for the last two weeks i've been sick again. it's probably all hormone-related but sick is sick. i generally feel weak and tired, and a bit afraid to leave the safety of my own home, mainly for restroom purposes.
anyway on friday when i was driving home from work i really allowed the sick to get me down. by the time i got home--after a ten minute drive from work--i was so down in the dumps that dan took one look at me and said, what's wrong?
he cheered me up--brought me to the grocery store, was all around uplifting and after an hour and some food, i felt much, much better.
i suppose the "all in moderation" thing goes for emotional upset just as it does for chocolate consumption.
***
today when i went on facebook i was scrolling through everyone's thoughts and what not. i ran into my post from yesterday, and below that, veronica's note about posting something i remembered from our shared past. i was going to post about the Shred-It guy who came in and was pretty darn hot, and had a thing for veronica even though she was in the beginning stages of a relationship with her now-husband--which i eventually did, after some thought.
the thought was required because serena had posted there too.
i try to avoid thinking about her. she's like a pain, a toothache, that's finally dead and numb. when i saw her picture i did not feel anything but curiosity. which is perhaps what you would feel after this many years have passed. time, they say, heals all wounds -- but that isn't true. it isn't true because the minute i saw her picture and the numb feeling passed, and the curiosity set in--what has she done, what is she like, has she changed as i have?--after all that, all i could think was, would dan be happier if he was with her? would he have had to deal with the histrionics of friday night if she walked in the door? no, he probably wouldn't.
at first it hurts again, that same wound. the one that reminds me i'm not good enough, the one that breaks open every now and again and says, why is he with me, truly? is it because he loves me or because he's comfortable?
it's been many years since we indulged in our first love, our first headlong plunge into passion. what i feel for him now is so very different than what i felt for him then. i can still remember those heady feelings of lust, of adoration, of puppy-love, but they are a memory now.
then again, do i remain because i'm comfortable? i certainly love being around dan -- i do, honestly. he's the first person i want to call when i have seen something new, the first person i want to hug at the end of the day, the first person i want to see in the morning. that part has not dimmed, for me, and as often as i wonder if it has for him, i am reminded that he loves me in the things he does -- the chocolate bar when he knew i was feeling down, the gift of a picture because i know he listens to me.
i do love him, and i don't want to consider the other option--but seeing her face makes me doubt, makes me wonder, makes me a little upset.
***
last night, feeling a bit better, i allowed myself two small squares of the chocolate bar he brought home. they were so good and filled that strange void that is "craving," and so far, my stomach is not unhappy with me.
that said, i need to address the upset i feel with the same handling. i need to allow myself the upset, in moderation, and then i need to set it aside, perhaps to moderately ponder again later...but not now.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
the space between my fingers
when dan and i first started seeing each other, we held hands. constantly. i used to hold my hand up to his, to see how much larger it was than mine. for whatever reason that consistently astounded me.
the size, the shape of his hand, so foreign from my own, and yet so well known.
every once in a while i still do that -- measure my hand to his. remind myself of the span of his hands, how he can palm a basketball with ease.
it's been many years since we met. so much shapes you, as you grow--the wind, rain, the cold and the heat, all the various emotions. when we were young we used to argue all the time--sometimes about the most mundane of things, sometimes about simply who was right and who was wrong. as time passed and we grew to know one another better, other things stood in our way and our arguments shifted. then we argued about money, about jealousy, about the things that are so terribly important when you're twenty-two and think that you're All Grown Up.
really, nothing could be further from the truth.
but at that age, you don't know it.
i think that many people, myself included, have a difficult time understanding how to put aside that drama from childhood--the fears of monsters under the bed, of the dark, of things that are unknown to us, the proverbial bump in the night. that drama sustains us, for a time. when dan and i first held hands it was strange and comforting and exciting. of course later we argued about it, i'm sure. if i look in all my old journals i'm certain to find that it was some part or parcel of discussion.
who knows.
it grows easier and easier with time to become mellow--to drift, to float along, to find all the things that bind you together with other people and forget the things that keep you apart. while swimming you forget that you cannot fly; while walking you forget that you can swim. there is space between my fingers--it's always been there, holding them separate. in the womb there was no space, the fingers were paws, webbed and alien.
and then growth--time passes and one is born, and the fingers are their own little entities. did i take the time then to quibble about the why, or question the need for ten digits? was i overwrought with this change? did it consume me?
no--i was too young to remember it. and now i am old enough to see the difference and appreciate it. so very few things separated my fingers three decades ago, so very few things separate me from dan, from my family, from my friends, now. why should i argue? why should i gnash my teeth and suffer? what is the point?
i guess somewhere along the way--in between the fretting and worrying and shouting--i let it go. there was no point to holding onto all of that drama; it was useless. it became a question, each time an issue arose--is this life-altering? if not, then pick another battle. save your strength. wait, this too shall pass.
all the arguments we had ten years ago, all the suffering and agonizing over decisions and opinions--it all falls away. in the end it is his hand in mine, and if it were not for the space between my fingers, i would not know that balm.
the size, the shape of his hand, so foreign from my own, and yet so well known.
every once in a while i still do that -- measure my hand to his. remind myself of the span of his hands, how he can palm a basketball with ease.
it's been many years since we met. so much shapes you, as you grow--the wind, rain, the cold and the heat, all the various emotions. when we were young we used to argue all the time--sometimes about the most mundane of things, sometimes about simply who was right and who was wrong. as time passed and we grew to know one another better, other things stood in our way and our arguments shifted. then we argued about money, about jealousy, about the things that are so terribly important when you're twenty-two and think that you're All Grown Up.
really, nothing could be further from the truth.
but at that age, you don't know it.
i think that many people, myself included, have a difficult time understanding how to put aside that drama from childhood--the fears of monsters under the bed, of the dark, of things that are unknown to us, the proverbial bump in the night. that drama sustains us, for a time. when dan and i first held hands it was strange and comforting and exciting. of course later we argued about it, i'm sure. if i look in all my old journals i'm certain to find that it was some part or parcel of discussion.
who knows.
it grows easier and easier with time to become mellow--to drift, to float along, to find all the things that bind you together with other people and forget the things that keep you apart. while swimming you forget that you cannot fly; while walking you forget that you can swim. there is space between my fingers--it's always been there, holding them separate. in the womb there was no space, the fingers were paws, webbed and alien.
and then growth--time passes and one is born, and the fingers are their own little entities. did i take the time then to quibble about the why, or question the need for ten digits? was i overwrought with this change? did it consume me?
no--i was too young to remember it. and now i am old enough to see the difference and appreciate it. so very few things separated my fingers three decades ago, so very few things separate me from dan, from my family, from my friends, now. why should i argue? why should i gnash my teeth and suffer? what is the point?
i guess somewhere along the way--in between the fretting and worrying and shouting--i let it go. there was no point to holding onto all of that drama; it was useless. it became a question, each time an issue arose--is this life-altering? if not, then pick another battle. save your strength. wait, this too shall pass.
all the arguments we had ten years ago, all the suffering and agonizing over decisions and opinions--it all falls away. in the end it is his hand in mine, and if it were not for the space between my fingers, i would not know that balm.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
lost and found
here's a list of what i found under a tv stand yesterday while assisting with a move:
--child's cap, blue & purple striped tiger with ears and eyes
--batman action figure
--Tony Hawk's something or other disc for Playstation
--red bowl
--one small pink striped sock, rolled into a ball
--neon orange squirt gun, thankfully empty
--sudoku book
and assorted other items. it's always strange when you move -- you pick up one thing and discover an item you'd written off as gone years and years ago sitting there, patiently waiting for you.
moving always hurts; it hurts to lift all the stuff you've accumulated and it hurts to leave a place you've called home. i guess in this case it just hurts because i've got all kinds of muscles, whose location i'd rather not disclose, clamoring in pain, but there's no "why-did-we-have-to-move" pain. just the pain of disuse, which is my own fault.
i remember the last time i cleaned the carpets in the house, before we got the new couch. when i shoved the old one out from the wall, there were items to which i too had said goodbye: a red twenty-sided dice, cat toys galore. this morning i cleaned out a bin that's been in the front closet probably since we moved in. it's where we keep the light bulbs but heaven forbid that you actually lay hands on a light bulb in said bin. it was more of a catch-all for cords, duct tape, those dowel-holders for closet rods, some tiny, tiny light bulb that could only be for a car we no longer own, and a random vacuum cleaner belt for, yes, an appliance that's no longer here, either.
it's so odd to think of all these items lurking in the house -- things that i don't necessarily need on a daily basis, but items that could, at some conceivable point, come in handy. part of me wants to scour the house for these treasure-troves of stuff, while the other half of me would rather write about it and then perhaps take a nap.
i won't even discuss the random bits that end up beneath seats in cars.
anyway, today i'm going to relax and allow my own found treasures--at the moment, my biceps--take a well-deserved break. with some flexing now and again, to reassure myself and my body that everything's still there, and perhaps won't be forgotten again for a while.
--child's cap, blue & purple striped tiger with ears and eyes
--batman action figure
--Tony Hawk's something or other disc for Playstation
--red bowl
--one small pink striped sock, rolled into a ball
--neon orange squirt gun, thankfully empty
--sudoku book
and assorted other items. it's always strange when you move -- you pick up one thing and discover an item you'd written off as gone years and years ago sitting there, patiently waiting for you.
moving always hurts; it hurts to lift all the stuff you've accumulated and it hurts to leave a place you've called home. i guess in this case it just hurts because i've got all kinds of muscles, whose location i'd rather not disclose, clamoring in pain, but there's no "why-did-we-have-to-move" pain. just the pain of disuse, which is my own fault.
i remember the last time i cleaned the carpets in the house, before we got the new couch. when i shoved the old one out from the wall, there were items to which i too had said goodbye: a red twenty-sided dice, cat toys galore. this morning i cleaned out a bin that's been in the front closet probably since we moved in. it's where we keep the light bulbs but heaven forbid that you actually lay hands on a light bulb in said bin. it was more of a catch-all for cords, duct tape, those dowel-holders for closet rods, some tiny, tiny light bulb that could only be for a car we no longer own, and a random vacuum cleaner belt for, yes, an appliance that's no longer here, either.
it's so odd to think of all these items lurking in the house -- things that i don't necessarily need on a daily basis, but items that could, at some conceivable point, come in handy. part of me wants to scour the house for these treasure-troves of stuff, while the other half of me would rather write about it and then perhaps take a nap.
i won't even discuss the random bits that end up beneath seats in cars.
anyway, today i'm going to relax and allow my own found treasures--at the moment, my biceps--take a well-deserved break. with some flexing now and again, to reassure myself and my body that everything's still there, and perhaps won't be forgotten again for a while.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
dejavu
It seems like every day’s the same/and I’m left to discover on my own -- seether, Fine Again
i get this feeling a lot, that "i've been here/done this before" feeling. today i had it and then i realized that it was just the radio conspiring to make me think that i had just repeated monday.
they're doing this promo giving away a year's worth of gasoline--they see your license plate, they call you, you win, the usual crud. anyway yesterday on my way home i was interested and strangely uplifted to hear someone win this.
it didn't occur to me until today, when on my drive home i heard the same winner again, that it could be recorded.
everything else on the radio is recorded...so why not the winners?
as i waited at the turn signal, however, i had an internal argument. was this the same thing i heard yesterday? or was this actually something that just sounded that familiar? or had i actually heard it but just in a dream or something?
it sounded familiar because it sounded vaguely like my brother, and the guy used the words "dude" and "unbelieveable" and "you have no idea how much this means."
so the question becomes: of all the random shit that piles through my brain during the course of the day, why on earth do i remember this?
i have no idea.
***
anyway the fact of the matter is that every day is different, and every day is the same. the sun comes up, the sun goes down. i go to work, i come home. never-ending cycle. which is fine, because there are so many permutations that can occur that it makes every day different.
until you hear something on the radio and begin to question your sanity, ie, did i just repeat monday all over again, or is it actually tuesday now?
i get this feeling a lot, that "i've been here/done this before" feeling. today i had it and then i realized that it was just the radio conspiring to make me think that i had just repeated monday.
they're doing this promo giving away a year's worth of gasoline--they see your license plate, they call you, you win, the usual crud. anyway yesterday on my way home i was interested and strangely uplifted to hear someone win this.
it didn't occur to me until today, when on my drive home i heard the same winner again, that it could be recorded.
everything else on the radio is recorded...so why not the winners?
as i waited at the turn signal, however, i had an internal argument. was this the same thing i heard yesterday? or was this actually something that just sounded that familiar? or had i actually heard it but just in a dream or something?
it sounded familiar because it sounded vaguely like my brother, and the guy used the words "dude" and "unbelieveable" and "you have no idea how much this means."
so the question becomes: of all the random shit that piles through my brain during the course of the day, why on earth do i remember this?
i have no idea.
***
anyway the fact of the matter is that every day is different, and every day is the same. the sun comes up, the sun goes down. i go to work, i come home. never-ending cycle. which is fine, because there are so many permutations that can occur that it makes every day different.
until you hear something on the radio and begin to question your sanity, ie, did i just repeat monday all over again, or is it actually tuesday now?
Saturday, May 30, 2009
noise
when i was a kid, my parents really didn't curtail my reading habits. i read whatever i pleased, even if there were the unforseen consequences of misunderstanding that i probably couldn't be a leper at the age of 11 in wisconsin. (a gift of james michener's hawaii and an overactive imagination.)
at any rate, i never had much if any restriction on what i read. i was restricted in what i listened to, however, and whether or not i could go to concerts. everything was too late, too out of the norm--which amuses me now, as at the time the music of which i thought so highly was hair bands of the eighties. when my friends were sneaking out of windows to attend metal concerts, i was home, reading--my one escape.
of course as i got older i had the ability to go to live shows, when and where i pleased. in my first few years of college i didn't see much at all, as i was going to bemidji, but i discovered alice in chains, which changed my outlook on music completely.
dark, bleak, rolling over you with the strange melody of layne and jerry--it was auditory beauty.
***
being deaf, i guess i never questioned much the thought that i don't listen to a lot of music. the stuff that other people really enjoy--dave matthews, etc--sounds so bland to me. perhaps it's because of being deaf that i came to this "noise" as my parents would term it--it has to be loud enough and brash enough to snare my attention and keep it held.
who knows. all i know is that my first two tapes (yes, cassette tapes) were janet jackson's rhythm nation and heart's brigade--and janet got tossed aside soon thereafter.
***
one of my first concerts was type o negative--dark and dreary, but ever so crunchy. standing in that small venue, pressed up against so many people, sweating and feeling my very marrow quake, was almost the most relaxed i've ever been.
years afterward i learned about "toning," which is kind of an auditory massage therapy--different sounds and tones that have various affects on your body. it makes sense, if for no other reason that just as a therapist manipulates your muscles, the volume of music can move the fibers of your being--physically and mentally, i suppose.
anyway, last night we went and saw a band that was definitely "noise." had a few beers and felt old among the crowd of twenty-three year old kids who had a penchant for thinking they were goth...or at least costuming themselves as such. i remembered fondly my days of combat boots and dark clothing, the industrial feel of a carbiner filled with jangling keys. i'm generalizing here because i guess as you get older that's what you do, and how you become the old shit sitting on the porch, railing at "those kids" to get off your lawn.
today i have a stamp that is slowly bleeding ink in jagged lines on my hand. i remember how i longed for this twenty years ago--to be one of the cool kids, to sneak out and disobey--and how much better it feels, and how completely relaxed i can be, without the pleasure of guilty window panes, for having heard and felt all that noise.
at any rate, i never had much if any restriction on what i read. i was restricted in what i listened to, however, and whether or not i could go to concerts. everything was too late, too out of the norm--which amuses me now, as at the time the music of which i thought so highly was hair bands of the eighties. when my friends were sneaking out of windows to attend metal concerts, i was home, reading--my one escape.
of course as i got older i had the ability to go to live shows, when and where i pleased. in my first few years of college i didn't see much at all, as i was going to bemidji, but i discovered alice in chains, which changed my outlook on music completely.
dark, bleak, rolling over you with the strange melody of layne and jerry--it was auditory beauty.
***
being deaf, i guess i never questioned much the thought that i don't listen to a lot of music. the stuff that other people really enjoy--dave matthews, etc--sounds so bland to me. perhaps it's because of being deaf that i came to this "noise" as my parents would term it--it has to be loud enough and brash enough to snare my attention and keep it held.
who knows. all i know is that my first two tapes (yes, cassette tapes) were janet jackson's rhythm nation and heart's brigade--and janet got tossed aside soon thereafter.
***
one of my first concerts was type o negative--dark and dreary, but ever so crunchy. standing in that small venue, pressed up against so many people, sweating and feeling my very marrow quake, was almost the most relaxed i've ever been.
years afterward i learned about "toning," which is kind of an auditory massage therapy--different sounds and tones that have various affects on your body. it makes sense, if for no other reason that just as a therapist manipulates your muscles, the volume of music can move the fibers of your being--physically and mentally, i suppose.
anyway, last night we went and saw a band that was definitely "noise." had a few beers and felt old among the crowd of twenty-three year old kids who had a penchant for thinking they were goth...or at least costuming themselves as such. i remembered fondly my days of combat boots and dark clothing, the industrial feel of a carbiner filled with jangling keys. i'm generalizing here because i guess as you get older that's what you do, and how you become the old shit sitting on the porch, railing at "those kids" to get off your lawn.
today i have a stamp that is slowly bleeding ink in jagged lines on my hand. i remember how i longed for this twenty years ago--to be one of the cool kids, to sneak out and disobey--and how much better it feels, and how completely relaxed i can be, without the pleasure of guilty window panes, for having heard and felt all that noise.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
corey
it's too many yesterdays to count
since you were here. it seems as if
you've just left--
especially these days
when celebration and mourning
wear the same dark mask. if i look at that scar,
the one i've worn for ten years
to this day
to this hour
to this very moment--
the tears well up hot and fresh, just
as they did then.
the grief i feel is small
compared to the one that i see,
when time slows long enough
for his own wounds to show. i believe
they go deeper
than he would ever admit,
even to you.
it all
continues,
despite our best efforts
to call out a halt, to savor, relish and sorrow.
the best we can do all these
yesterdays later
is remember, and in doing so
keep you
here.
***
i cannot miss him near so as much as dan does. april is always such a hard month, no matter what you do to prepare yourself for it. no matter how you celebrate a life missed, you still do that -- you miss it.
after corey died, dan's mom found a stash of his--puzzle pieces, ones that he would steal just before she finished a puzzle, so that the puzzle would never be finished. part of me feels as though he still has one piece with him, somewhere, and is probably grinning about it just now.
since you were here. it seems as if
you've just left--
especially these days
when celebration and mourning
wear the same dark mask. if i look at that scar,
the one i've worn for ten years
to this day
to this hour
to this very moment--
the tears well up hot and fresh, just
as they did then.
the grief i feel is small
compared to the one that i see,
when time slows long enough
for his own wounds to show. i believe
they go deeper
than he would ever admit,
even to you.
it all
continues,
despite our best efforts
to call out a halt, to savor, relish and sorrow.
the best we can do all these
yesterdays later
is remember, and in doing so
keep you
here.
***
i cannot miss him near so as much as dan does. april is always such a hard month, no matter what you do to prepare yourself for it. no matter how you celebrate a life missed, you still do that -- you miss it.
after corey died, dan's mom found a stash of his--puzzle pieces, ones that he would steal just before she finished a puzzle, so that the puzzle would never be finished. part of me feels as though he still has one piece with him, somewhere, and is probably grinning about it just now.
Monday, March 23, 2009
simplification, the long route
it's been quite some time since i posted again, which in reality doesn't mean too terribly much as i suppose i'm not posting for my adoring fans but mainly for my own writing needs.
which, sadly, have taken quite the backseat lately.
why, you may ask? because there are so many things going on! every weekend has been busy, every weekday long. in my heart of hearts i know how much i enjoy sitting down and allowing my fingers to play over the keyboard, listen to the tap tap tap of keys as the words appear before me. it's like watching a magic act, or someone playing the piano. i'm no houdini, and certainly no virtuoso with words, but i do so much enjoy the act of vowel creation.
it's basic and plain, and both of those items are close to my heart.
it seems like so many things are not basic or plain any longer. recently i needed a new phone -- mine had no range, anywhere, except for one square of the sofa, part of the stairway landing, and a corner of the upstairs bedroom...and anywhere outside of my own home. so i jumped online and found a phone.
generally speaking i'm reluctant at best to enter the world of electronics or vehicles. to put it mildly, i exist in a state of ever-present "i don't need a different one...mine works fine." but my car has not been working fine, and my phone's hijinx were annoying, to say the least.
(this horrid reluctance does NOT apply to purses or clothing or books, unfortunately...)
online i picked out what looked like a simple phone -- a shiny, satiny pink. it's actually quite easy to use, and it has a calendar in it, so that i can store events, which is completely fabulous when you consider that for that last how many years, despite the advent of palm pilots and i-phones and the myriad other personal oranizers, i've still relied on my little paper day planner. works great provided you have a pen handy--which usually i do not.
thus when i realized what my phone was able to do, i tossed the planner.
there was hesitation, of course, because my heels were dug into the "this is good enough for me" mentality. why shouldn't my found-in-the-dollar-store planner not stay in my purse, taking up residence among my mango-flavored chapstick, my mp3 player, the wad of keychain and keys that only actually has 3 keys on it, a package of kleenex and some burt's bees hand salve. it was good enough for last year; what has changed?
it seemed so strange to replace something so basic with this sparkling pink device, which was only a third of the size of the planner itself--something that could store all of the days of the year AND notes AND phone numbers in one compact place. replacing the simple with something more elaborate--and yet that in and of itself simplified my life some.
at any rate, my simplified organizer is indicating that it's high time i get to the DMV and renew my license.
and as long as i'm at it, perhaps look at a different car. or mule. your choice.
which, sadly, have taken quite the backseat lately.
why, you may ask? because there are so many things going on! every weekend has been busy, every weekday long. in my heart of hearts i know how much i enjoy sitting down and allowing my fingers to play over the keyboard, listen to the tap tap tap of keys as the words appear before me. it's like watching a magic act, or someone playing the piano. i'm no houdini, and certainly no virtuoso with words, but i do so much enjoy the act of vowel creation.
it's basic and plain, and both of those items are close to my heart.
it seems like so many things are not basic or plain any longer. recently i needed a new phone -- mine had no range, anywhere, except for one square of the sofa, part of the stairway landing, and a corner of the upstairs bedroom...and anywhere outside of my own home. so i jumped online and found a phone.
generally speaking i'm reluctant at best to enter the world of electronics or vehicles. to put it mildly, i exist in a state of ever-present "i don't need a different one...mine works fine." but my car has not been working fine, and my phone's hijinx were annoying, to say the least.
(this horrid reluctance does NOT apply to purses or clothing or books, unfortunately...)
online i picked out what looked like a simple phone -- a shiny, satiny pink. it's actually quite easy to use, and it has a calendar in it, so that i can store events, which is completely fabulous when you consider that for that last how many years, despite the advent of palm pilots and i-phones and the myriad other personal oranizers, i've still relied on my little paper day planner. works great provided you have a pen handy--which usually i do not.
thus when i realized what my phone was able to do, i tossed the planner.
there was hesitation, of course, because my heels were dug into the "this is good enough for me" mentality. why shouldn't my found-in-the-dollar-store planner not stay in my purse, taking up residence among my mango-flavored chapstick, my mp3 player, the wad of keychain and keys that only actually has 3 keys on it, a package of kleenex and some burt's bees hand salve. it was good enough for last year; what has changed?
it seemed so strange to replace something so basic with this sparkling pink device, which was only a third of the size of the planner itself--something that could store all of the days of the year AND notes AND phone numbers in one compact place. replacing the simple with something more elaborate--and yet that in and of itself simplified my life some.
at any rate, my simplified organizer is indicating that it's high time i get to the DMV and renew my license.
and as long as i'm at it, perhaps look at a different car. or mule. your choice.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
online cat dating: tips and hints
henry's been mopey lately, if a cat can be mopey. he and shiva were never the best of friends, but he keeps looking for her, watching the stairs as if she'll come down, and has become completely obsessed--to the point of self-mutilation--with the end of his tail.
dan and i have done everything we could think of to get him involved with toys and away from the tail, but it's been a losing battle. the other day i realized that a series of spots on the wall was actually blood spatter. it would have made "dexter" proud--little action dots and dashes that soaked in and will not come out without a coat of paint. i felt a little like i was covering up a crime scene when i broke out the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser--but even Mr. Clean cannot take on blood, i learned.
either way, i came to the conclusion that we needed another wee beast in the household. we considered a dog, but at this time of year, with my hours, it would be all on dan, and that did not seem fair to me. also i have to admit i was a bit nervous about him bonding with the theoretical dog whilst i crunched numbers at work.
so it came to a cat. that said, we wanted to adopt a cat around henry's age. he's not a small animal, and needs a companion who is roughly the same size. i looked on petfinder and saw a ton of eight-week-old kittens, and a variety of cats who were quite elderly, and a lot of special needs.
i know my limits.
instead i turned to craigslist.
i know, i know. there was that horrible incident in the good ol' state of mn itself involving a homicide and craigslist. i figured if i stuck to pets i would be safe.
for a few weeks now i've cruised the pet info. first i looked at dogs--but after deciding against a dog, i started surveying the feline choices. there were quite a few, but most of them were either the aforementioned kittens, or a pair of cats who "would prefer not to be separated."
on thursday i saw a post for an orange tabby. the picture reminded me of henry--orange spots on a white cat--and i thought, why not. emailed and today we are now proudly owned by a timid tabby whose name is skitters.
i'm not sure i can live with that moniker, but it remains to be seen what she'd like her name to be.
she's bigger than henry, but just as much a silly cat--terrified of the ceiling fan, even when it's not on.
she wants to meet henry quite badly; henry, for his part, is huddled under our bed, probably wondering why we're putting him through this hell.
either way, he's not chewing on his tail, and i'm hoping that, given his past interest in shiva, and skitters' current interest in him, he'll come around eventually and they will be able to keep one another company.
in whatever way cats do.
dan and i have done everything we could think of to get him involved with toys and away from the tail, but it's been a losing battle. the other day i realized that a series of spots on the wall was actually blood spatter. it would have made "dexter" proud--little action dots and dashes that soaked in and will not come out without a coat of paint. i felt a little like i was covering up a crime scene when i broke out the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser--but even Mr. Clean cannot take on blood, i learned.
either way, i came to the conclusion that we needed another wee beast in the household. we considered a dog, but at this time of year, with my hours, it would be all on dan, and that did not seem fair to me. also i have to admit i was a bit nervous about him bonding with the theoretical dog whilst i crunched numbers at work.
so it came to a cat. that said, we wanted to adopt a cat around henry's age. he's not a small animal, and needs a companion who is roughly the same size. i looked on petfinder and saw a ton of eight-week-old kittens, and a variety of cats who were quite elderly, and a lot of special needs.
i know my limits.
instead i turned to craigslist.
i know, i know. there was that horrible incident in the good ol' state of mn itself involving a homicide and craigslist. i figured if i stuck to pets i would be safe.
for a few weeks now i've cruised the pet info. first i looked at dogs--but after deciding against a dog, i started surveying the feline choices. there were quite a few, but most of them were either the aforementioned kittens, or a pair of cats who "would prefer not to be separated."
on thursday i saw a post for an orange tabby. the picture reminded me of henry--orange spots on a white cat--and i thought, why not. emailed and today we are now proudly owned by a timid tabby whose name is skitters.
i'm not sure i can live with that moniker, but it remains to be seen what she'd like her name to be.
she's bigger than henry, but just as much a silly cat--terrified of the ceiling fan, even when it's not on.
she wants to meet henry quite badly; henry, for his part, is huddled under our bed, probably wondering why we're putting him through this hell.
either way, he's not chewing on his tail, and i'm hoping that, given his past interest in shiva, and skitters' current interest in him, he'll come around eventually and they will be able to keep one another company.
in whatever way cats do.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
rock, meet hard place.
i hate this time of year. not for any of the usual reasons--the cloying muzak about christmas trees, the glittery tinsel that gives me a headache, the ubiquitous travel during a season meant for staying put.
no, i hate this time of year because of where i work.
this year, for some reason, i'm having a much harder time with it than i did last year. perhaps last year it was just the newness of being back in the same position where i started, or the fact that i was on different drugs, or age, or any thousand things.
when i lived up north my days were busy too--but not this sapping, please-god-be-merciful exhaustion that sets in after 10 hours spent trying to help Very Angry People without any support other than from my bra.
this year i have run into the proverbial wall. i'm tired but too stressed to sleep, i feel like i'm getting sick but cannot quite get truly sick, i want to curl up on the sofa and do Nothing, since my days are so full of Something that i cannot keep up.
there's a ton of snow outside for the first time in years, and i have not played in it once. i haven't gone hiking, haven't done anything. perhaps it scares me--if i go out and enjoy myself and recharge, all that recharge will just be squandered on getting up tomorrow morning and heading back to work. by tomorrow night i will be the same husk of a person that i am this morning.
i feel bland and uninteresting--and i know the only way to change that is via action. the mountain will not come to mohammed, etc.
i know these things--logically, i know them all the time--so why is it so difficult to make waves in my own life, when the ocean does so with ease?
no, i hate this time of year because of where i work.
this year, for some reason, i'm having a much harder time with it than i did last year. perhaps last year it was just the newness of being back in the same position where i started, or the fact that i was on different drugs, or age, or any thousand things.
when i lived up north my days were busy too--but not this sapping, please-god-be-merciful exhaustion that sets in after 10 hours spent trying to help Very Angry People without any support other than from my bra.
this year i have run into the proverbial wall. i'm tired but too stressed to sleep, i feel like i'm getting sick but cannot quite get truly sick, i want to curl up on the sofa and do Nothing, since my days are so full of Something that i cannot keep up.
there's a ton of snow outside for the first time in years, and i have not played in it once. i haven't gone hiking, haven't done anything. perhaps it scares me--if i go out and enjoy myself and recharge, all that recharge will just be squandered on getting up tomorrow morning and heading back to work. by tomorrow night i will be the same husk of a person that i am this morning.
i feel bland and uninteresting--and i know the only way to change that is via action. the mountain will not come to mohammed, etc.
i know these things--logically, i know them all the time--so why is it so difficult to make waves in my own life, when the ocean does so with ease?
Saturday, December 06, 2008
half empty, half full
i wear grief like a shroud
like an old familiar shirt
the same one i've worn a thousand days
over time it frays, gets soft, worn
by fingers and arms and tears
and i forget that i wear it, and it falls
away.
then one morning i wake
or one day over lunch it comes
and i find myself wearing that same
dark clothing again.
i wear it like my sister's fine french perfume
lingering, even after i have washed
a scent so strong that it makes
me cry, a bit, but so lovely
that i cannot help but mourn
when i can no longer sense it.
***
yesterday i got a call from the vet, before i could go and pick up shiva. they said that she had been up and around and was doing well, and then she ate some food, and lay down on her side, and was not moving. they said i should come and sit with her, because it looked as though this may be the end.
so i did. my poor little girl was all wrapped up in heating pads, with an iv in her tiny leg. dan got there and we cried together because it is so difficult to watch another being in pain.
and yet she was purring--a loud, rumbling purr.
i know cats purr when they're happy, or when they're in pain. i listened to teresa's cat purr as she gave birth--welcoming her kittens, easing her own discomfort. i had the feeling later that perhaps shiva was purring for both those reasons--because she wanted to comfort herself, but also because she wanted to comfort those around her. for what other reason is a purr so loud?
we sat with her for about half an hour, just petting her little chin and listening to the purr fade down to a low murmur. neither of us could stand to watch her suffer any longer, and my vet said, you have done all you could do.
they asked if we would like to hold her while she passed, but shiva hated being held in life, so we both thought she probably would in death, too. instead we sat and petted her, and then she was gone.
***
dan and i sat up talking that night, discussing the odd string of events that led her to live with us. it all went back to september 11th--which was how cari and i met. and then her mother dying--which led to the pug moving in with cari and tony, and shiva being relocated to our house since they didn't get along.
cari and i cried for a while on the phone, remembering a small gray cat who was tenacious, mellow and social.
i know that logically we did the right things: the vet, the shots and medicine, tempting her with all manner of food. i know that even if we discovered what it was, her life would never be the same--there would be more meds, more shots, more of everything--and that is not how shiva would have wanted to live.
she was so cold the last few weeks--even with all that fur, she had no fat left. i cannot tell you the number of times i could feel her cold little feet through my jeans. closer to the end, she did not care if you covered her when she cuddled close, something she never would have allowed when she was feeling better.
i know all these things, and yet i look around for her when i sit typing, wondering if she is warm. i listen for that bleating meow, asking for food, and when i go into the kitchen, i expect that she will be sitting there, waiting patiently.
my heart just has to catch up to my head.
***
when quinn died six years ago, shiva had just come to live with us. she arrived in may; quinn died on july 4th. i told dan that i did not want to go through that again--that we would keep shiva and that was the only cat we would have.
and then the next thing you know, we have henry.
i can see the future this once and i know that henry will be sick and die before i am ready for him to do so. i know that the same thing will be true for my parents, for uncles and aunts, for family and for friends. death swoops them away in the same manner as the mystical stork dropped them into this world.
every time someone dies--and i mean someone, because cats or dogs or birds, they are all little someones, even if they are not human--it reminds me that i cannot stop loving those around me. that i cannot wall up my world so that i can ignore the pain when they leave. that i must--i must--make an effort to take the opportunities as they come, and love unreservedly. if i did not care so much, i would not hurt right now.
the pain i feel, the sorrow, is only because i knew joy. when i lay down this mantle of grief that i currently hold, i do so with the knowledge that i will wear another, and another after that, until someone picks up what i have left behind and wears one for me.
like an old familiar shirt
the same one i've worn a thousand days
over time it frays, gets soft, worn
by fingers and arms and tears
and i forget that i wear it, and it falls
away.
then one morning i wake
or one day over lunch it comes
and i find myself wearing that same
dark clothing again.
i wear it like my sister's fine french perfume
lingering, even after i have washed
a scent so strong that it makes
me cry, a bit, but so lovely
that i cannot help but mourn
when i can no longer sense it.
***
yesterday i got a call from the vet, before i could go and pick up shiva. they said that she had been up and around and was doing well, and then she ate some food, and lay down on her side, and was not moving. they said i should come and sit with her, because it looked as though this may be the end.
so i did. my poor little girl was all wrapped up in heating pads, with an iv in her tiny leg. dan got there and we cried together because it is so difficult to watch another being in pain.
and yet she was purring--a loud, rumbling purr.
i know cats purr when they're happy, or when they're in pain. i listened to teresa's cat purr as she gave birth--welcoming her kittens, easing her own discomfort. i had the feeling later that perhaps shiva was purring for both those reasons--because she wanted to comfort herself, but also because she wanted to comfort those around her. for what other reason is a purr so loud?
we sat with her for about half an hour, just petting her little chin and listening to the purr fade down to a low murmur. neither of us could stand to watch her suffer any longer, and my vet said, you have done all you could do.
they asked if we would like to hold her while she passed, but shiva hated being held in life, so we both thought she probably would in death, too. instead we sat and petted her, and then she was gone.
***
dan and i sat up talking that night, discussing the odd string of events that led her to live with us. it all went back to september 11th--which was how cari and i met. and then her mother dying--which led to the pug moving in with cari and tony, and shiva being relocated to our house since they didn't get along.
cari and i cried for a while on the phone, remembering a small gray cat who was tenacious, mellow and social.
i know that logically we did the right things: the vet, the shots and medicine, tempting her with all manner of food. i know that even if we discovered what it was, her life would never be the same--there would be more meds, more shots, more of everything--and that is not how shiva would have wanted to live.
she was so cold the last few weeks--even with all that fur, she had no fat left. i cannot tell you the number of times i could feel her cold little feet through my jeans. closer to the end, she did not care if you covered her when she cuddled close, something she never would have allowed when she was feeling better.
i know all these things, and yet i look around for her when i sit typing, wondering if she is warm. i listen for that bleating meow, asking for food, and when i go into the kitchen, i expect that she will be sitting there, waiting patiently.
my heart just has to catch up to my head.
***
when quinn died six years ago, shiva had just come to live with us. she arrived in may; quinn died on july 4th. i told dan that i did not want to go through that again--that we would keep shiva and that was the only cat we would have.
and then the next thing you know, we have henry.
i can see the future this once and i know that henry will be sick and die before i am ready for him to do so. i know that the same thing will be true for my parents, for uncles and aunts, for family and for friends. death swoops them away in the same manner as the mystical stork dropped them into this world.
every time someone dies--and i mean someone, because cats or dogs or birds, they are all little someones, even if they are not human--it reminds me that i cannot stop loving those around me. that i cannot wall up my world so that i can ignore the pain when they leave. that i must--i must--make an effort to take the opportunities as they come, and love unreservedly. if i did not care so much, i would not hurt right now.
the pain i feel, the sorrow, is only because i knew joy. when i lay down this mantle of grief that i currently hold, i do so with the knowledge that i will wear another, and another after that, until someone picks up what i have left behind and wears one for me.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
the responsibility of companions
i'm owned by two cats, one of whom is sleeping happily on the sofa right now.
the other is at the vet's, awaiting a temperature-taking at 8 pm that will determine if she stays where she is or if she gets retrieved and brought to urgent care for observation overnight.
i keep thinking of all the things in life that are important--how it is not just a human life that is important. today at work i suddenly thought of that bible verse about how god knows even when a sparrow dies.
then certainly he knows that shiva is suffering.
part of me feels like a horrible friend to her: forcing meds to make her feel better, electing surgery to see if we can figure out what the problem actually is. she is not quite 15 yet, and still fiesty and sweet and terribly, terribly cuddly. in spite of the fact that she has been having issues with her bladder, and knowing where to poo, she is still my responsibility. maybe she just wants to die--but i am keeping her alive because i am being selfish. i don't know.
today she had the surgery--they biopsied her liver, stomach, intestines and lymph nodes, to see if it's cancer or something else. she had a 50/50 chance of making it and she made it through the surgery. however the vet called me later and said that although she'd made it through surgery, she wet herself, and then punctured the hot water bottle that was in the heated kennel with her. the vet blow dried her fur, but her temperature was still sliding. normal for a cat is 100-102; shiva is at 91. in the last month she's gone from 7.5 pounds to a bit over 3.
i keep wondering if i am doing the right thing--if i am simply prolonging her suffering, if she would prefer just to sleep and not have pain any longer. it's hard to guess, when you're not a cat, and a hard decision to make as her friend.
cari had her from the time she was born until she was nine--that was when her own mother died, and she got her mom's pug. the pug and the cat did not get along, and thus, shiva relocated to my house. shiva's been my companion for six years now; she goes to sleep on my back, and wakes me with a hungry stare. when i read she is on my lap. when i cry she is on my lap. she's sociable and friendly and so mellow.
now she is not herself any longer. i dislike the notion of playing god with her, but i suppose that when one is companion to a being whose lifespan is considerably shorter than your own, that is the path you follow.
mentally i can handle this--i know that it is out of my control, that there is nothing i can do. jed and donna, my sister's loss, and now my shiva--who is really not mine, anyway.
i think of donna's funeral--the pastor quoted a bible saying. you know for someone who's not a fan of the bible i seem to be thinking of it a lot lately--but then again, death does make you think. anyway the quote was akin to "my father's house has many rooms."
when i consider it in that fashion--that death is simply a part of life, that it is not entirely an end, but perhaps a status change, or a change of scenery--then i can handle it.
it is when i focus on how it affects me that it becomes overwhelming. then all the deaths pile up and sit around me, making my fingers cold and my body shiver.
there is nothing i can do now, for shiva, which is the most difficult part. right now i just wait until 8, when they take her temperature and see if her body is ready to continue its small fight, or if it is ready to move on.
either way, i will support her.
addendum: shiva's temp is up to 95.2 and rising, so she is staying overnight at the vet in a heated kennel. go koja go!
the other is at the vet's, awaiting a temperature-taking at 8 pm that will determine if she stays where she is or if she gets retrieved and brought to urgent care for observation overnight.
i keep thinking of all the things in life that are important--how it is not just a human life that is important. today at work i suddenly thought of that bible verse about how god knows even when a sparrow dies.
then certainly he knows that shiva is suffering.
part of me feels like a horrible friend to her: forcing meds to make her feel better, electing surgery to see if we can figure out what the problem actually is. she is not quite 15 yet, and still fiesty and sweet and terribly, terribly cuddly. in spite of the fact that she has been having issues with her bladder, and knowing where to poo, she is still my responsibility. maybe she just wants to die--but i am keeping her alive because i am being selfish. i don't know.
today she had the surgery--they biopsied her liver, stomach, intestines and lymph nodes, to see if it's cancer or something else. she had a 50/50 chance of making it and she made it through the surgery. however the vet called me later and said that although she'd made it through surgery, she wet herself, and then punctured the hot water bottle that was in the heated kennel with her. the vet blow dried her fur, but her temperature was still sliding. normal for a cat is 100-102; shiva is at 91. in the last month she's gone from 7.5 pounds to a bit over 3.
i keep wondering if i am doing the right thing--if i am simply prolonging her suffering, if she would prefer just to sleep and not have pain any longer. it's hard to guess, when you're not a cat, and a hard decision to make as her friend.
cari had her from the time she was born until she was nine--that was when her own mother died, and she got her mom's pug. the pug and the cat did not get along, and thus, shiva relocated to my house. shiva's been my companion for six years now; she goes to sleep on my back, and wakes me with a hungry stare. when i read she is on my lap. when i cry she is on my lap. she's sociable and friendly and so mellow.
now she is not herself any longer. i dislike the notion of playing god with her, but i suppose that when one is companion to a being whose lifespan is considerably shorter than your own, that is the path you follow.
mentally i can handle this--i know that it is out of my control, that there is nothing i can do. jed and donna, my sister's loss, and now my shiva--who is really not mine, anyway.
i think of donna's funeral--the pastor quoted a bible saying. you know for someone who's not a fan of the bible i seem to be thinking of it a lot lately--but then again, death does make you think. anyway the quote was akin to "my father's house has many rooms."
when i consider it in that fashion--that death is simply a part of life, that it is not entirely an end, but perhaps a status change, or a change of scenery--then i can handle it.
it is when i focus on how it affects me that it becomes overwhelming. then all the deaths pile up and sit around me, making my fingers cold and my body shiver.
there is nothing i can do now, for shiva, which is the most difficult part. right now i just wait until 8, when they take her temperature and see if her body is ready to continue its small fight, or if it is ready to move on.
either way, i will support her.
addendum: shiva's temp is up to 95.2 and rising, so she is staying overnight at the vet in a heated kennel. go koja go!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
long week
monday - wednesday were busy, with work. thursday we had turkey at my sister's house, and friday we drove to brainerd for my cousin's funeral. saturday we lounged about and i performed some retail therapy at my fave thrift store. today we were just hanging around the house when my dad called to let me know that my uncle passed away.
it's not like i did not know this was coming--jed's been bedridden and nearly mute for a long, long time, and he wanted to move on. it still hurts, though. the difference in the wound someone leaves upon your soul is often your own perception of how you were able to interact with that person before they died, and how you were able to say good bye. or at least that is what i've pondered.
when corey died it was sudden--there was no chance to allow time to heal bits and pieces. same with bev--gone, in a blink. with donna there was the gradual understanding that perhaps she might not win her battle--but i clung to the idea that she would, in spite of that.
with jed--with jed it has been a long time coming. he had his first heart attack when he was forty-six--which is always one of my favorite warning tales: once upon a time, jed had a heart attack at home. since he knew what was happening, he popped a beta blocker, and then drove himself to the er, where he was severely chastised for his bad behavior before suffering another heart attack and then actually dying on the table during angioplasty.
not the end.
jed came out of the closet, joined AA, and moved out west. he had a stroke years later and spent a good year rehabbing from that. and then in 2005 he had a series of strokes and has been in the hospital ever since.
and today was finally the end.
jed lived an unconventional life, in comparison with his siblings. dad, my uncles bob and tim, all had families. dan worked and continues to work, a bachelor.
jed was the uncle with matching pillows and a good friend named chuck. he was the one who made a mean beef stew and who partied and sent me emails after he sobered up, talking about feelings and spirituality and past lives. he was different in ways that i cannot describe, since he was always this way--it does not seem terribly unconventional, to my thinking, but to the rest of the world, during my childhood, it was vibrant and so very strange and wonderful.
i know that he was ready to go--i know it, in my bones, that he had come to terms long ago with the demons people face when they battle a long illness--whether it is cancer or some other demon--and i know that when he passed away he was probably thankful.
and in some strange way it is a relief that he is gone, in that he is no longer suffering.
there's been a lot of grief in these past few weeks: my sister losing the baby, my cat wasting away despite treatment, and now, my cousin and uncle passing away. i know that all of these things are natural--that life and death are simply rooms next to one another, doors in a long hallway. trees fall over every day, leaving themselves to nourish the next generation. i know these things, and while i am grateful to whatever it was that finally allowed jed peace, i am still sad that his tale had to end in such a manner.
i will miss you, jed.
it's not like i did not know this was coming--jed's been bedridden and nearly mute for a long, long time, and he wanted to move on. it still hurts, though. the difference in the wound someone leaves upon your soul is often your own perception of how you were able to interact with that person before they died, and how you were able to say good bye. or at least that is what i've pondered.
when corey died it was sudden--there was no chance to allow time to heal bits and pieces. same with bev--gone, in a blink. with donna there was the gradual understanding that perhaps she might not win her battle--but i clung to the idea that she would, in spite of that.
with jed--with jed it has been a long time coming. he had his first heart attack when he was forty-six--which is always one of my favorite warning tales: once upon a time, jed had a heart attack at home. since he knew what was happening, he popped a beta blocker, and then drove himself to the er, where he was severely chastised for his bad behavior before suffering another heart attack and then actually dying on the table during angioplasty.
not the end.
jed came out of the closet, joined AA, and moved out west. he had a stroke years later and spent a good year rehabbing from that. and then in 2005 he had a series of strokes and has been in the hospital ever since.
and today was finally the end.
jed lived an unconventional life, in comparison with his siblings. dad, my uncles bob and tim, all had families. dan worked and continues to work, a bachelor.
jed was the uncle with matching pillows and a good friend named chuck. he was the one who made a mean beef stew and who partied and sent me emails after he sobered up, talking about feelings and spirituality and past lives. he was different in ways that i cannot describe, since he was always this way--it does not seem terribly unconventional, to my thinking, but to the rest of the world, during my childhood, it was vibrant and so very strange and wonderful.
i know that he was ready to go--i know it, in my bones, that he had come to terms long ago with the demons people face when they battle a long illness--whether it is cancer or some other demon--and i know that when he passed away he was probably thankful.
and in some strange way it is a relief that he is gone, in that he is no longer suffering.
there's been a lot of grief in these past few weeks: my sister losing the baby, my cat wasting away despite treatment, and now, my cousin and uncle passing away. i know that all of these things are natural--that life and death are simply rooms next to one another, doors in a long hallway. trees fall over every day, leaving themselves to nourish the next generation. i know these things, and while i am grateful to whatever it was that finally allowed jed peace, i am still sad that his tale had to end in such a manner.
i will miss you, jed.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
cancer and kleenex
a few weeks ago i ran out of my lexapro. i've been struggling with my decision not to refill my perscription, mainly because the withdrawl is horrible: nausea, dizziness, a feeling of complete detachment.
but with this comes a rush of feeling that i didn't realize i was missing.
tonight i almost wish i was back on the lexapro. maybe it wouldn't seem so sad. but it probably still would. my cousin donna passed away tonight after a long battle with cancer. her motto was beleive always -- and she always did, and i guess i did too.
she was this indomitable force, and for some reason in my mind the happy ever after was that she would beat it.
it seemed within reach sometimes -- earlier this year the doctors said if she could make it to fall there was a new drug they wanted to try on her. but fall came and she was not healthy enough so they did not. i suppose you have to keep hoping until you give up hope.
this feels so different from my uncle jed -- he is lingering but has given up already, has surrendered to the idea of death, and looks forward to that release. donna didn't. she wanted to keep going, she wanted to live.
or perhaps at this point she did not, and that was just my hope--that i wanted her to live and keep going.
i know all too well that life isn't fair -- that the world doesn't care whether you live or die, that the earth will continue and time will march onward. it just doesn't seem right to do that without donna's smile and those big blue eyes.
i believed, right until 918 when dad called, that she would triumph, that she would beat cancer at its game. but i don't know why i thought this, because i don't know a lot of success stories when it comes to cancer other than my cousin aaron's new wife, who beat it in childhood.
***
in the oddest of ways i am glad that i can cry again, freely. i'm glad my lips can get all swollen and puffy, and that i can run out of kleenex. the downside to being off that drug is feeling all these things again, more deeply than i have in a few years--but that is the upside, too.
i guess that it is all balances, in the end. the books total out--the ledgers must match--a fact which donna would enjoy, with her accountant background.
cancer brought together donna's entire community. the strange and horrible growth within her created growth without. i guess i just don't like the cost at which such balance is achieved.
but with this comes a rush of feeling that i didn't realize i was missing.
tonight i almost wish i was back on the lexapro. maybe it wouldn't seem so sad. but it probably still would. my cousin donna passed away tonight after a long battle with cancer. her motto was beleive always -- and she always did, and i guess i did too.
she was this indomitable force, and for some reason in my mind the happy ever after was that she would beat it.
it seemed within reach sometimes -- earlier this year the doctors said if she could make it to fall there was a new drug they wanted to try on her. but fall came and she was not healthy enough so they did not. i suppose you have to keep hoping until you give up hope.
this feels so different from my uncle jed -- he is lingering but has given up already, has surrendered to the idea of death, and looks forward to that release. donna didn't. she wanted to keep going, she wanted to live.
or perhaps at this point she did not, and that was just my hope--that i wanted her to live and keep going.
i know all too well that life isn't fair -- that the world doesn't care whether you live or die, that the earth will continue and time will march onward. it just doesn't seem right to do that without donna's smile and those big blue eyes.
i believed, right until 918 when dad called, that she would triumph, that she would beat cancer at its game. but i don't know why i thought this, because i don't know a lot of success stories when it comes to cancer other than my cousin aaron's new wife, who beat it in childhood.
***
in the oddest of ways i am glad that i can cry again, freely. i'm glad my lips can get all swollen and puffy, and that i can run out of kleenex. the downside to being off that drug is feeling all these things again, more deeply than i have in a few years--but that is the upside, too.
i guess that it is all balances, in the end. the books total out--the ledgers must match--a fact which donna would enjoy, with her accountant background.
cancer brought together donna's entire community. the strange and horrible growth within her created growth without. i guess i just don't like the cost at which such balance is achieved.
Monday, October 20, 2008
jed
how long will he linger
tied to this world with
such small, small threads?
one by one they are unhooked.
from this great distance
i cannot smell your cologne anymore
i cannot remember anything
other than the feel of your chin
brushing my cheek when you hugged me.
i know that this is not
how you'd hoped to live your life--
you, the man who camped in the desert
slept in the back of your pickup
and counted stars until you slept,
the same man who knew nana's secrets
to reading tea leaves
and making stew.
soon enough you'll join them all
so far away
and yet so close.
the only thing holding you here
is pain, and the cage
of your body.
so i ask again
i ask
how long will he linger
***
my uncle jed has been in a care facility since may of 2005. he had a series of strokes at that time. at first it appeared that he would recover, with enough therapy and time, but he has suffered more strokes since then, infections and everything that happens when you are trapped by your own body. he made the difficult decision to begin hospice care--which means that he will receive meds to soothe pain, but nothing further to control his blood sugar or his heart conditions.
when i was a kid jed lived in a townhouse in the cities--we'd visit him and i always loved his house, because it was so neat and tidy and smelled like cologne--which my father didn't wear. when i was a kid i knew my uncle was different from his brothers--he enjoyed colored pillows, matching furniture, and liked to cook and listen to show tunes.
it wasn't terribly different from my dad, or his brothers, i suppose--except my dad had no idea that pillows came in different colors, and i doubt that he notices when and if furniture matches. dad's idea of cooking is a grill and a spatula. jed's was always something tasty prepared in the oven, and a glass of wine. it never seemed odd that my dad and his other three brothers enjoyed cars and hunting, and jed enjoyed movies and line dancing--it was just who he was.
on his fridge he had a picture of his "friend" chuck, a man who i thought for a long time was magnum p.i., standing by a red sports car. it's too late now to ask if he loved that man--if he even remembers that man, i suppose.
jed came out of the closet when i was in college. he sent a letter around thanksgiving explaining that he was coming out and joining AA. my siblings and mom were more shocked that he was actually joining AA, but my dad was shocked that jed was gay. he felt horrible because what if he had insulted jed earlier in life, with jokes or pressing girlfriends on his brother?
i met so many diverse people in college--gay, straight, transsexual, liberal, conservative, wiccan and methodist and catholic. i cannot tell now how much of an impact jed had on me when i was growing up--all i know is that i'm not sure i would be the same person if i hadn't had him in my life. would i have accepted all around me, just as they were, if i had not had someone in my early years who was different and yet completely accepted?
for the past three years jed has struggled, soul trapped on earth, unable to speak or communicate with ease, unable to move himself, reliant on others for everything. in deciding to go into hospice care only, he's finally able to begin letting go, something that i began years ago, i suppose, when he first entered the care facility he's presently in.
jed, i think of you every day. i think of you when i drive past the denny's near my house--the one you knew as a "good denny's" and i know as a "bad denny's." i think of you when i go to the sales just south of town, in the townhomes where we visited you. i think of you when i see a banana cream pie at the grocery store--and i remember popping that into uncle dan's face, while you stood there waiting to serve it, plates and server in hand, shocked.
you used to have a book of naughty limericks in the bathroom, and being the literate child i was, i remember reading them and of course not understanding too terribly much, but thinking that they were so very interesting.
there was one time we visited and you took us to a horse farm, south of the cities, i think. they bred thorobreds and i was in heaven--the rest of my family was in horse manure, and bored after five minutes, i hazard. but you knew how much i loved horses and did that for me.
i always had the feeling that i could tell you anything i wanted to, anything at all, and you would not judge me. now i wonder why i did not tell you more, did not talk more, did not listen better.
i wish you only the best--that you might leave this world and move along to wherever it is the soul journeys. i hope that you can return again to sedona--you loved it there--and perhaps to the northern forests of minnesota. i will wait for you here, wait for that one last hug that i know you will give me.
love, your neice kimberly
tied to this world with
such small, small threads?
one by one they are unhooked.
from this great distance
i cannot smell your cologne anymore
i cannot remember anything
other than the feel of your chin
brushing my cheek when you hugged me.
i know that this is not
how you'd hoped to live your life--
you, the man who camped in the desert
slept in the back of your pickup
and counted stars until you slept,
the same man who knew nana's secrets
to reading tea leaves
and making stew.
soon enough you'll join them all
so far away
and yet so close.
the only thing holding you here
is pain, and the cage
of your body.
so i ask again
i ask
how long will he linger
***
my uncle jed has been in a care facility since may of 2005. he had a series of strokes at that time. at first it appeared that he would recover, with enough therapy and time, but he has suffered more strokes since then, infections and everything that happens when you are trapped by your own body. he made the difficult decision to begin hospice care--which means that he will receive meds to soothe pain, but nothing further to control his blood sugar or his heart conditions.
when i was a kid jed lived in a townhouse in the cities--we'd visit him and i always loved his house, because it was so neat and tidy and smelled like cologne--which my father didn't wear. when i was a kid i knew my uncle was different from his brothers--he enjoyed colored pillows, matching furniture, and liked to cook and listen to show tunes.
it wasn't terribly different from my dad, or his brothers, i suppose--except my dad had no idea that pillows came in different colors, and i doubt that he notices when and if furniture matches. dad's idea of cooking is a grill and a spatula. jed's was always something tasty prepared in the oven, and a glass of wine. it never seemed odd that my dad and his other three brothers enjoyed cars and hunting, and jed enjoyed movies and line dancing--it was just who he was.
on his fridge he had a picture of his "friend" chuck, a man who i thought for a long time was magnum p.i., standing by a red sports car. it's too late now to ask if he loved that man--if he even remembers that man, i suppose.
jed came out of the closet when i was in college. he sent a letter around thanksgiving explaining that he was coming out and joining AA. my siblings and mom were more shocked that he was actually joining AA, but my dad was shocked that jed was gay. he felt horrible because what if he had insulted jed earlier in life, with jokes or pressing girlfriends on his brother?
i met so many diverse people in college--gay, straight, transsexual, liberal, conservative, wiccan and methodist and catholic. i cannot tell now how much of an impact jed had on me when i was growing up--all i know is that i'm not sure i would be the same person if i hadn't had him in my life. would i have accepted all around me, just as they were, if i had not had someone in my early years who was different and yet completely accepted?
for the past three years jed has struggled, soul trapped on earth, unable to speak or communicate with ease, unable to move himself, reliant on others for everything. in deciding to go into hospice care only, he's finally able to begin letting go, something that i began years ago, i suppose, when he first entered the care facility he's presently in.
jed, i think of you every day. i think of you when i drive past the denny's near my house--the one you knew as a "good denny's" and i know as a "bad denny's." i think of you when i go to the sales just south of town, in the townhomes where we visited you. i think of you when i see a banana cream pie at the grocery store--and i remember popping that into uncle dan's face, while you stood there waiting to serve it, plates and server in hand, shocked.
you used to have a book of naughty limericks in the bathroom, and being the literate child i was, i remember reading them and of course not understanding too terribly much, but thinking that they were so very interesting.
there was one time we visited and you took us to a horse farm, south of the cities, i think. they bred thorobreds and i was in heaven--the rest of my family was in horse manure, and bored after five minutes, i hazard. but you knew how much i loved horses and did that for me.
i always had the feeling that i could tell you anything i wanted to, anything at all, and you would not judge me. now i wonder why i did not tell you more, did not talk more, did not listen better.
i wish you only the best--that you might leave this world and move along to wherever it is the soul journeys. i hope that you can return again to sedona--you loved it there--and perhaps to the northern forests of minnesota. i will wait for you here, wait for that one last hug that i know you will give me.
love, your neice kimberly
Monday, September 22, 2008
believe
i wish i could say with all authority that i had a good weekend. saturday was fun--picked up rene from the airport, had lunch, saw pics of new york. sunday was my cousin's fiancee's wedding shower--so i got to see my mom, my aunt, my just-married cousin and about 10 friends of my aunt's. it was fun and the weather was perfect.
my cousin shelly, however, and her daughter lauren, weren't there. my aunt was concerned so she called shelly.
after the shower, when it was just my mom and aunt and my cousin, my aunt revealed that shelly's sister, my cousin donna, had been in the hospital again this weekend. her intestines shut down. the doctors restarted them, but shelly had spent pretty much the whole weekend in bed with donna.
standing on the warm front lawn yesterday my aunt said, she's such a fighter. i just don't know how much longer she can fight.
i cried most of the way home.
***
it's not like i know donna well--but she's my cousin, older by probably 10 years or so, and she has the most beautiful smile.
when i was a kid, i remember staying at her parent's house over christmas--it was only a few blocks from my grandma's house, which was chock full to the seams, and shelly and donna weren't home that year. i got to sleep in shelly's room, if i remember correctly. shelly had a waterbed--something i'd never slept on--and the door to her room wasn't shut all the way. i fell asleep listening to my parents and aunt and uncle drink coffee and smoke, and laugh, and staring at shelly's graduation picture on the wall.
i was probably about nine and wanted to grow up now now now--for various reasons, i didn't want to be a child any longer--anyway when you're nine you dream of being like whoever it is in your life that is your dream. shelly and donna were my dreams. i wanted to have donna's feathered blonde hair and shelly's ready laugh. i wanted the independence i dreamt they were exploring--and they were, i'm sure of it.
my sisters and i would play dress-up in my family's basement. our most common play theme was being on a ship that was marooned--i'm fairly certain that came from watching "swiss family robinson" a few too many times. sometimes we'd mix it up and play that we were in college--sharing a room, going to class, dressing up for a dance. that was an idea that stemmed directly from me wanting so badly to be older and prettier and not me--i wanted to be donna or shelly, pretty and independent and strong.
of course life goes on. you forget these things. you forget longing for your frizzy red hair to be white-blonde, and your strange hazel eyes to turn some color--brown, green, blue, pick one. you grow up and forget who your role models were when you were younger.
***
last weekend was my other cousin's wedding--tis the season, i suppose. this was my cousin chris--donna and shelly's younger brother. donna's been going through chemo for so long that i honestly cannot remember when she was not fighting that insiduous second being, cancer.
she'd just had chemo that week, but she was there. her smile was the same--bright and shiny, despite being weak and tired. she's lost her hair, but she has a great wig, one she calls her "candy" wig, that's a dark brown and makes her blue eyes that much more blue.
when i hugged her i could feel how terribly thin she's become. during the actual ceremony i saw her and her husband clinging to each other--listening to the vows, watching as her little brother became a husband.
i remember when donna and biz got married--nearly 20 years ago now, i think. you cannot know in the ensuing years what will happen. they have two children, a house, a dog, jobs and lives, and this thing, this cancer, has entered into their lives and changed everything. it's an unwanted guest, one that just will not leave.
but she was smiling. despite being in a great deal of pain--the kind that necessitates massive doses of drugs, and still lingers--she was smiling.
i realized while standing there that the strength and independence and beauty for which i longed when i was younger was still there--made stronger over time. your heroes when you're young grow up too--but they don't have to stop being your heroes.
months and months ago they made bracelets--a royal blue color--with donna's motto on it: believe always. i haven't worn it in a long time, but i recall it often. in the same way i think of my uncle jed and his saying, "little by slow." i look at my own life--the small hills and valleys through which i travel, the complaints that fill my days--and they are tiny compared to the paths donna and jed have traveled. miniscule compared to the paths of others on this planet.
i realized long ago that i would never have donna's blonde hair, feathered and falling neatly. she no longer has her hair, either. but the inner core of her--the strength and independence that i saw, years ago, and longed for--that is still there.
my cousin shelly, however, and her daughter lauren, weren't there. my aunt was concerned so she called shelly.
after the shower, when it was just my mom and aunt and my cousin, my aunt revealed that shelly's sister, my cousin donna, had been in the hospital again this weekend. her intestines shut down. the doctors restarted them, but shelly had spent pretty much the whole weekend in bed with donna.
standing on the warm front lawn yesterday my aunt said, she's such a fighter. i just don't know how much longer she can fight.
i cried most of the way home.
***
it's not like i know donna well--but she's my cousin, older by probably 10 years or so, and she has the most beautiful smile.
when i was a kid, i remember staying at her parent's house over christmas--it was only a few blocks from my grandma's house, which was chock full to the seams, and shelly and donna weren't home that year. i got to sleep in shelly's room, if i remember correctly. shelly had a waterbed--something i'd never slept on--and the door to her room wasn't shut all the way. i fell asleep listening to my parents and aunt and uncle drink coffee and smoke, and laugh, and staring at shelly's graduation picture on the wall.
i was probably about nine and wanted to grow up now now now--for various reasons, i didn't want to be a child any longer--anyway when you're nine you dream of being like whoever it is in your life that is your dream. shelly and donna were my dreams. i wanted to have donna's feathered blonde hair and shelly's ready laugh. i wanted the independence i dreamt they were exploring--and they were, i'm sure of it.
my sisters and i would play dress-up in my family's basement. our most common play theme was being on a ship that was marooned--i'm fairly certain that came from watching "swiss family robinson" a few too many times. sometimes we'd mix it up and play that we were in college--sharing a room, going to class, dressing up for a dance. that was an idea that stemmed directly from me wanting so badly to be older and prettier and not me--i wanted to be donna or shelly, pretty and independent and strong.
of course life goes on. you forget these things. you forget longing for your frizzy red hair to be white-blonde, and your strange hazel eyes to turn some color--brown, green, blue, pick one. you grow up and forget who your role models were when you were younger.
***
last weekend was my other cousin's wedding--tis the season, i suppose. this was my cousin chris--donna and shelly's younger brother. donna's been going through chemo for so long that i honestly cannot remember when she was not fighting that insiduous second being, cancer.
she'd just had chemo that week, but she was there. her smile was the same--bright and shiny, despite being weak and tired. she's lost her hair, but she has a great wig, one she calls her "candy" wig, that's a dark brown and makes her blue eyes that much more blue.
when i hugged her i could feel how terribly thin she's become. during the actual ceremony i saw her and her husband clinging to each other--listening to the vows, watching as her little brother became a husband.
i remember when donna and biz got married--nearly 20 years ago now, i think. you cannot know in the ensuing years what will happen. they have two children, a house, a dog, jobs and lives, and this thing, this cancer, has entered into their lives and changed everything. it's an unwanted guest, one that just will not leave.
but she was smiling. despite being in a great deal of pain--the kind that necessitates massive doses of drugs, and still lingers--she was smiling.
i realized while standing there that the strength and independence and beauty for which i longed when i was younger was still there--made stronger over time. your heroes when you're young grow up too--but they don't have to stop being your heroes.
months and months ago they made bracelets--a royal blue color--with donna's motto on it: believe always. i haven't worn it in a long time, but i recall it often. in the same way i think of my uncle jed and his saying, "little by slow." i look at my own life--the small hills and valleys through which i travel, the complaints that fill my days--and they are tiny compared to the paths donna and jed have traveled. miniscule compared to the paths of others on this planet.
i realized long ago that i would never have donna's blonde hair, feathered and falling neatly. she no longer has her hair, either. but the inner core of her--the strength and independence that i saw, years ago, and longed for--that is still there.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
cool
it's finally becoming autumn, and i'm quite thankful for that. i'm not a summer person, not by a long shot. in fact just a few weeks ago i had an epiphany while talking to my sister. we were discussing a family gathering, perhaps camping.
sister: well, we can't go camping in march. maybe we could all stay at a cabin or something. but then it might still be too cold out to do anything outside.
me: too cold?
it was then that i realized that i see temperature in exactly the opposite fashion of my sister, and probably the better part of humanity, too.
there's just something about summer--the humidity, the heat, how it's so terribly bright outside when the sun's up--that makes me cringe, in the same way that my sister cringes when the wind bites her cheeks.
i don't even know why i love the cold so very much, but i can hazard a few guesses. cold, to me, feels clean. it is tidy and neat and precise in ways that humidity can never be--and ways that i will never be, either. i think of winter and i think of walking outside when there's that tang of snow in the air, hearing the geese escape to southern areas while the wind picks up and the sun sinks. i think of bare branches, stark against pale sky, and the crunch of millions and millions of crystalline bits of angular water beneath my boots.
there is so very much to love. it's not only the outside, either. it's coming in from the cold, being accepted into the heat of one's home. your cheeks--so red and wind-chapped that they're nearly solid--slowly warming. hot cocoa and stews, biscuits hot from the oven, a warm cat and a blanket and a book.
as i type our patio door is open, and there's a small, chill breeze blowing through the house. it's making me smile, this bit of wind.
i know part of the reason i enjoy it so much is the extremes. the house is always warm and outside is always cold enough to make your teeth hurt. those same extremes are present in summer--at least in my house they are--but they're backwards. it's cold inside and hot outside--muggy and bright with lazy sunshine. i've not hing against sun, mind--but i burn so easy that it makes shade and darkness my haven.
in minnesota in the winter the sun is a fleeing guest, running across the southern sky, barely saying hello before it's murmuring goodbye. maybe that is what i love--the feeling of being hidden, in winter. the solitude of the woods, when no one else is poking about--because it's too cold.
personally, i've yet to meet too cold. but i'm a bit odd, i spose.
sister: well, we can't go camping in march. maybe we could all stay at a cabin or something. but then it might still be too cold out to do anything outside.
me: too cold?
it was then that i realized that i see temperature in exactly the opposite fashion of my sister, and probably the better part of humanity, too.
there's just something about summer--the humidity, the heat, how it's so terribly bright outside when the sun's up--that makes me cringe, in the same way that my sister cringes when the wind bites her cheeks.
i don't even know why i love the cold so very much, but i can hazard a few guesses. cold, to me, feels clean. it is tidy and neat and precise in ways that humidity can never be--and ways that i will never be, either. i think of winter and i think of walking outside when there's that tang of snow in the air, hearing the geese escape to southern areas while the wind picks up and the sun sinks. i think of bare branches, stark against pale sky, and the crunch of millions and millions of crystalline bits of angular water beneath my boots.
there is so very much to love. it's not only the outside, either. it's coming in from the cold, being accepted into the heat of one's home. your cheeks--so red and wind-chapped that they're nearly solid--slowly warming. hot cocoa and stews, biscuits hot from the oven, a warm cat and a blanket and a book.
as i type our patio door is open, and there's a small, chill breeze blowing through the house. it's making me smile, this bit of wind.
i know part of the reason i enjoy it so much is the extremes. the house is always warm and outside is always cold enough to make your teeth hurt. those same extremes are present in summer--at least in my house they are--but they're backwards. it's cold inside and hot outside--muggy and bright with lazy sunshine. i've not hing against sun, mind--but i burn so easy that it makes shade and darkness my haven.
in minnesota in the winter the sun is a fleeing guest, running across the southern sky, barely saying hello before it's murmuring goodbye. maybe that is what i love--the feeling of being hidden, in winter. the solitude of the woods, when no one else is poking about--because it's too cold.
personally, i've yet to meet too cold. but i'm a bit odd, i spose.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
comfort in odd places
there are weeks that go by in which my day job overtakes my life. this past month has been no exception. by the time i arrive home all i want are--and in this order--a pair of comfy pants, a less-confining bra, a old, worn t-shirt, and a tall glass of cold milk.
then it's hugs from man, and cuddles from cat, and a book opened in my lap.
of late it's been all i can to do read anything other than pd james. years ago one of my well-intentioned aunts gave me a paper sack filled with mysteries and other assorted books. this was when i was about twelve, give or take, and completely bored with what i was reading. it's been twenty years since then, and i've no clue of what your average twelve-year-old reads these days, but to give you an idea of where i was at:
when dad went away on work he'd come back with these little nancy drew books -- case files. they were interesting and held my attention for their time span...about an hour. my parents are not big readers, and those books he brought as gifts were the only books i owned well into my teens. (along with an astrology book. don't ask. or maybe later.)
one night when my parents were out at their bowling league i discovered a copy of james michener's hawaii downstairs, on a shelf with a book penned by lee iaccoca webster's dictionary, and an atlas. i gobbled that up like a starving child and by the time bowling was done, convinced myself that i was a leper.
i think it was the summer afterward that my aunt gave me the bag. it was white paper with these twisted paper handles -- nothing like that at our house, as it came from herberger's, and heaven forbid we shop anywhere above k-mart. the bag alone was a treat and i remember treating it as if it were made of ivory, and not fiber.
anyway, in the bag was a pile of pd james, martha grimes, one dorothy sayers, jean auel's clan of the cave bear, and stephen king's the eyes of the dragon. there were also a few lillian jackson braun books in there--what my aunt called "popcorn," since they were quick reads.
i've seen movies in which people open chests of gold, and it shines back in their faces like the sun. that was me, with this heap of ink.
that fall we moved, and my mother, who encouraged library usage, found herself ferrying us to the library more and more often. i was careful to choose enough books to tide me over until the pile was due, and then i'd inveigle myself into the suburban when mom went to work, and take the bus from there to the library.
i motored my way through every mystery i could find. the following year i wanted to impress a boy on whom i had a horrid crush, and when i saw him reading piers anthony's a spell for chameleon, i found that in the library, too.
as a reader i was fearless. in books i could escape and adventure ever so safely, while in reality i was the red-headed, slightly plump target for schoolyard bullies. i was afraid of everything outside of those pages, and yet those pages were what showed me things so much more horrific than my own petty scares.
***
bees have long been a phobia--that heavy buzz, the thick abodomen. there is something about a bee that raises alarm in me. there's no reason for my fear, since i love flowers and fruits and honey, and bees are somewhat integral to those items. over time i've squelched my greatest of those fears, however, and can remain seated, if with thudding heart, when one swings close.
there is one other bug, however, that i cannot stand.
the other day i was in the downstairs bathroom when i saw something moving across the floorboards. at first i thought it was a mouse, and laughed at the thought of my two sedentary cats trying their paw at catching it. then i realized it was an insect of some kind, and gradually realized it was a centipede.
when i was a kid we had centipedes all over the house in wisconsin, until dad sprayed insecticide. you had to check your shoes before you put them on, etc. nasty things. either way, they've been part of my fears as long as i can recall.
and i was stuck in the bathroom with this beastie.
for a good long second i didn't move, as if like the dinosaur in jurassic park the insect would not see me, if i did not move. it sped under the door and was gone.
i found a bottle of windex and, thus prepped, opened the door, fully expecting to see it flowing across the white linoleum. but it wasn't there. it was climbing swiftly up the door.
after a great deal of histrionic gasping and shouting, during which my cats stared at me in terror, i was able to subdue the thing with the bottom of the windex bottle and a puddle of blue liquid, and it was subsequently flushed.
in the end i resolved to conquer my fear by overload. for an hour i read online about how to rid the house of these pests, and how they actually were fairly beneficial: as carnivores, they scour your floors for other bugs, and have no interest in humanity.
***
my latest pd james is "the maul and the pear tree," a co-written account of two brutal murders in 1811 london, nearly eighty years before a man stalked whitechapel and made a name for himself with a knife.
the murders are shocking in their own right--the marrs and their three-month-old baby and servant boy, and the williamsons and their servant--but worse is reading them and knowing that the powers of detection at the disposal of regency police was so terribly...minimal.
the prime suspect in the murders was never able to be actually questioned at the inquest; he hung himself, thereby cementing any doubts that he was guilty.
heaven forbid that he was not.
either way, it reminded me of how different things are, two hundred-and-some years down the line. it reminded me of how terrified i am--this grown woman, nearly hopping onto her coffee table to avoid an insect smaller than a quarter. i feel nearly desensitized to the horrors that await me within a novel's pages, but that one scurrying creature turns me into a child of twelve again, gasping for air as my mother hands me a paper bag.
perhaps lately i crave that delicious English rhythm of pd james. i don't know. books are comforting to me in ways that i cannot explain. when in stress i turn to a select few, again and again. lately work has been stress--which is why i put my hands on james' detective dalgliesh and take comfort.
then it's hugs from man, and cuddles from cat, and a book opened in my lap.
of late it's been all i can to do read anything other than pd james. years ago one of my well-intentioned aunts gave me a paper sack filled with mysteries and other assorted books. this was when i was about twelve, give or take, and completely bored with what i was reading. it's been twenty years since then, and i've no clue of what your average twelve-year-old reads these days, but to give you an idea of where i was at:
when dad went away on work he'd come back with these little nancy drew books -- case files. they were interesting and held my attention for their time span...about an hour. my parents are not big readers, and those books he brought as gifts were the only books i owned well into my teens. (along with an astrology book. don't ask. or maybe later.)
one night when my parents were out at their bowling league i discovered a copy of james michener's hawaii downstairs, on a shelf with a book penned by lee iaccoca webster's dictionary, and an atlas. i gobbled that up like a starving child and by the time bowling was done, convinced myself that i was a leper.
i think it was the summer afterward that my aunt gave me the bag. it was white paper with these twisted paper handles -- nothing like that at our house, as it came from herberger's, and heaven forbid we shop anywhere above k-mart. the bag alone was a treat and i remember treating it as if it were made of ivory, and not fiber.
anyway, in the bag was a pile of pd james, martha grimes, one dorothy sayers, jean auel's clan of the cave bear, and stephen king's the eyes of the dragon. there were also a few lillian jackson braun books in there--what my aunt called "popcorn," since they were quick reads.
i've seen movies in which people open chests of gold, and it shines back in their faces like the sun. that was me, with this heap of ink.
that fall we moved, and my mother, who encouraged library usage, found herself ferrying us to the library more and more often. i was careful to choose enough books to tide me over until the pile was due, and then i'd inveigle myself into the suburban when mom went to work, and take the bus from there to the library.
i motored my way through every mystery i could find. the following year i wanted to impress a boy on whom i had a horrid crush, and when i saw him reading piers anthony's a spell for chameleon, i found that in the library, too.
as a reader i was fearless. in books i could escape and adventure ever so safely, while in reality i was the red-headed, slightly plump target for schoolyard bullies. i was afraid of everything outside of those pages, and yet those pages were what showed me things so much more horrific than my own petty scares.
***
bees have long been a phobia--that heavy buzz, the thick abodomen. there is something about a bee that raises alarm in me. there's no reason for my fear, since i love flowers and fruits and honey, and bees are somewhat integral to those items. over time i've squelched my greatest of those fears, however, and can remain seated, if with thudding heart, when one swings close.
there is one other bug, however, that i cannot stand.
the other day i was in the downstairs bathroom when i saw something moving across the floorboards. at first i thought it was a mouse, and laughed at the thought of my two sedentary cats trying their paw at catching it. then i realized it was an insect of some kind, and gradually realized it was a centipede.
when i was a kid we had centipedes all over the house in wisconsin, until dad sprayed insecticide. you had to check your shoes before you put them on, etc. nasty things. either way, they've been part of my fears as long as i can recall.
and i was stuck in the bathroom with this beastie.
for a good long second i didn't move, as if like the dinosaur in jurassic park the insect would not see me, if i did not move. it sped under the door and was gone.
i found a bottle of windex and, thus prepped, opened the door, fully expecting to see it flowing across the white linoleum. but it wasn't there. it was climbing swiftly up the door.
after a great deal of histrionic gasping and shouting, during which my cats stared at me in terror, i was able to subdue the thing with the bottom of the windex bottle and a puddle of blue liquid, and it was subsequently flushed.
in the end i resolved to conquer my fear by overload. for an hour i read online about how to rid the house of these pests, and how they actually were fairly beneficial: as carnivores, they scour your floors for other bugs, and have no interest in humanity.
***
my latest pd james is "the maul and the pear tree," a co-written account of two brutal murders in 1811 london, nearly eighty years before a man stalked whitechapel and made a name for himself with a knife.
the murders are shocking in their own right--the marrs and their three-month-old baby and servant boy, and the williamsons and their servant--but worse is reading them and knowing that the powers of detection at the disposal of regency police was so terribly...minimal.
the prime suspect in the murders was never able to be actually questioned at the inquest; he hung himself, thereby cementing any doubts that he was guilty.
heaven forbid that he was not.
either way, it reminded me of how different things are, two hundred-and-some years down the line. it reminded me of how terrified i am--this grown woman, nearly hopping onto her coffee table to avoid an insect smaller than a quarter. i feel nearly desensitized to the horrors that await me within a novel's pages, but that one scurrying creature turns me into a child of twelve again, gasping for air as my mother hands me a paper bag.
perhaps lately i crave that delicious English rhythm of pd james. i don't know. books are comforting to me in ways that i cannot explain. when in stress i turn to a select few, again and again. lately work has been stress--which is why i put my hands on james' detective dalgliesh and take comfort.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
the shape of my dreams
lately i've been obsessed with writing. it's like i'm in college again and have a paper due tomorrow. a better approxiamation would be the scene in "alien" when the guy's sitting at the table and the alien ejects itself via his sternum. bloody and unexpected--that's what this feels like.
it doesn't happen all the time. some nights or even mornings i sit down with the urge to put fingers to keyboard and nothing--and i mean nothing--happens. i wish that the urge could have a constant outlet, that i could put into words all that i process during the day--but that would be impossible, unless i wrote in my sleep, because even there my mind overhauls the days and weeks and compresses them into a pseudo-reality that's difficult to separate from my actual waking hours.
perhaps those are the real hours, and these "waking" hours are the dream? there are days that i don't know. nights when my brain is a fertile ground in which every green shoot becomes jack's bean stalk, a fantastical ladder to a fantastical world.
it's hanging there at all times--the option to fall into sleep and clamber up, see what's there. when i do wake the rest of my life becomes a gathering ground for the dreams, but it does not stop there. i often wonder what it is about the brain that forms the shape of my dreams. they're not anything i can describe properly with words, despite my attempts. dan often looks at me and says, you're weird.
i cannot honestly recall a night in which i did not dream. sometimes i cannot recall the dream itself -- but i know that it happened, just as i know that i forgot to brush my teeth last night before bed.
but where do they come from? the deepest pits of hell, the heights of heaven. loving, bloody, horrific, sweet and sentimental, you name it--one dream can be peppered with all of the above, and often is. everything in the dream is incongruous, when i wake up, but during the dream it is seamless and makes perfect sense.
perhaps that is why i can accept real life for what it is--odd and terrifying, in both good and bad ways.
i remember waking up years ago--literally like seven years ago--and telling dan about the dream i'd just had. we were traveling somewhere, me and dan and some other girl. in the dream we walked with another group of people across a broad, waving grassy plain. the sky was gray, a hint of hidden sun. at some point we walked into a cave, a giant black maw in the landscape, and then something happened to us. we woke up in a room with a huge number of people, all waking with the same puzzled faces.
i read somewhere once that you do not dream about people you do not know--but my dreams are so often staffed with a bevy of unknowns that i know it's not true.
anyway. the room is huge--the ceiling is probably twenty feet high, the walls are poured concrete, the doors are giant and unrelenting dark steel. the whole place is new and clean. bright neon lights cast everyone in lurid color. there's a voice, saying that this is a game. there is another like group of people in a twin to this room. the lights go out and there is the hiss of gas; we topple into sleep again.
awake again; we struggle to our feet, but this time it is just dan and me and this strange girl with whom we travel. as our eyes adjust to the light we see that the people around us have been dismembered--they are strewn about all over, clean and bloodless, bright red seams of flesh where they have been cut apart. the voice comes again, explaining that we have to put everyone back together again--find the body parts that match, assemble them again, humpty-dumpty style. there are arms clad in flannels, denim legs, torsos wearing various t-shirts and blouses.
there is no time to be horror stricken; the game is that we must put together all of our bodies before the people in the next room do the same. whoever wins will live.
at that point i woke up, confused. it was about three am, and i told myself to change my dream, and fell back asleep.
this time we were in the room, with all the chilled body parts, but rescue was on its way. we opened the doors and people from all kinds of other rooms were doing the same--it was not just two rooms, but many. or perhaps there were rooms in which others were just not all dead. either way, we surged up a wide hallway, going towards the light at the top of it. there was no noise; we were silent, this large herd of people.
at the mouth of the cave we paused. helicopters buzzed through the air--some belonging to whatever terrorist group had held us, others to the police. cop cars dotted the previously peaceful landscape, lights flashing. it was near dusk or dawn--the sun was behind gray again.
i pressed myself against the cave wall and everyone behind me did the same, creeping forward slowly. a helicopter swung into the cave, swirled over us, sprayed us with bullets. some of the escapees fell. then a bazooka boomed, and the aircraft slammed against the wall, crumpling to the cave floor. the pilot's body oozed out of the helicopter just like a caterpillar's body would, if stepped upon: yellow and green, slimy.
we ran out of the cave and i woke up again, and told dan my story.
he, too, had dreamed. he'd dreamed that he flew to chicago, the plane crashed, and he rescued a kitten.
***
there are times when i know that my dreams are different--there was another dream about finding a serial killer's house--the killers were a husband and wife in their seventies; it was gruesome. and another dream where the world was going to end because teenagers on skateboards were bombing things.
then there was the one about the giant stuffed spider (which actually hangs from the ceiling at half-price books) that me and an asian produce mart owner killed, which was part and parcel of the same dream where my sister being held hostage at a community center, and a girl was knifed on a city street.
i could chalk it up to television or books, but to be honest, i don't watch a lot of gruesome shows, or read horrifying books. what is it about my mind, swimming in this bone goblet, that leans towards the horrific, and can be lead down the ridiculous, too? (ridiculous being the dream in which my siblings and i slugged our way through some humid and tropical south american jungle, after which my brother gave birth to a glistening ebony bowling ball.)
there are folds in the corpus collosum--is this my subconcious doing the mundane job of ironing them flat? if so, does it use starch or just a spritz of stale water, as my mother does?
i'm in my thirties, and the dreams are more and more reality and not fiction. i cannot always separate them from my life. did i dream that i filled up my gas tank, or did i fill it? did i bake bread, or do i need to pick some up at the store? do i need to review cnn online to see if there has been some horrific thing that is real, or did i dream it?
the evening news can be just as disconcerting. case in point: the boy randomly decapitated on that canadian bus.
what is real? what is just my mind, shaping invisible clay into whatever it wishes? tossing it in the air, seeing the virgin mary's face on one side of my lopsided creation?
***
this week i've been watching shark shows on discovery channel. do i dream of sharks, swimming arrogantly beautiful in the ocean, large eyes searching? no, i dream of assembling bright orange cheddar cheese balls and garnishing them with fresh, green parsley for some ghoulish zombie ball, at which there are actually rotting undead. why would they want a cheese ball?
this morning, i woke and finished a book, and thought about sitting down to work on the story that's constantly bubbling on the back burner. while i drank my first coffee, i watched more sharks, and came to the conclusion that a writer does not always just graze like an antelope, gleaning what they can from life. sometimes they have to go on the offensive, chase out their prey--nouns, verbs, whatnot--and trap it.
it's odd to think that my mind can be just as gory as it is--scary and terrifying, and beautiful at the same time, to my poet's eyes. during the day i am the prey--i am the four-legged ungulate, cropping at new shoots. i'm not a bull shark, sampling the world with my thousand teeth.
so perhaps if i graze during my real life--the time in which bills are paid and cats are fed--then i hunt in my dreams, where every individual can go beyond the acceptable pale? i don't know.
then again, are my eyes open, just now?
it doesn't happen all the time. some nights or even mornings i sit down with the urge to put fingers to keyboard and nothing--and i mean nothing--happens. i wish that the urge could have a constant outlet, that i could put into words all that i process during the day--but that would be impossible, unless i wrote in my sleep, because even there my mind overhauls the days and weeks and compresses them into a pseudo-reality that's difficult to separate from my actual waking hours.
perhaps those are the real hours, and these "waking" hours are the dream? there are days that i don't know. nights when my brain is a fertile ground in which every green shoot becomes jack's bean stalk, a fantastical ladder to a fantastical world.
it's hanging there at all times--the option to fall into sleep and clamber up, see what's there. when i do wake the rest of my life becomes a gathering ground for the dreams, but it does not stop there. i often wonder what it is about the brain that forms the shape of my dreams. they're not anything i can describe properly with words, despite my attempts. dan often looks at me and says, you're weird.
i cannot honestly recall a night in which i did not dream. sometimes i cannot recall the dream itself -- but i know that it happened, just as i know that i forgot to brush my teeth last night before bed.
but where do they come from? the deepest pits of hell, the heights of heaven. loving, bloody, horrific, sweet and sentimental, you name it--one dream can be peppered with all of the above, and often is. everything in the dream is incongruous, when i wake up, but during the dream it is seamless and makes perfect sense.
perhaps that is why i can accept real life for what it is--odd and terrifying, in both good and bad ways.
i remember waking up years ago--literally like seven years ago--and telling dan about the dream i'd just had. we were traveling somewhere, me and dan and some other girl. in the dream we walked with another group of people across a broad, waving grassy plain. the sky was gray, a hint of hidden sun. at some point we walked into a cave, a giant black maw in the landscape, and then something happened to us. we woke up in a room with a huge number of people, all waking with the same puzzled faces.
i read somewhere once that you do not dream about people you do not know--but my dreams are so often staffed with a bevy of unknowns that i know it's not true.
anyway. the room is huge--the ceiling is probably twenty feet high, the walls are poured concrete, the doors are giant and unrelenting dark steel. the whole place is new and clean. bright neon lights cast everyone in lurid color. there's a voice, saying that this is a game. there is another like group of people in a twin to this room. the lights go out and there is the hiss of gas; we topple into sleep again.
awake again; we struggle to our feet, but this time it is just dan and me and this strange girl with whom we travel. as our eyes adjust to the light we see that the people around us have been dismembered--they are strewn about all over, clean and bloodless, bright red seams of flesh where they have been cut apart. the voice comes again, explaining that we have to put everyone back together again--find the body parts that match, assemble them again, humpty-dumpty style. there are arms clad in flannels, denim legs, torsos wearing various t-shirts and blouses.
there is no time to be horror stricken; the game is that we must put together all of our bodies before the people in the next room do the same. whoever wins will live.
at that point i woke up, confused. it was about three am, and i told myself to change my dream, and fell back asleep.
this time we were in the room, with all the chilled body parts, but rescue was on its way. we opened the doors and people from all kinds of other rooms were doing the same--it was not just two rooms, but many. or perhaps there were rooms in which others were just not all dead. either way, we surged up a wide hallway, going towards the light at the top of it. there was no noise; we were silent, this large herd of people.
at the mouth of the cave we paused. helicopters buzzed through the air--some belonging to whatever terrorist group had held us, others to the police. cop cars dotted the previously peaceful landscape, lights flashing. it was near dusk or dawn--the sun was behind gray again.
i pressed myself against the cave wall and everyone behind me did the same, creeping forward slowly. a helicopter swung into the cave, swirled over us, sprayed us with bullets. some of the escapees fell. then a bazooka boomed, and the aircraft slammed against the wall, crumpling to the cave floor. the pilot's body oozed out of the helicopter just like a caterpillar's body would, if stepped upon: yellow and green, slimy.
we ran out of the cave and i woke up again, and told dan my story.
he, too, had dreamed. he'd dreamed that he flew to chicago, the plane crashed, and he rescued a kitten.
***
there are times when i know that my dreams are different--there was another dream about finding a serial killer's house--the killers were a husband and wife in their seventies; it was gruesome. and another dream where the world was going to end because teenagers on skateboards were bombing things.
then there was the one about the giant stuffed spider (which actually hangs from the ceiling at half-price books) that me and an asian produce mart owner killed, which was part and parcel of the same dream where my sister being held hostage at a community center, and a girl was knifed on a city street.
i could chalk it up to television or books, but to be honest, i don't watch a lot of gruesome shows, or read horrifying books. what is it about my mind, swimming in this bone goblet, that leans towards the horrific, and can be lead down the ridiculous, too? (ridiculous being the dream in which my siblings and i slugged our way through some humid and tropical south american jungle, after which my brother gave birth to a glistening ebony bowling ball.)
there are folds in the corpus collosum--is this my subconcious doing the mundane job of ironing them flat? if so, does it use starch or just a spritz of stale water, as my mother does?
i'm in my thirties, and the dreams are more and more reality and not fiction. i cannot always separate them from my life. did i dream that i filled up my gas tank, or did i fill it? did i bake bread, or do i need to pick some up at the store? do i need to review cnn online to see if there has been some horrific thing that is real, or did i dream it?
the evening news can be just as disconcerting. case in point: the boy randomly decapitated on that canadian bus.
what is real? what is just my mind, shaping invisible clay into whatever it wishes? tossing it in the air, seeing the virgin mary's face on one side of my lopsided creation?
***
this week i've been watching shark shows on discovery channel. do i dream of sharks, swimming arrogantly beautiful in the ocean, large eyes searching? no, i dream of assembling bright orange cheddar cheese balls and garnishing them with fresh, green parsley for some ghoulish zombie ball, at which there are actually rotting undead. why would they want a cheese ball?
this morning, i woke and finished a book, and thought about sitting down to work on the story that's constantly bubbling on the back burner. while i drank my first coffee, i watched more sharks, and came to the conclusion that a writer does not always just graze like an antelope, gleaning what they can from life. sometimes they have to go on the offensive, chase out their prey--nouns, verbs, whatnot--and trap it.
it's odd to think that my mind can be just as gory as it is--scary and terrifying, and beautiful at the same time, to my poet's eyes. during the day i am the prey--i am the four-legged ungulate, cropping at new shoots. i'm not a bull shark, sampling the world with my thousand teeth.
so perhaps if i graze during my real life--the time in which bills are paid and cats are fed--then i hunt in my dreams, where every individual can go beyond the acceptable pale? i don't know.
then again, are my eyes open, just now?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Pan of brownies keeps woman sane.
this week was another "week from somewhere hot, humid and governed by Satan." it seems like i have been having a series of those, lately, compounded by the fact that weekends have been so very nice. relaxing, filled with fun--until sunday afternoon, when i realize that i have to start everything all over again.
i feel a bit like cinderella, minus the fireplace ashes. on the weekends my pumpkin transforms into something grand and lovely, but i know that at the stroke of midnight or thereabouts, it's going to turn into a pumpkin again.
which has brought on a fit of depression, one which has been stayed only by the hand of Wellbutrin and Lexapro.
in the resulting ennui, i'm creeping up on "that time of the month." usually it's manageable these days, what with the different meds, but this time i feel as if i spun too many times around, and am lost. on thursday night i came home, feeling a need to sob wildly, and watched two hours of law and order.
two hours.
then i watched "the joy luck club," which is a guaranteed tear-jerker for me at any time of the year.
when i got home, however, the first thing i did was bake a pan of brownies. i don't pretend to understand the general link between women and chocolate, or the more personal link between me and cocoa powder. all i knew was that i needed to bake that pan of brownies, and bake i did.
so in the end it was therapy of a type i'm not sure is sanctioned by psychiatrists nationwide, but one which worked for me at that point in time: a potent combination of steaming chocolate pastry and dramatic, poignant, movie. it helped that the movie has the most haunting and evocative music. by the end of the evening i was drained, happily sated on chocolate and cried out, and feeling as if i really, really wanted my mommy.
who is working all day today at a food festival. so driving there would not have helped much, i'm guessing.
also not helping would be the fact that since we've put off laundry for-ev-er i'd have to drive and visit in the nude. not an option.
it's strange to consider the way life works. sorrow and happiness, balanced without my noticing, often times. even when there is a dearth of sorrow--or at least when that is my perception--i can laugh. it's my terror to wake one morning and feel nothing again. i'd rather be in pain, carrying the weight of fear and sadness on my shoulders, than feel that horrid numb feeling i've felt before. gray and silent, it creeps up on me, envelops me. for a while it's comfort: soundless, motionless, nothingness. cool and quiet.
and then after a while you realize that the lack of everything--the lack of feeling--is invasive. it overtakes your life, poisoning your relationships and your creativity. the comfort of being that way--numb, i think of it--is that outweighed by the overdose of emotion?
for a long time i thought that taking my meds was helping--and often i will say that it does. without my blood pressure and birth control meds, i'd be a wreck. without my wellbutrin i'd never get my bills paid. and without lexapro, right now i'd be curled in a ball somewhere upstairs in a dark corner, terrified to face even the rising sun.
but equally important is the self-medication of feeding my soul what it requires.
on thursday it required tears and brownies; and that means that on saturday morning, i feel more in balance once again.
i feel a bit like cinderella, minus the fireplace ashes. on the weekends my pumpkin transforms into something grand and lovely, but i know that at the stroke of midnight or thereabouts, it's going to turn into a pumpkin again.
which has brought on a fit of depression, one which has been stayed only by the hand of Wellbutrin and Lexapro.
in the resulting ennui, i'm creeping up on "that time of the month." usually it's manageable these days, what with the different meds, but this time i feel as if i spun too many times around, and am lost. on thursday night i came home, feeling a need to sob wildly, and watched two hours of law and order.
two hours.
then i watched "the joy luck club," which is a guaranteed tear-jerker for me at any time of the year.
when i got home, however, the first thing i did was bake a pan of brownies. i don't pretend to understand the general link between women and chocolate, or the more personal link between me and cocoa powder. all i knew was that i needed to bake that pan of brownies, and bake i did.
so in the end it was therapy of a type i'm not sure is sanctioned by psychiatrists nationwide, but one which worked for me at that point in time: a potent combination of steaming chocolate pastry and dramatic, poignant, movie. it helped that the movie has the most haunting and evocative music. by the end of the evening i was drained, happily sated on chocolate and cried out, and feeling as if i really, really wanted my mommy.
who is working all day today at a food festival. so driving there would not have helped much, i'm guessing.
also not helping would be the fact that since we've put off laundry for-ev-er i'd have to drive and visit in the nude. not an option.
it's strange to consider the way life works. sorrow and happiness, balanced without my noticing, often times. even when there is a dearth of sorrow--or at least when that is my perception--i can laugh. it's my terror to wake one morning and feel nothing again. i'd rather be in pain, carrying the weight of fear and sadness on my shoulders, than feel that horrid numb feeling i've felt before. gray and silent, it creeps up on me, envelops me. for a while it's comfort: soundless, motionless, nothingness. cool and quiet.
and then after a while you realize that the lack of everything--the lack of feeling--is invasive. it overtakes your life, poisoning your relationships and your creativity. the comfort of being that way--numb, i think of it--is that outweighed by the overdose of emotion?
for a long time i thought that taking my meds was helping--and often i will say that it does. without my blood pressure and birth control meds, i'd be a wreck. without my wellbutrin i'd never get my bills paid. and without lexapro, right now i'd be curled in a ball somewhere upstairs in a dark corner, terrified to face even the rising sun.
but equally important is the self-medication of feeding my soul what it requires.
on thursday it required tears and brownies; and that means that on saturday morning, i feel more in balance once again.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
unconcious
lately it feels as though
i'm walking in my sleep
i bump into things during dreams:
my car, a cat, the vacuum i've left out
as a reminder of what needs cleaning.
my toes are bruised, stubbed so many
many times.
there does not seem to be
anything
that will wake this sleeper,
i hear them say. it is up to
her.
last night, in cavernous living room
the dark creeping through screen doors
and across beige carpet,
i hear so many things that could
nudge me to clarity--horns honking,
the chirping of a thousand birds, a cricket, man and woman's
voices fighting over something they'll later
forget,
and then a sneeze, incongruous at dusk.
i cannot see the person; their anonymous breath
jostles air, and pushes me
to laugh,
blinking awake
before i doze again.
i'm walking in my sleep
i bump into things during dreams:
my car, a cat, the vacuum i've left out
as a reminder of what needs cleaning.
my toes are bruised, stubbed so many
many times.
there does not seem to be
anything
that will wake this sleeper,
i hear them say. it is up to
her.
last night, in cavernous living room
the dark creeping through screen doors
and across beige carpet,
i hear so many things that could
nudge me to clarity--horns honking,
the chirping of a thousand birds, a cricket, man and woman's
voices fighting over something they'll later
forget,
and then a sneeze, incongruous at dusk.
i cannot see the person; their anonymous breath
jostles air, and pushes me
to laugh,
blinking awake
before i doze again.
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