what I do.

I’m going to work now, which is much like playing at war, in that I get to sit in a comfy office and get paid. At least that’s how I play war, I don’t know about you.

Cupcake Deficit Disorder: Symptoms and Treatment

Let’s talk about cupcakes. I only say this because I am suffering from Cupcake Deficit Disorder. I’m not allowed many cupcakes because they have sugar in them, and I’m supposed to be avoiding the stuff. And no, I don’t want to know about any sugar free cupcakes. If I’m going to eat empty carbs, at least let them have sugar.

Cupcake Deficit Disorder, or CDD as we call it around here, can, if left untreated, affect the central nervous system. It can also increase crankiness and decrease libido (so I hear), as well as turn a completely normal day into a day of darkness, despair, and deceit. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is something we all need to avoid, isn’t it? Unless you’re into that sort of thing.

Which I’m not. As anyone who knows me can tell you, I’m the exact opposite of darkness and despair. And deceit. Though I am not unfamiliar with conceit and am actually quite well acquainted with it. The mere act of assuming anyone wants to read what I have to say on cupcakes proves that.

But back to CDD.

CDD has only one treatment that has been proven, in clinical trials, to be successful. And by clinical trials, I mean this is what I’ve determined works. And that is: Cupcakes.

Yes! The treatment for CDD is cupcakes!

There are several ways you can test this out for yourself, should you suffer from CDD. And how do you know if you suffer from it? There are several very clear indicators, among them:

• Are you cranky first thing in the morning?
• Do you find yourself daydreaming about butter cream frosting on a dark chocolate cake?
• Do you find yourself making excuses to go by Cupcake Royale (or any similar cupcake shop) when you really didn’t need to be on that side of town at all?
• Do you snap at your children, your husband, your wife, or your pets? (This is a very clear indicator.)
• Do you dream of cupcakes when you sleep?
• Do you lie awake at night counting cupcakes in an attempt to get to sleep?
• Do you find yourself planning parties solely to have an excuse to have cupcakes?
• Have you looked up the nutritional value of cupcakes hoping to find that they’re somehow good for you? (They’re not, so you might as well not even look.)
• To pass time on the subway, do you imagine all the different cupcake and frosting combinations you can, and then write them down on a list that you later transcribe?
• Do you have the iPad Cupcake app which tells you where the nearest cupcake shop is, wherever you might be? (This is the absolute best reason for owning an iPad, by the way.)

If you have any of the above symptoms, you just might have CDD. Or you may be naturally cranky. The only way to tell is to try treating CDD and see if that helps.

  

When treating yourself for CDD, or a loved one (sometimes loved ones don’t know they need treatment, so it’s quite all right if you force them to eat cupcakes since you’re doing it out of love), it’s important to remember that quality trumps quantity. You can either make them yourself, if you’re into that sort of thing, or you can go to a Specialty Cupcake Shop. I prefer the second method, since the idea of me baking sort of takes all the fun out of it.

(I love to cook, but baking isn’t cooking. Not only that, but then I end up with way too many cupcakes, and then I’d have to eat said cupcakes, and then you’d all have to come to my funeral after I’ve lapsed into a diabetic coma and died.)

When deciding on what sort of cupcake to treat yourself with (treat yourself with! It’s a play on words!) remember that quality comes first. To do it properly, make sure you know exactly what kind of cupcake you really need. Or cupcakes, if you’re going to be consuming more than one at a time. Fortunately there’s a wide variety of available flavors and types and combinations, so you should be able to find just the thing.

You may want to call ahead to make sure the cupcakes you want have just been baked. There is absolutely nothing worse than showing up at the Specialty Cupcake Shop only to find out that there is no chocolate raspberry left, and that you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. (If this happens, you may want to try throwing a tantrum. Perhaps the Specialty Cupcake Shop will be so in awe of your tantrum that they’ll make more just for you.)

When consuming your cupcake, you have to be in the right frame of mind. You have to WANT to get better. If you consume the cupcake(s) not really caring if you recover from CDD or not you’ll just want more cupcakes and be no closer to recovery. You will, however, be momentarily satisfied until you crave the next cupcake (which may take place in ten minutes, an hour, or three days).  

I’m going to treat my CCD now, and in short order my charming husband will be relieved to see me stress and despair free. Your results may vary.

The Vacation Continues

As we drive home from Kalispell, the setting sun behind us, the sky in the east turns from blue to grey, the sort of end-of-the-day color that heralds the moon high in the sky. The mountains to the east, part of Glacier National Park, grow dim, as if behind tracing paper, the sort of thing we used to make a picture on top of a picture, for those of us who had no art skills. Geese swirl overhead, and it’s so peaceful that none of us speaks.

Or maybe we just have nothing to say. We’ve been to the Winchester Steakhouse, where my stepdad, Jerry, meant to buy us dinner on our last night. But instead we insisted on paying, for his birthday we told him, which is Friday, when we won’t be here. He doesn’t think it’s fair, but charming husband has given the waitress his card before Jerry could do anything about it, so it’s too bad for him.

I haven’t accomplished much during this visit, by which I mean, I haven’t gone through any more of Mom’s drawers, I haven’t winnowed out the discards from the keeps, I haven’t sorted the pictures. Underneath the table is a big plastic box, full of pictures, that I put there on a previous visit, but there’s a  drawer in the desk that Jerry points out to me that is more important to him. “There’s cards and pictures in there, and I don’t know what to do with them.”

“I’ll go through them,” I tell him, and he pulls open the drawer to reveal the folders from the mortuary, the cemetery, the probate papers, and underneath, cards and pictures.

“I want to keep those,” he says, indicating the death documents, “Just in case.”

The next day I go back to this drawer, and I look at the cards and pictures underneath. They’re cards and pictures that someone put away less than two years ago, and they’re pictures of, mostly, the funeral, and the after party (whose idea was it to have an after party anyway?), and the cards are sympathy cards. I put them in a neat pile to take home with me.

I also take possession of my grandfather’s old camera, and I go through some software for the computer, most of which I discard. It’s old and useless. I pick up a few of the small hard disks that were so prevalent just a few years ago (or so it seems) and on them my mother had printed “pictures,” and I wonder what to do with them. I don’t want to get rid of them in case the pictures are ones that should be kept, but how can I tell? My mom’s computer, now Jerry’s, doesn’t have one of those drives, and neither do any of my computers at home. I’ll keep them though, and figure that out later.

Other than that, I’m not productive this visit. Charming husband and I go for long drives and visit Glacier National Park, Jerry takes us for drives and shows us the buffalo down the street, the river that’s perfect for floating, the Canadian geese in a nearby pond, and at night we sit in the living room and we watch baseball. I’m calling these few days a vacation, and so I’m living them as a vacation.

Eventually I’ll have to deal with the big giant box of pictures, unless someone else gets to them first. I’m not sure what to do with them. I don’t know many of the people in the pictures. I know my side of the family, mostly, though not always, and I know fragments of Jerry’s family, but there are so many kids and grandkids and great grandkids and friends and strangers and there’s a past that I don’t even know about.

My mother had a life without me, and there’s so much of it I don’t know about. I was my mother’s oldest, but I wasn’t her favorite, and except for a few of the early years, I lived apart from her while growing up. She loved me, but we had separate lives, and while our lives intersected enough for us to have a relationship, I’m not sure we ever understood each other.

That’s okay. We just did the best we could with what we had. I feel like an intruder, rummaging through the remnants of her life. On previous visits I emptied her closet and her drawers, I took possession of the correspondence she’d saved all her life, and I sorted through the files and labeled them so Jerry could find anything he needed. I showed him where the bills to be paid were, and what he needed to do. I took home a few items of clothing, the last unfinished afghan she’d been working on, a box my uncle, long deceased, had made.

The photo albums sit on the shelves still, the framed photos on the upper shelves. I’ve looked through some of the albums, but I can’t bear to do anything with them, much. I do find a newspaper clipping in one album, a story in which I was featured many years ago when I was an NCOIC in the Air Force. I removed that one and kept it, because it was funny. But the rest? I don’t know. There are many pictures of my mother to be found in these albums, and I don’t want to lose those, but I don’t want to cannibalize the albums either. Neither do I want to take them. They’re not mine.

I can barely keep together the pieces of my own life, much less the pieces of someone else’s. The boxes of correspondence she kept all her life I have now, but I haven’t looked at them, other than when I looked at them to pack them up. They’re not to me, though some of it is from me. But much of it is from other people, perhaps people who don’t want me reading the letters they sent to my mother long ago. Some of them are dead now too.

There’s so much past here. Tomorrow we leave, back to our own lives, and I’ll come back again someday, and maybe then I’ll have a plan. I doubt it though. I’m not much for planning. Maybe someone else will get to the albums and the big box of pictures first. But probably not.