a book by Kelsey Collins and Bee Landis INTRODUCTION

photo by Forrest Babcock

When I learned nine years ago that Bee Landis was alive, well, and living at the Sierra Country Club, an assisted-living complex, in Bishop, California, I was stunned and delighted. I couldn’t wait to drive the forty-five mile trip through the majestic Sierra mountain range to see her. Standing in front of her room on the second floor, I collected myself, asking my heart to calm down a bit as I was sure it was louder than the sound of my knuckles on her door. Was it sheer nervousness or excitement about the unknown? A small tag next to the door indicated this was the right room. In the middle of the door hung a wood carving in the shape of a heart with the word WELCOME painted in shades of lavender and purple, Bee’s favorite colors. A booming voice from within yelled, “I’m comin’! I’m comin’!” The door opened and there she was, a face full of smiles, her short hair as bright and carrot-red as ever. “Oh, I know you, don’t I?” she asked. Little did I know then how profoundly my life would change because of this precious woman named Myrtle “Bee” Landis. An elementary school teacher for more than thirty years, Bee decided one day to take her love of teaching and life to the Science of Mind church pulpit. I met her originally in 1982 on a Sunday morning when I walked into the small church that she had started in Bishop. Bee was the minister, so “her church,” as she lovingly referred to the old storefront building, was on a side street off Hwy. 395, a highway that slices the long way through the state of California, up to Reno, Nevada and beyond to the north. A few people were mingling inside, mostly older people I noticed, not so kindly referred to as “gray-haired” by thirty-somethings in today’s society.” Even though Bee was more than 60 years old at the time, she was no gray-hair, by any reference to either her hair color or her age. To call Bee’s hair red would be way short of the depth and breadth of that primary color. It would be like simply calling the sun yellow. Bee’s hair was fiery hot and intense; the color of ripe persimmons with a little bit of pumpkin and copper thrown in. She said she’d been dying her hair for so long she didn’t remember what her natural color was. Bee’s ministry, like her personal life, was a mixture of raucous laughter and passionate scrutiny (often uncomfortably) into the personal lives of her small congregation. I attended her church somewhat regularly for several years; mostly to hear her harmonizing at the top of her lungs, “I’M ALIVE, AWARE, AWAKE, ENTHUSIASTIC!” Even though I was ordained as a minister in the early 1970’s, I had left my Christian beliefs behind to explore several eastern philosophies, including Buddhism and Hinduism. When Bee discovered this, she decided to anoint me as her “rent-a-minister” when she needed to be out of town or during infrequent bouts of illness. It was during the late 1980’s when Bee proved to me, without any shred of doubt, the depth of her commitment to loving her church members by showing them the way to a deeper truth about themselves and God. I found myself sharing details of my personal life with Bee which at that time resembled an absolute train wreck. I was sinking deeper into a loveless hell realm in my marriage, and my only son had just been discharged from the Navy with a less-than- honorable distinction, perched at the beginning of a nasty addiction to crystal meth. My relationship with my mother was deteriorating so badly that I could barely stand to talk to her, even on the telephone. Out of the blue, in the spring of 1987, Bee called to say she wanted to see me, asking if I would be willing to drive down to the Owens Valley for a chat. An hour later I was sitting next to Bee as she drove out to the middle of a desolate corner of the valley, down near the Alabama Hills, made famous by “B” western movies back in the 40’s and 50’s. The Sierra and White Mountain ranges surrounding us were still partially covered with winter’s snowy blanket. In contrast, it was nearly 80 degrees in the valley so I rolled the window down to let in some fresh air. Seeming to follow us, almost as an omen, a carefree red-tailed hawk screeched, its wingtips flared like fingers, as it soared effortlessly in the deep blue sky. Watching it for a while, I remembered that in the Native American tradition, among many others, a hawk is a messenger, so I wanted to pay close attention to the “Spirit Memo.” When I asked what in the hell we were doing out in the middle of nowhere, Bee just smiled and said, “You’ll see.” The next thing I knew, Bee took an abrupt right turn off the paved highway onto a narrow dirt road. I had the distinct feeling she had been there before. We drove in silence for a few miles; the only sound was the scrunching gravel under the moving tires. She stopped the car next to a large boulder that I thought was oddly shaped like an enormous throne. “This is it,” she said. “We can get out now.” The “throne” wasn’t an isolated granite sculpture in the middle of the desert landscape, as I saw when I got out of the car. It was accompanied by several smaller boulders, like loyal subjects, situated in an almost perfect semi-circle around it as if placed there by God for just such an occasion. “That’s you, right there,” Bee said pointing to one of the smaller rocks to the right of the throne. “Go over there. And don’t talk.” “Now this big one here is your mother. We’re not leaving here until you tell her everything you ever wanted to say but were afraid to say. Every last bit of it, you understand? We’re not leaving until it’s all out of you. We’re miles away from anybody. No one can hear you. So, let her have it.” I would have laughed at the thought of my mother sitting on the granite throne, accepting it as perfect for her queenly justification, but it was instantly apparent that Bee wasn’t in one of her humorous moods. She said she was sick and tired of me bitching about my life and not doing anything about it; she was deadly serious. I did what anyone, face-to-face with a 5’4” parrot-red-haired-sixty-something staring at you with unyielding eyes would do; I started yelling at my mother, the Queen. Within several minutes a few tears began to fall. Later, the screams came. After thirty minutes the tears and the screams turned into bone-numbing sobs. Just when I thought I was empty of all of it, Bee wrapped her arms around my stomach, squeezing tightly, and with of all her strength yelled in my ear, “You’re not there yet. I want you to get to the part that’s down HERE,” emphasizing the last word in a way that took my breath away and brought me to my knees. Whatever was left inside of me came out in a steady stream of vomit. Throughout it all, Bee never left my side. When she wrapped her arms around me I felt like a little girl, probably for the first time in thirty years. I felt as free as the hawk I had seen earlier. My angry thoughts and erroneous beliefs had limited my ability to soar above my life and gain a greater perspective. Because of that day with Bee, when my mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer in 1989, I was able to spend the last three months of my mother’s life with her twenty-four hours a day. Because of Bee, the decaying relationship with my mother was transformed into one of loving compassion, patience and understanding. That is Bee. Around 1992, Bee moved to Bakersfield with her aging mother, Smitty, and took a position at the Science of Mind Church in Bakersfield. That’s when I lost track of her. Now, at 86 years of age, Bee is living in a nursing care facility in her still- favorite little western town, Bishop, California. I have been calling her nearly every day since we reconnected in 1997. I found out that in 1994 Bee was diagnosed with a rather large, benign brain tumor. The surgeons were able to remove about 80% of the tumor, and with it her sense of smell and the majority of her memories. That is why she seemed to not know me that day nine years ago when I knocked on her door. She says she always remembers faces though, even if she has no story-memory tagging along with the face. After the surgery, her doctor prepared her for the liklihood that the tumor would start growing again, and that it would be inoperable. To combat seizures, a common side affect of brain surgery, Bee was put on a combination of Phenobarbital and Dilantin, both anti-convulsant medications commonly used by epileptics. By the beginning of 2004, the drugs were taking their toll on Bee’s ability to have lucid conversations. Although under medication, Bee would experience what are known as petit mal seizures several times a week or even several times a day. These smaller seizures would manifest as “staring episodes,” and would last only a minute or so, without confusion afterwards. She also began to fall regularly, fracturing her shoulder twice and her elbow once. Her doctor expressed concern that she may have been in the midst of a petit mal seizure during these falls. Each time, Bee had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital for an overnight stay. It was highly recommended by her doctor and assisted-living caregivers that she be moved to the new full-care facility, the Bishop Care Center. Bee was transferred to a double room in the care center which resembled a more traditional hospital environment with little room for the large number of her personal belongings. I boxed these up so they could be transported to her son’s house in Reno. The remainder I arranged in her room so they would be in place when Bee arrived at her new “home.” I use quotes here purposefully, as I find the term “nursing home” to be disingenuous. Some of these convalescent care facilities are little more than disinfected infirmaries where most of our precious elders will die. In the days following Bee’s admittance to the care center, I noticed an almost daily decline in her demeanor. One day I drove down to take her to lunch, but when I arrived she was not in her room. I found her down the hall slumped over in a wheelchair, a small white pillow tucked under the right side of her body as if to keep her erect. Drool was oozing down her chin as she looked up at me with watery eyes. Bending down so I would be eye-to-eye with her, I said, “Hello, my darlin’” in a soft voice. She raised her fist at me, almost snarling, sounding drunk. “You are someone who say’s ‘Yes, but…’ aren’t you? I could just hit you.” She had no idea who I was. I leaned forward so my face was within hitting distance and said, “Go ahead, Bee. Let me have it. Right here on the kisser. It’s okay. I know you love me.” She wiped her mouth and slowly looked away as if I wasn’t there. When I drove back home I had to stop on the side of the road to sob. I wondered if I had done the right thing by taking her to this new, antiseptic environment. Our daily conversations after that became so painful for both of us that I wondered if she was near death. Silly me. One week later, only the day after a frustrating phone conversation punctuated by sighs and long periods of silence, Bee called me at home, announcing as clear as a bell, “I’m not taking any more of those damn pills.” “What pills?” “You know…those pills that they give me for my head. I’m not taking them anymore.” “Do you mean the Dilantin, Bee? They keep you from having seizures.” “No they don’t. I want my conscious awareness. I want that more than anything. No more pills, do you hear me?” That afternoon I called her doctor, explaining what Bee’s wishes were, adding that I tended to support her inner guidance. When I asked him what would happen if she went off the anti-seizure medication, he said he didn’t know. “She’ll probably have more seizures.” “Will it kill her?” I asked not sure if I wanted to know the answer. “No.” We agreed to wean her off the medication slowly. Within ten days, Bee and I were having forty-five minute conversations for the first time in months. We talked about God…a lot. We talked about the devil and Christianity and feelings. Oh yes, we talked about all of our feelings. A constant source of information we shared was the Unity Church’s Daily Word. Bee still refers to Louise Hay’s book, You Can Heal Your Life, as her “little blue bible book.” The frayed book sits in the basket of her metal walker, faithfully tagging along everywhere she goes. If anyone mentions a headache or a sore back, out comes the blue book where Bee finds the source and associated affirmation, whether they want it or not. She has been a true believer of Hay’s ministry, referencing metaphysical solutions for physical ailments from this book for fifteen years that I am aware of, maybe longer. At times, she was so clear it seemed that she was literally channeling information from a mysterious Divine Source. Even today, I’m not so sure she isn’t. These conversations began nearly two years ago. One day I was sitting in front of my computer wearing a headset while talking with Bee. What she said dropped my jaw open to my desk. “God is SO big. How did I ever get in the position to tell God how to do anything? I feel like I’m on the crest of a wave. I’m not afraid of the storm anymore.” It was profoundly moving; I had to get it down on paper. And, because I can type as fast as she can talk, our two-year dialogue began word-for-gloriously-funny-word. Initially I thought it would be a great gift to Bee’s grandsons someday where they could enjoy a fun and enlightening peek into the life of their amazing grandmother. Soon, however, I realized our conversations would be of enormous help to other caregivers to the elderly. The more consistent our conversations, the more Bee opened to the marvel of her human spirit. Currently, there are approximately 1.9 million nursing home beds in the United States. With 75 million baby boomers on a fast train to their twilight years, it is estimated that the number of nursing facilities will increase ten-fold within the next twenty years. Nursing homes are constantly plagued with staffing problems, both in terms of the sheer staff numbers needed and those who are appropriately licensed and trained. It takes a rare human being to lovingly care for our beloved elderly day after day. I am humbled by their service and salute them all with this book. In the nursing homes I have visited in the past several years, I was astounded to hear that nearly 30% of all the elderly patients are rarely, if ever, visited by anyone. Many sit in their rooms day after day after day, staring blankly at the television or out the window. They slowly shuffle in their wheelchairs down the carpeted hallways, often taking twenty minutes or more to travel fifty feet. No one fantasizes spending their post-retirement years in a nursing home, separated from their family and all that they have worked so hard for. When someone, anyone, walks in to pay a visit, their sad, lonely world suddenly comes to life. The more questions I would ask Bee, the more she had to dig for answers within a relatively empty memory box. Like colorful baseball caps, we tried on every four-letter word, from love to fear and every “bad” word in between. Every time I would think I had heard it all, she’d rattle my cage good and hard by talking about sex and masturbation. Sometimes I would laugh so hard she would leave me gasping for breath. She would frequently giggle hysterically at her zaniness, grateful for the opportunity to even look into the caverns of her mind. That is why I called her an 86 year old Spiritual Spelunker. A spelunker is one who bravely practices climbing inside pitch dark caves. Mark Twain wrote in Innocents Abroad: “Cave is a good word…The memory of a cave I used to know was always in my mind, with its lofty passages, its silence and solitude, its shrouding gloom, its sepulchral echoes, its fleeting lights, and more than all, its sudden revelations…” Bee’s mind may not produce solid, detailed memories of her past, but there are eighty-six years of “sepulchral echoes and fleeting lights” and deeply spiritual revelations in there. I feel thoroughly blessed to be able to share the unveiling of that wisdom with her. Bee will not be entered into the Saint’s Hall of Fame. Often she can act as irascibly as a mean, mongrel dog. No one wants to be on the wrong side of the stick when she is in a bad mood or short tempered or when she doesn’t get her bed made on time. Infrequent paranoid tendencies leak out when Bee is fearful and grumpy. Bee would periodically accuse her delusional roommate of stealing her slippers or whatever she couldn’t find only to express deep remorse later when the lost item showed up “miraculously” where she hadn’t thought to look. We are born innocent, and some of us may have the great fortune to die innocently. Bee shares this innocence with me every day. She allows me to see into her darkest inner caves, where the not-so-pretty layers of insecurity lay. Like most everyone I know, Bee has suffered bravely under the delusion that she is unworthy. She knows this delusion and laughs about it often. And yet, unlike most everyone I know, Bee doesn’t try to hide it. She holds it up under a powerful microscope, painfully describing what she sees and feels before she releases it to the Divine, saying, “You got me into this mess, God, now get me out of it.” Like all of us, Bee has her share of genuine sparkling moments which are like the gold doubloons pirates found in island sands. Except Bee’s treasured gifts aren’t currency to be spent at a local market; they are gifts that last a lifetime and beyond. “So what is authentic in you?” I asked back at the beginning of our conversation. “Hmmm,” she pondered for a moment. “What is authentic in me is a willingness to be honest with myself now, and a willingness to see me finally, at 85 years-old, as worthwhile before I die.” It escapes me now the exact moment when the focus of this book met a fork in the road. My original purpose, like life in general, continued to change right before my eyes. That which started as a daily dialogue that would eventually end up in the hands of Bee’s two grandsons as evidence of their intriguing, maddening, funny, delightful, wise-cracking grandmother morphed into a genuine plea to others to walk into a nursing home someday soon. There you can create your own powerfully inspiring conversations. But then something unexpected and even more profound demanded a voice. It called itself “exit strategy,” that process by which we can create precisely, perfectly according to our choices, how we will end our days on earth. Bee taught me that I could walk all three forks simultaneously.

Radio Interview! Listen to Kelsey on Jacqueline Marcell's Internet radio program “Coping with Caregiving” , Segment #2, discussing her forthcoming book. It’s available for free online listening-on-demand, via Windows Media Player or Real Player, free downloads available at “How to Listen” at the website. Jacqueline is the author of “Elder Rage.” http://www.elderrage.com/

Please email to: Kels@ChaseHawk.com

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