That's Gonna Leave A Mark

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“Farm Help wanted. Family farm located North West of Goodland, Kansas. Dryland & Irrigation. Housing provided. Salary negotiable. Call for more details. Evenings only and ask for Ed.” ad on Craigslist

That doesn’t sound like a bad gig, it’s a little windy out there but it’s quiet, not a lot going on. Pretty easy to get away from the brouhaha of the new health bill. Along the old highway west of Goodland is an old native stone fence and years ago you could find arrow heads and fossils in the ditches. I wonder if anyone would notice if I just disappeared and sent money in from the farm? I also have a romantic image of the “housing”, I’m picturing a cute little frame farm house with a big Cottonwood tree in the front. The light golden in the evening and blue in the morning as it ricochets off the white washed walls and golden wood floors. Realistically, it’s probably a 1970’s single wide trailer with dirty lime green shag carpeting. I also have a romantic notion of the person who will ultimately get the job. I’m picturing someone like Beau Bridges in Crazy Heart or any of David Straithairn characters in his Sayles films during the 90’s. Maybe a woman like Cher'scharacter in Silkwood. This is the perfect job for a contemplative person with a past who is interested in working their body so hard their mind can’t remind them of what is broken in their spirit. I could dig that. Especially since the salary is negotiable and I could only work on a farm, outside in the elements rain, cold or shine for about eleventy million dollars. However, wasn’t it Thomas Wolfe in Look Homeward Angel who said something to the effect of no matter where you go, there you are? So yeah, day in and day out you fuss over the irrigation system, repair fences, spread manure and work until your body aches. But you still have that time just after dark when it’s too early for bed and too late for work that your mind reminds you of what you are running away from and even the stars in that big dark sky aren‘t a comfort or a congenial companion. Actually, someone like me, a semi suburban, semi housewife running away from her children and working on a farm would make for an interesting novel. Because sweaty, dirty work is a hell of a lot easier than raising teenagers.

Wally killed an important member of the family Friday. Mitzy. He hit a patch of ice and lost control of the old Mitz, slamming into the back of another SUV. Airbags deployed, front end destroyed. Car gone. After I discovered no one was hurt and all the paperwork had been taken care of, he was safe and the ticket was simple I hung up the phone and very professionally burst into tears at the nurses station. One. More. Thing. I. Get. To. Deal. With. Visions of hanging out at a café in Goodland were looking pretty good.

Poor Mitzy, this wasn’t her first rodeo, either. I tried to destroy her in 2003. It was at the bottom of my life just before I crawled out of a hole and away from a desperate situation. The only reason we were able to fix Mitzy was because while the radiator was almost in my lap, the airbags stayed securely in the dash and steering wheel. I still dream about those seconds when I realized I was going to hit the tiny car in front of me, praying out loud I wouldn’t kill or maim the driver. My prayer was answered and the car I hit slid up and under my front end. One of the first things I said to the nice young man in the car was: “I can’t imagine how frightening it was to see me barreling towards you.” He gave me a stunned nod.

Wally was able to calmly relay to me what had happened but then he paused and said: “I know how much you loved your truck.“ His biggest fear then spilled forth: I would kick him out of the house for wrecking Mitzy. Well, yeah, if he was using it as a rolling meth lab at the time. Poor kid, he is convinced he is the biggest fuck up on the planet because he is having a time of it finding a job and now he wrecked a car. He’s a little mystified why I’m being so nice to him but I figure there isn’t enough room for me to kick him in the ass because he is doing a great job of it all on his own. The absolute irony of this is he was on his way home from a successful job interview. We will find a way and make a way to get him to and from work. Wally also thinks he is the only member of the family who has wrecked a car. He momentarily forgot how I wrecked the car, how his granddad rolled a car in 1971, and tried to take out a sign in 2007. He probably doesn’t’ realize his cousin wrecked a car when he was in high school. Accidents happen. Some are worse than others. This one could have been bad, too. I am just thankful it wasn’t. And God is really good at putting people in your life when you need them, too. The tow truck driver happened to be in the office when we arrived this morning to settle up on the bill. He was jovial and tried to joke with Wally, asking him if this was the first car he killed and telling us about the trouble he got into as a teenager. The manager was empathetic and extended his condolences for the loss of the old truck and was genuinely relieved to see Wally wasn’t hurt. It was one of those moments which restore my faith in humans as being ultimately kind and benevolent creatures.

The weather was sort of nasty today, hard cold wind under gray skies that threatened snow over the west side of town. Perfect day for a funeral, all we needed was some rain. Poor old girl, the right side looked untouched (Wally had just given her a shampoo and a spit shine, she was looking hawt) but the front end was mashed and the grill was gone, you could see the radiator and her left “eye” was dangling from the socket. The windshield had a shattered spot as if something had been hurled into it. From the inside. I felt my heart leap into my throat.

“What hit the windshield?“

I knew the answer wasn’t “head” because Wally always wears his seat belt and won’t start the car until everyone is buckled in. (hmmm how would I know this?)

“Oh just my hand” was his flippant reply.

I started to blubber, the small burn on the left side of his face was scary enough but the idea he might have broken his right hand was too much too bear. It didn’t get any easier when I opened the drivers side door. Opening the door was sobering. Like a Jack-in-the-Box, the steering wheel had popped open and the air bag was out. The dashboard reminded me of a cardboard cake made specifically for a girl to jump out and sing a randy song or “Happy Birthday”. There were papers and things tossed all over the front seat and floorboards. I was reaching around looking through the documents to make sure there wasn’t anything I needed or wanted when I came across a pristine piece of yellow paper folded around several old photographs. The photos and letter looked as if it had just been taken from the envelope and the letter was in my mother’s handwriting. I groaned, this was all too much and now this artifact. I wanted to run off to the farm. I glanced over the letter and scanned the pictures. I didn’t immediately grasp when it had been written but it was a long time ago. I showed it to Wally and he didn’t remember ever seeing it. After we finished our sad errand and I was at home I put pieces together and figured out it was written in about 1997. Three years before I even bought the car. The letter ends with: “Kiss Evan for me and hug and kiss yourself, too.” The idea of Wally reaching over and kissing his brother made me laugh. Mother wanted us to know she was watching over Wally. Mom died in our house, actually in what is now Wally’s room; me and The Girl hear her voice every once in a while and I have lucid dreams about her. What a comfort it is to know my mother is looking after us. I had suspected as much but now I know it for sure.

I must confess that I am grieving the loss of this vehicle. Not so much because the next few months could be really interesting in a hellish way: sharing a car or chauffeuring him around while I save enough for a beater mobile. It’s because of what Mitzy symbolized for me. She was my emancipation. Mitzy was the first car I bought all by myself and at the ripe old age of 39, too. No father or husband offering input, down payments or anything. I did it all on my own. She really was my first car. And we saw a lot of the country together; hauled a lot of antiques, groceries, dirt and kids. She served us well for one hundred and nine thousand miles. Rest in peace, Mitzy.

My Oldest Son Should Have Been Named Pinocchio

I know I’ve mentioned this before but I must say it again: I really wish I had been given a practice boy to make all my stupid parenting errors on; say the wrong thing to and subject to poor judgement calls. You know like the little ‘droid in AI. To hone this point of how terrible my judgement is sometimes, I must confess, as “Mother Of The Year”, I took the boys to see AI a few short months after I left their father and became Disneyland Mommy. Let me refresh your memory about this Spielberg vehicle: a couple has a son who is injured and in a vegetative state; the bereft couple buy a robot boy and the robot boy bonds with them just about the time the real boy wakes up and returns home. Mommy doesn’t have enough room in her heart for both boys and takes the robot boy for a “ride” into the woods. The robot boy is dumped and must fend for himself against all manner of bad robots and bad humans until he drowns and is left to eternally mourn his lost mother. Real feel good stuff. Because my kids weren’t screwed up enough by having a depressed mother who left home; I had to take them to a movie which depicts parents getting rid of a child. WTF was I thinking? I deposited a theoretical ten grand into each of their theoretical Therapy Accounts on the way home from the movie. On top of a completely inappropriate plot line, the movie was terribly long and unforgivably dull. (Today when I reminded Wally of this movie, I got a sardonic “good job, mom!”)

I was reminded of my need for a droid kid the other day when I took Beav out for his first driving lesson. After the lesson, I picked up Wally and he asked me how it went with Beav. I sort of shrugged my shoulders and told him it was easy. “Yeah, it’ll be easier with the smart kid,“ was his heartbreaking response. Fortunately, Good Mother kicked in and I launched into my oft delivered lecture of how just because someone does well in school doesn’t assure they will do well in life or are really all that “smart.“ I wouldn’t be delivering the lecture if the Cybertronics people had given me my own little Davey.

I taught Wally how to drive a few years ago and if I say so myself, I did an excellent job. He’s a pretty good driver for an impulsive 19.5 year old man. But getting him to this point wasn’t easy. It was sort of similar to…I don’t know…The Eighth Circle Of Parenting Hell. To say sitting on the right side of a teenager when they are learning to drive is scarier than crap is an understatement. My outings with Wally would go something like this:

Me: ohmgawd ohmgawd ohmgawd…slowdown slowdown slowdown…don’t brake so hard…look both ways…LOOK BOTH WAYS…SHI---Jesus! Don’t do that again!

I’m surprised the Oh My God strap is still attached above the passenger door after being repetitively yanked and grasped for about a year of student driving. But just like breast feeding, potty training, and the seventh grade I got through teaching a kid to drive and I’ll get through it again. Only this time. . . Don’t you love getting to say that with your second child? (Don’t you wish you could say it after you fuck up the droid kid, as you are pulling away from the rest stop where you dump him?) Only this time, I’m going to be more patient and relaxed. In fact, I was so relaxed and smug as Beav pulled away from the curb for the first time with me riding shot gun I could have taken a nap, mixed some cocktails , paid bills or blogged. I was even laissez-faire when he told me he had never driven before. Relaxed but incredulous. Wha? His dad had never let him drive? His brother hadn’t let him drive? What is it with my kids? They are both so goody two-shoed they never snuck their dad’s old Jag out for a joy ride. If my dad had had a cool car, he would have needed new tires for it by the time I was sixteen. As it was my friend Melody’s dad had a sporty vintage Volvo which sat in their garage like a temptress, begging us to take her out for a spin. Which we did. And we got caught but it was worth it because when you’re fifteen the moment is always worth it. Ask Wally about this, you can see it in his eye when asked about the two unsanctioned parties he had at Ward's when his dad and step mom were out of town.

Anyhow, my self-congratulatory lassitude lasted about a minute (just long enough to get the checkbook and the cocktail shaker out) before the internal dialogue started:

Me: ohgawdmovetotheleft movetotheleft ohgawd ohgawd herewego please don’t hit the parked car. Oh crap, he’s going to take off a mirror…LOOOK BOTH WAYS. Slow down…stop…NOT SO HARD DON”T BRAKE SO HARD…SHI-- Jesus why do I have to do this again

I’m very proud this go round the dialogue was internal and I graduated from clinging to the Oh My God strap to putting a grip of death on the right arm rest thingie. I just hope it doesn’t fall off over the next few months of driving lessons.

image is from filmcritics.com and is a shot from AI
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As a PSA addendum to this very digressive and rambly piece I want everyone to know how extremely proud I am of my oldest son. Wally didn’t make it completely through his AIT (Advanced Infantry Training) this fall and while he was disappointed he has to start over in six months, he is taking it like a man and placed the blame squarely on his own shoulders. A first for him. I think I’m proudest of the way he is moving through a tough life lesson with grace and dignity. My son left home August 31st a boy but just like all that Army hooah literature said, he returned to me a confident capable young man. I can’t imagine what he would have been like if he had graduated. Probably 19 going on 40 like Beav is 15 going on 45.

Breaking My Heart Open So My Eyes Can See

Ten years ago this month I made a decision to leave Ward and within a couple of short months later not only had I left him but I left my kids too. I gave him custody because I was sick of fighting with him about it and I thought--as boys--they would be better off with him. But the real REAL reason is because I was absolutely convinced I was a terrible mother. I had suffered from not one but two episodes of depression. The first one was a mild post partum depression but the second bout was a doozy. I couldn’t leave the house for a month and Ward had to take full control of the kids. I barely made food for them those long weeks. Poor kids. Poor Ward. I still see their sweet faces looking at me with a mix of puzzlement and sadness because Mommy was dressed in a sweat suit in July and about 100 degrees outside and I had to hire a babysitter to take them to the pool and to the park and the rec center for activities because I simply couldn’t leave the house. I’m still not sure exactly why I couldn’t leave the house; I mean I don’t fully comprehend even now after years of therapy which monsters lived outside the door of the Fabulous House in Stepford and why they went away as quickly as they arrived. I do know I had to leave Ward if I was going to survive and if my children were going to survive and grow to have any sort of meaningful life they belonged with their fully functional father. They could hire their own therapist when the actions of their mother, foisted on them at the tender ages of nine and five began to muddy their abilities to cope in relationships with others. In essence, my well-meaning but sick actions fractured my relationship with them a decade ago because I was convinced I was a terrible mother because I suffered from two bouts of depression and was pretty sure I was gay. Let‘s not forget to add I was unfaithful to Ward to this list. I was depressed, confused and a liar. I was a BAD person to the tenth power and didn‘t deserve those children. In hindsight, I can see the life I was leading was sucking the life out of me. Of course I felt like I was drowning in an ocean with a plastic bag over my head. Shit, who wouldn’t? Don’t answer that because I know plenty of wonderful mothers who put up with WAY more than I did from Ward and they aren’t leaving their husbands and their kids.

When I say I left my kids, initially I saw them every other weekend and a night a week. I was Disneyland Mom. But a couple of years later, my children wanted less and less to do with me. For a long time I blamed Ward for poisoning them against me. But now I blame myself because I stopped trying to have a relationship with them and for two years we were like amiable friends who would get together a couple of times a week but each visit felt forced and everyone was miserable. Of course it didn’t help I was in the most dysfunctional toxic relationship of my life which, in the end, left me broke and broken. In AA terms, I hit bottom. (there by God’s unboundless grace go I)

But God’s hand was always just right there and as much as I hate to admit it; The Most Toxic Woman On The Planet had a role in all of this. Did I mention after I left her I was not only broken but financially broke? The only place I could find to live was a tiny little rental house in a neighborhood riddled with meth heads. I hadn’t lived in such a bad neighborhood since I was in college but the rent afford my paying off hideous debt and my landlord, an angel on Earth, didn’t give a shit if my credit rating was in the toilet. “I don’t check those things, I see in your eyes I can trust you.” And I didn’t let him down. We lived in that little house for three years. The 750 square foot house was our little port in the storm. I was able to put myself back together with the help of Jesus, Wayne Dyer, my therapist/reiki practitioner, Landlord Bob, and my boys. It’s a good thing I got my shit together and rebuilt my relationship with my sons because it was at this point Ward decided he was tired of being the custodial parent and lost interest in his children. But despite the neighborhood and the tight space our home was generally a place of peace and joy. Yeah there were hard times because Wally was such a challenging kid and Beav wasn‘t a walk in the park, either. But I figured (still do) the tantrums (theirs) and the aggression (Wally‘s) was bad Karma I had to work off. I made new friends, too. One of them shares The Girl‘s name and I met her first but eventually she became my “Spare”. I can‘t count the number of times me and TSG have been out and people will say: “Oh, this is The Girl.” And I have to explain but I’m always flattered by the confusion because The Spare Girl is an awesome woman. TSG has been a cheering section for me in ways I‘ve never told her and has been there for me in ways I don‘t think I can even explain. Her oldest son and Beav are a few months apart and very alike in their natures; while her youngest son-- seven years younger than Wally --is just like Wally. We can commiserate and compare notes on lots of things because in addition to our children, we have feckless ex-husbands who are hit and miss with financial and emotional support to their boys; plus we came out in mid-life. Rather, we finally came out in mid-life. One of us--not TSG--had a false start in the eighties.

So when TSG called me early on Thursday morning and her first words were: “I can’t do this anymore. I want out and I don‘t want to be a mother anymore.” I knew exactly what she was talking about. Because I feel this way about three times a week and know without a shadow of a doubt if I had to do it over again, twenty years ago I would have told Ward I didn’t want to go out with him much less sleep with him because if we started dating, one thing would lead to another and it would spiral out of control until I was locked into a life long relationship and a role I would spend most of my time resenting and quite frankly hating. I hate being a mother because I’m so bad at it. Like I hated being a waitress because I sucked at that, too. I don’t hate my children so don’t call social services or my ex-husband. I just really don’t like being a mother because I am emotionally lazy. I am sick of having to be thoughtful and strong and forbearing and patient and wise and wonderful and listening and coping. Because just now it seems like the only thing these kids do is break my heart and drain my bank account and ask me for a ride somewhere I‘m not invited to go . So I knew exactly where TSG was coming from. The week before I had spent the day helping her--pre and post op--with her boys when they had their wisdom teeth taken out. Wally-the-Younger (WtY) was tuned up and I knew he was going to be a handful waking up from anesthesia. He was but TSG is a saint (I really want to hate her but I can’t) and she talked him off the cliff and he calmed down. What I didn’t count on was he had been acting like an asshat for a few months and was moving my very dear friend to the brink of her limitless patience. When she told me what was going on I wanted to march over to their house and spank that twelve year old menace. (More evidence I’m not much of a mother) How DARE he treat his mother, his hardworking single mother like that. I at least have an ex-husband who shares custody of Beav (for the moment until his stepmother, Alexis Carrington, gets bored and doesn’t want him around) so that’s a gift compared to her ex-husband and his fucked up games and issues. But instead of spanking the boy she set some stern boundaries with him and he has respected them for several days now. God’s hand was clearly in this because I was supposed to work and if I had been at work, I would have missed her call.

I need to remember this whole God works in mysterious way thing because that evening I got the other big phone call; Wally had failed his PT test because he quit in the middle of a run. I’ve already chronicled in full internet blog vomit my initial reaction. Last night, as grief would have it and my nature will predict I landed full on in the Anger territory and sit here. I mean I was really angry. I wanted to scream and rave at him: “What the fuck were you thinking?! When are you going to stop this behavior????!!!!” Then I got angry at myself for ever giving birth. (now that’s getting to the root of the problem) TG thoughtfully decided we should go out to dinner last night, to cheer me up and to celebrate her recovery. She had progressed from laying in bed with ice on her shoulder and under the influence of prescribed narcotics to being able to dress in real clothes in the span of a few days because she is from Polish stock who all believe if you can survive post WWII Germany and refugee status under the tyranny of the USSR you can survive anything, including shoulder surgery. I know everyone will be stunned to learn I wasn’t very good company. It’s a good thing I had to drive because if I had the option of not driving I would have had eight too many drinks and probably puked all the way home from the passenger seat. (Hey, I’ve come a long way in five years but I’m not perfect) Not only was I angry at Wally but I was resentful I had to try and help him through this hiccup and not only was I angry about the whole thing my heart was broken for him because he has to live with the consequences of quitting. I was also angry because I knew this about myself--prone to freaking out and quitting midway because of ZERO self-esteem--and went ahead and had children. What the fuck was I thinking twenty years ago.

As luck would have it a young couple were sitting just across from us in the uber chic uber hip restaurant we were in last night and as luck would further have it they had their brand spankin’ new baby with them. “You know it’s a good thing I’m driving because if I weren’t I would probably get drunk and tell those people it’s not too late to take that baby back to the hospital because all that baby is going to do is grow up and break their heart” The Girl looked askance at me, worried I was going to do it but her worry was quelled when I started to cry and go over and over all the the bad things I did to my children and the many ways I have sinned against them. I do believe in my heart of hearts our children choose us but why on Earth would anyone be as masochistic as choosing me for a mother and Ward the ball-less wonder as a father. She let me rehash the things she has heard me confess about a hundred times and then she said this:

“Those boys love you. You are the one they depend on.”

As much as I was enjoying the pity party, I realized she was right. Wally called me first this week and when he tried reaching his father; his father “missed” his call. (Oh for the love of God you don’t miss calls in this day and age. His asshat father didn’t want to deal with it. Gah, I just wish he would disappear!) Beav knows it’s pointless to ask his dad to do something for him because it won’t get done and it’s doubly pointless to ask him for money for his activities because Ward simply won’t have it because he never has money for them but has a wine cellar. As she reviewed these things, I realized she’s right and I fought becoming smug because everyone knows how much I can’t stand “teh smug”. Smug is also a sin of pride and that’s just one more thing for the long list of transgressions I commit so I chose to not add it. Instead, I changed the subject and we talked about her. What a relief for everyone when the whining stopped.

This morning at the early hour of two at 0200 I awakened with a headache which I was happy to blame on stress rather than alcohol abuse. Because worrying about stuff you don’t have control over is so much healthier than drinking to excess. (myth number 2373 I tell myself) I took a few Ibuprofen and tried to go back to sleep but of course I couldn’t. I lay awake in the still half light which gave the impression it was not early winter but mid summer because it had snowed. For a few minutes I tried to pretend it was really an early morning last June. After playing the time machine game, I ran my tape about how much I hated myself for hating being a mother and how I hated having my heart broken by Wally again when I remembered something I read in The Power of Intention exactly five years ago which was one year after I had found shelter in the Crack Cottage and began my amazing spiritual journey which led me to the sweet life I have today all made possible because I couldn't leave my house July 1999. Dr. Dyer shared a letter a woman wrote to him which said the following: “When my boyfriend broke up with me, I thought my heart was broken but you helped me discover my heart was broken open.” I realized I needed to turn pull my finger off the self-loathing button and take a second look inside this broken heart. My heart is broken open to all sorts of possibilities and lessons in faith and trusting the Universe or God or Jesus or whoever things because do happen for a reason. Like the whole messy business of involving myself with The Most Toxic Person on the Planet so I would have to live in a terrible neighborhood in a tiny poorly insulated house that was either too hot or too cold so I could learn what was really important.

"So God, I’m ready, bring it on. Show me what the purpose of this Fresh Hell is all about and if it’s about giving you everything I worry and fret about and then taking it away because I’m a big control freak. Fine. I can deal with that but can you leave my kids out of it because I think they have suffered enough at my hand." Thanks, Me.

The Only Way Does Not Exist

“You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.” Fredric Nietzsche (image from losanjealous.com)


I'm not sure where to begin purging all the ideas, thoughts and feelings I've had over the last week or so. In fact, this blog is only going to touch the surface of what I’ve been feeling; a feeling I wasn’t able to isolate until the other day when I posted a well thought out “status update” on Facebook and received flippant replies. Yeah, I know, it’s freakin’ Facebook, so get over it. It's not like I was blogging on Open Salon. And my friends aren’t mind readers so they didn't know I wasn't being light-hearted. The replies didn’t upset me as much as it pushed in my face something that has been bothering me a lot lately. The malaise this country operates under. It’s a malaise of cynicism and bitterness. A malaise I am prone to suffering. And I know it’s all chic and hip to be morose and gloomy and malevolent and snaky but really? Enough! The political left bitterly blames the right for the ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (ok, then all you folks on the left, stop driving your cars, riding trains, planes or buses and buying manufactured good because then we won’t need so much petroleum for products and gasoline.). The political right blames the left for the out of control debt and plague of terrors called health care (alright then all you folks on the right you can stop driving on the public highways and while you’re at it, if you’re 66 or older can we have all that money we put into Medicare back?) Yeah, the country--if not the world--is in a big mess and yeah, religious zealots and greed and capitalism is to blame. So don’t participate, go find a cave and be bitter and angry and cynical there. BUT YOU CAN’T TAKE ANY OF YOUR STUFF WITH YOU.

Some of my friends will call this a crisis of faith (I heartily agree, and will click the “like” button) but other friends might say it’s because we are at the “end times and Jesus is coming” (I would have to push the “meh” button on that one because we won’t know when the end is because that’s just how God rolls) And then I would have friends who would snark at me because I’m ignorant enough and unsophisticated enough to even believe in God much less the idea of Jesus.(the dislike and ignore function would be activated) And you know what? That kind of snark is just sad. I’m sick of snark. I’m sick of defending my faith to my acquaintances who are atheists. Fortunately, I have been vocal enough that most of my friends who happen to be agnostic or atheists just leave me alone and let me have my “Invisible Sky Friend” Actually, I love this moniker for God, and it makes me giggle and feel warm and cozy all over. Probably not Keith’s intent when he was sneering about evangelical Christians and let that lovely gem drop.

I’m guilty of sneering at evangelical Christians. But the one’s I sneer at are the judgy media whores and the judgy gay bashers who get caught with male escorts and their pants around their ankles. But then I’ll sneer at anyone who queer bashes because chances are they are and it’s too scary to contend with so they pour on the hate. I also sneer at people who refer to themselves as “Christians” when they protest at Veteran’s funerals with ugly, hateful signs claiming God hated their loved one for serving in the military because God hates fags so that’s why we were attacked on 9/11. Just thinking about Fred Phelps and his church makes my blood boil and my heart sad all at once. Because in some very small liberal minds Phelps is your typical Christian. Uh huh, just like the Palestinian who blow up cafes is your typical Muslim and the dumb mo’ fo Israeli who thought it would be an excellent strategy to take Muslims hostage in a Temple so the PLO would force everyone to start shooting--and the Jews could call foul--is your typical Jew.

One of my favorite people I get to share this Earth with is a very devout born again Christian. God only knows what she thinks of my foul mouth and my lifestyle and my ribald sense of humor but she loves me anyway and I know she prays for me because that’s what Jesus would do. How lucky am I to have a friend like that. Anyhow, K went to Israel a few years ago, with the intent to convert Jews to Christianity. I bristled when she told me she was going to do that but I told her I hoped she would have a safe and meaningful trip and I was (truly) looking forward to hearing her stories when she returned. K was supposed to travel with another woman but it feel through and she ended up alone and depending on a network of strangers, some Christian, some Jewish and some Muslim. Her daughter had a friend in Israel and they had friends and so on and so on and everyone, no matter what flavor of God they worshiped, welcomed K into their homes and hearts. She never got a chance to witness to them because they witnessed to her through their actions. She came home transformed and even more Christ like. My guess is K transformed their lives in ways she will never know because she is just that sort of person. K had a front row seat and experienced the futility of war and told me everyone she met just wants it to stop and feel the governments--all of the--are the driving force feeding the crazy on either side.

Our national past time of Beating Down Those People We Don’t Understand Or Agree With feeds the crazy here, too. It also feeds the malaise of fear and the malaise of anger and the malaise of anxiety we are suffering globally. But with our information explosion, it’s hard to turn away from the train wreck. At least, I’m having a hard time turning away. But I must turn away because I strongly believe my psychic vibration can affect my life for better or worse. God gave me this force but it is I who must tap into it and create my positive existence. But I can’t do it if I’m a partake in the Train Wreck Slide Show. In short, The Net is harshing my mellow. So what am I doing to stop--what feels like madness--in my plain? There are snaky blogs I’ve stopped following and sites specializing in doom and gloom and blatant scare tactic journalism. I have left a community I’ve been a member of for many years because I was sick to death of defending my spirituality which is accessorized in believing that Christ is my particular religion’s son of God. (Dude, it’s all God. Flying Spaghetti Monster, Loki, Allah, whatever) All I know and care about is my belief in God’s limitless and boundless grace is what gets me through most days. I was also sick to death of the malevolence directed towards any member of a particular political party. Finally, I had had enough of the smug, self-serving tone most of the participants had and their predilection to thinking they were the smartest, wittiest people on the planet. I beg to differ, they are actually some of the most mean-spirited and culturally bigoted people I’ve ever run across but it took me about ten years to figure it out. (Some of these people I love and will continue to keep in contact but that’s a handful) As an effort to take the high road, and walk the way of peace talk, I’m not mentioning the name of the community. Rather than fight it any longer because I’m not as well educated as the most vocal and erudite in the community, I’m pushing away from the table and declaring the relationship over. But it wasn’t without getting angry about it a few weeks ago. I was letting my anger seethe and boil but I gave it one more go yesterday and all my lurking prompted was my status update someplace else who’s ill timed and not thought out responses further flamed the fire of a marvelous egomaniacal fantasy.

Yesterday, I imagined shouting loudly enough so even earthlings whom were asleep would awaken, those who were fighting in wars would hear over the chaos of death and those who were working would listen:

“ stopSTopSTOSTOP bickering and just live and let live!!”
“Use the next five minutes to breath deeply and think about whatever it is that makes you the happiest, be it Jesus, Zeus, your dog or gold or opium crops. Just stop whatever it is your doing and take five minutes to contemplate what makes your heart soar.”

And the erudite left is not the only guilty party in this game. Another place I frequent has a mix of ideologies; one of the members--in the middle of a discussion of the Fort Hood shootings--had the audacity to blame Obama for them. Whatever, dude. Sheesh crazy is as crazy does. But this is typical of the hysteria coming from the right. I can’t whine too much about the right because I pointedly avoid most US news outlets because of the fear mongering. (I have enough fear conjured up in my head, thanks, I don’t need any flavor of wing nut telling me what to fear or think.) And frankly, I am more left leaning so I don’t know of many right leaning publications. But the crap The Huffington Post spews out could tip me over to the other side. No wonder the right hates the left. We act like a bunch of know-it-all-assholes because they act like Holier-than-thou-demagogues who hate everyone else in one breath but tell us we need to all be more like Jesus who didn‘t hate anyone and probably would be happy to have dinner with just about anyone who would have him.

But isn’t that the beauty of the human condition, this duality, this flawed-ness. We are all so deeply and beautifully flawed. The Girl blames Adam and Eve but I think it was all part of God’s divine plan and he would have found a reason to kick us out of the garden anyhow. Because God was like that in the beginning, pretty much impossible to please and quick to anger. It wasn’t until he calmed down somewhere after Jacob and started thinking about giving Earth Jesus who could be his mouthpiece for peace since he hadn’t done such a bang up job before then.

So if you name yourself a liberal, shake right-winger’s hand. And if you are right wing, shake a bleeding heart liberal’s hand and after that, don’t forget to breathe and let your heart soar for a minute cuz it’s a great feeling.

Memorials

We walked the National Mall today. The whole thing. From the Smithsonian to the Lincoln Memorial down and around the Jefferson Memorial and back to the Smithsonian. It was a big walk for these old legs and it was rainy, windy and cold. I'm so glad I did it, too because it was one of the most humbling and moving days of my life. Beav and I saw all of the memorials and I cried at three of them. Which is sort of melodramatic and ridiculous because I've never lost a family member to war. My late uncle was a decorated WWII soldier, my cousin was married to a medic in Vietnam, I have multiple cousins who were in the service, my ex brother-in-law ran the officer's club in Germany in the late sixties (Hooah!). So it isn't like my loss is extreme. I can't imagine the emotions running through people as they saw this and there were people looking for their loved one's names and they wept and prayed over them. There were too damned many names:


If that wasn't enough we stumbled onto the Korean memorial and the artist explicitly depicts a look of betrayal and loss in each of the statue's eyes.

But more evocative is the wall running along the statues with faces which aren't visible until you are very close. At first I wasn't sure I was seeing faces and I thought it was an optical illusion but then I stood very close and I could see the faces which still weren't really clear until I reviewed today's pictures and they are very clear. You only notice them later in the form of memory. Which is exactly how we have noticed the Korean veterans. But they are from the generation that survived the Great Depression and later watched older brothers march off to WWII so it wasn't like them to speak up and say they suffered in Korea and didn't come home whole. It is perhaps the most poignant statement I've ever seen in a work of art. Our shadow veterans.


By this time on our long long walk in the rain, I'm trailing behind the Beav because I'm about to cry and I don't want to embarrass or upset him. Again, I've not lost anyone to war and I barely remember Vietnam. We are plodding along the path when I see a cluster of people gathered and it took a minute for me to realize why they were stopped: The Vietnam's Nurse's Memorial. As crazy as my calling can make me, I am deeply proud to be part of this brave sisterhood and I remember how hard women fought for this memorial to be a part of the National Mall after they have been passed over for medals time and time again. I urged the Beav to follow me as I almost break to a run. I was wet and I was cold and the urge to just find a cab and go back to our hotel was strong but I was graced with standing next to a memorial for my sisters who volunteered to fight in a war most didn't understand and many protested. Aesthetically, the bronze statue is unspeakably beautiful and the tenderness of the nurse's touch is unmistakable. The artist gets to the heart and art of being a nurse. I felt the tears well up and spill onto my cheeks, Beav wasn't sure what the statue was all about and I tearfully explained to him it was hard fought but a well deserved tribute to nurses in war. He had the good sense to walk ahead of me while I sobbed on the path behind him. Had I been alone or with TG, I would have sat on the bench and wept for all the lives lost and the disrespect and discount of the sacrifices made. I doubt I would have been so brave to fight in a misunderstood war. Or any war for that matter.



It was a memorable day.

Pebble In Pebble Out

I've borrowed a fable from the ancient Greek writer Aesop to create a parable you can use in the coming weeks. Once upon a time there was a very thirsty crow. Rain hadn't fallen in a long time, and the creek from which she'd always drunk had dried up. Searching and searching for a bit of moisture, the crow finally happened upon a tree under which sat a ceramic pitcher with some water in it. But the pitcher's neck was narrow, and the crow couldn't fit her beak past it to reach the water. Inspired by desperation, the crow at last got an idea. Why not drop small rocks into the pitcher, making the water's level rise? And that's exactly what she did. How sweet it was when at last she quenched her thirst.

This is becoming a theme isn't it? I swear this is the last time I'll use my horoscope to spin a short essay. But this week's is intriguing. . . Last week, Rob didn't intrigue me but made me scratch my head with this gem of a horoscope. I spent a little time this past week contemplating this fable and what it meant. It wasn't until tonight I realized in a sickening a ha moment how this fable applies to my life.

I think I'm trying to quench my thirst after an arduous ten months worth of life. Most of the time I can prop myself up but frankly it's getting harder and harder. So much has happened and changed in my life over the last 300 plus days. I've experienced a great deal of loss and the people who seem the most blind to it are those closest to me. I've lost my mother, 10% of my income, my son is leaving home and he is estranged from his father; my other son is worried he will be his stepmother's next victim; I am estranged from my sister after the toxic waste that is our relationship escaped from it's safe container I keep buried deep inside; my dog is dying; and my partner has such pain in her right shoulder and arm she can not raise it over her head and it has rendered her sleepless and unable to do much around the house (something immensely more frustrating for her. It just annoys me when other shit is on my plate). The icing on the cake is of course when I'm not at home taking care of people; I'm at work taking care of people.

Is it any wonder I went to the gym tonight (while Beav was at Parkour) and managed to work out all of twenty minutes before I decided the better idea was sitting in my car; crying and eating a 700 calorie snack? I suppose this is better than finding a liquor store and drinking in the parking lot. While the image of doing this gives me the shivers don't think for a minute it didn't occur to me.

It's a good thing I had a "refreshing" break from reality because it didn't sting so much when I returned to a messy kitchen and clean laundry lounging around the family room.

Good thing I have more pebbles.

One edit at 0835 the next day: My problems aren't HUGE life changing problems like having cancer or a chronic illness or a loved one with either of this issues. So maybe I have an extremely low threshold for giving and a low tolerance for drama and upheaval. And maybe I can't continue to give and give and give because ultimately I'm selfish. If this is the case then I guess I'm getting what I deserve.

Warrior Princess, Smorrior Princess. I'm just a mama protecting her youngin's

Long-standing myths are on the verge of mutating. Stories that have remained fixed for years are about to acquire unexpected wrinkles. The effects may be pretty spectacular. I suspect it'll be the equivalent of Sleeping Beauty waking up from her long sleep without the help of the prince's kiss, or like Little Red Riding Hood devouring the wolf instead of vice versa. There's something you can do, Pisces, to ensure that the new versions of the old tales are more empowering than the originals: For the foreseeable future, take on the demeanor and spirit of a noble warrior with high integrity and a fluid sense of humor.

This was my horoscope for last week. Warrior, yes; high integrity and a sense of humor was an epic fail. But it’s a place to start. Always the good thing about the bottom: you can move up. And see the stars and yadda yadda twelve step yadda.

The Beav had his wisdom teeth out last week and was a trooper about it. Wally was deployed from Alexis’ house to my house this weekend, against his will. I guess this will prepare him for the US Army to make decisions for him. Hopefully, he will accept them with more grace. Not that he has a stellar role model for that.

At least, I don’t have to continuing stuffing down how I feel about Alexis Carrington. What I was waiting to say after The Beav graduated from high school just sort of puked out of my mouth and into her ear. After she started to cry, she accused me of being: “mean”? Mean? Are we twelve or fifty here? The more apt verb would be “done”. I'm not being "mean". I'm coming from my unhappy "done" place.

But I started the week “done”. I resigned from doing charge nursing. If I didn’t have a child to finish raising I would have resigned from nursing. Too many never events in one single shift.

But my week hasn’t been without noble warrior moments.

One of my “noble warrior” moments last week was not calling security when the screaming family room physically threatened a doctor because I knew she was (a) crazy and (b) grieving. My second moment was allowing another family see my profound grief while I was at the bedside and shared the news their 48 year old sister--a vibrant, previously healthy, biologist--may never return from her vegetative state.

I owned to Alexis a few hours after my tirade of how thoughtless and self-centered she behaves, that believe it or not, I have an inkling of an idea the balance it would take to be a step parent. I also know it would never be for me. I don’t have the stones for it.

It took courage, telling Ward how Alexis has negatively affected our sons. I’ve been afraid to do this because, frankly, I’m worried about repercussions on them. It was tough to tell him things she has said to them and done to them over the years; things I’ve witnessed; the broken promises; The Beav's fear about being the kid left at Alexis' now Wally is living with me; how sincerely devastated I am to see the man he has become; so alien to the man I once loved. But then, I’m not the woman he fell for either. I’m not the nodding and bobbing “yes girl” who thinks he is an expert in everything and always right about all that is wrong with me. Tap dancing as fast as I can to make sure I change to fit into his specific mold for me because obviously what he thinks I should do and be is absolutely The Right Thing. When Ward married Alexis, he gave her a ring and his spine. I wish I could grow extra spine and gift part of it to him.

It takes a lot of grace to be a noble warrior. My reservoir of grace was temporarily empty but I can feel it slowly starting to fill again.

(I borrowed my girl Xena from boxoffice.com. She's fierce in that ep!. . .)

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I walked into my father’s house yesterday and it hit me like a ton of bricks, she is not coming back. In February I wasn’t gob smacked with grief like I was (obviously) in October. Probably because I was too busy planning my father’s birthday party and had just a few days to focus on that. But yesterday, when I walked in there was something about the house; the smell, the feel of it that overwhelmed me with a wave of lose, sadness and--yes--self-pity. My mother was dead. All trace of her was gone in the house. I had no mother. Mother’s day was pretty much like this too. Had I known how I was going to react to the Hallmark holiday in May, I would have planned differently and worked or slept all day. But I couldn’t sleep through yesterday. Or maybe yesterday was more difficult than that day in February because TG couldn’t come with us and this is the first time since we have lived together we haven’t traveled together. That I missed her on top of missing my mother threatened to overwhelm me with grief.

Last night, while Dad was grilling after I sacrificed blood to the sacred mosquito we started talking about Sister’s trials and tribulations in the dating world. I made some offhand remark about spending a lot of time in therapy. He was incredulous I had spent two days a week for a year in therapy; that part of my decision to live in a terrible little rental house was so I could afford CBT and get off the antidepressants that were making me crazier. At first, I was miffed he had forgotten all of this. Then I realized: he probably never knew about it because I never told him and my mother thought it was a confidence and didn’t give it away. Until October fifteenth, I could count on one finger the number of times I chose to tell my father something important before I told my mother. Now he is the only parent I have to confide in and it hasn’t been all that bad, either. Once upon a time my father and I talked but we discussed the things I was comfortable with like my career and investments. Now I find myself engaging him in conversations about all the things my mom and I shared; family and friends of family news, travel plans, house plans…everything short of how erratic my periods are and the cute shoes I found on sale. What a gift to discover this relationship. Too bad it took losing one parent to discover the other.

I still expect to see my mother as I turn a corner in this house. Early this morning, Dad and The Beav went fishing and I had the house to myself for a few hours. It was so terrifically quiet and the first time I had been alone in the house in years. My grief felt unsettling and frankly a bit of an over reaction, it’s been over eight months since she diedwhy am I weepy about it now? Why did I feel the same emptiness I felt on October 16th when I walked into the house twenty four hours after she died. My father has a large picture of her prominately displayed, she’s standing near the water on Mikonos a few years ago, the last overseas trip she took. It’s not a very good picture of her, she looks tired and I can see the pain in her face, around her eyes, I sense her breathlessness as she tried to make a one last trip before admitted she needed oxygen 24/7 and was in unbearable pain due to her osteoporosis. I felt a buried well of loneliness for her open and then I realized living 800 plus miles away from home wasn’t helping my process. My sister and my father get to live everyday with reminders of my mother. Me? Because we saw each other just a few times a year, I have days every few months when I miss her tremendously. A one step forward three steps back approach to grief. But isn’t it part of my nature to make everything as difficult as I possibly can? I coped today by staying out of the house as much as I could when Dad and the boy were gone.

Once I was away from the house, I relaxed and was filled with the pure zen joy of being in the place I long to return to. I also realized how far I had come to be a person who is intrinsically happy. I am now a naturally happy person whether I live in a city where the Rockies meet the Midwest or in my home town or--God forbid--Lubbock Texas, I will be happy. (Lubbock is stretching it a bit, I don’t really want to try this theory out in with a return to West Texas) Because wherever you go, there you are. Despite doing things the hard way sometimes, being prone to “the glass is half full but dangerously close to falling off the edge of the table: I am deeply happy and content with my life. Once I realized this it was easier to step back into my mother’s house and own all my unaddressed grief.

Today was unspeakably hot with the gift of a sudden hard rain. Where I come from a rain like this cools things off. But here the humidity shot up to about 1100% and it felt as if we were in Houston or Florida or a Swedish sauna. After dinner, The Beav, mirroring my earlier restlessness, asked if we could go somewhere and “do“ something. I was feeling hemmed in after the rain and wanted to be outside in the sauna because it’s novel enough to experience my lungs adequately filled with oxygen but it’s a bonus to have hydrated skin. Besides that, I love the earthy cedar smell after the rain. I suggested we take a drive and see what had replaced a lovely old farm at the end of a road near the ‘rents house. When my parents built their little house it was in the last subdivision on the road. Now I jokingly refer to their neighborhood as the “ghetto” of one of the most expensive and exclusive bedroom communities in the state. Over the last thirty years, horse farms, old homesteads and densely wooded creek beds and a river bottom have been sacrificed for million dollar McMansions and McRanches. I am prone to sentimentality so you can only imagine the wistful feeling I have when I drive and remember the wild spaces. I’m such a sap, I can turn an errand to Walgreens into a trip down memory lane. Tonight wasn’t any different as we meandered down the roads, me lolling in how much I love this place despite the ridiculousness of the traffic, the heat and the Bubbas. The Beav didn’t even roll his eyes too much when I tried to explain DogMan to him and showed him the creek bottoms we would visit as kids trying to catchh a glimpse of the maniac who undoubtedly had a bloody hook and an appetite for teenaged girls. We drove down country roads which have blessedly missed the onslaught of nouvelle riche homes and marveled at the ground fog’s ethereal presence in the bottoms. Beautiful and eerie, I think we both expected to see the specter and Beav freely admitted it was “creepy“ at dusk with the fog hanging onto the dense canopy of trees. I wanted to walk along the creek but I’m very deathly afraid of snakes and boggy dusk is a recipe for copperheads and water snakes. So I stayed in the car on the road over the bridges, keeping the windows down so we could breath the rich air. I took us down roads I haven’t driven since I was 17. I felt a great sense of peace as I the curves and turns automatically not really sure where we were going after the DogMan Tour. But after we turned down a road partially closed due to the rain, I knew where we were going. A place I had forgotten about until tonight. The zebra at the horse farm. Why I had never taken the boys when we had visited is beyond me.

Back in the day there were several zebras at this horse farm and after we were bored with looking for Dog Man, we would stop at the side of the road, calling to them to lure them closer so we could take a good look at them. (Damn, meddling kids that we were, teasing the farm animals!) As I approached the fence I prayed tonight was NOT the night for charging and he would stay a safe distance. God agreed it would be undignified for my child to see me squealing like a girl as I flailed across the road to the car so the zebra stayed on his side of the pasture.
“Why’d you stop?“
“Zebra”
“Wha--? Na Ah, there is NOT a zebra over there, what kind of zebra, a real zebra? Sure mom. . .“
After a minute of: “Not over there but there“ type directions he saw it, the zebra hanging out in the pasture, contemplating the grass as he munched it. Fascinated by this phenomenon in suburbia, Beav lost his teenaged veneer and composure for a few minutes as he marveled at the animal and tried to fathom how and why a rancher would keep a zebra on a horse farm a mile from his GrandDad‘s house. His enthusiasm was infectious and I became fascinated with the beast all over again. I got to catch a glimpse of my little boy tonight. For this alone, Gram would have loved sharing the zebra with him. But the boy was soon replaced by the young man texting his best friend as I pulled back onto the road and headed for home.

I am teh Alpha Dog Byoch!

The Mom’s are working and I got the smart cat across the street to help me with the computer because I need some help here, and I’m hoping Mom’s internet friends can help justice be served.

Here’s the deal, before it was warm enough for me to stay outside I had to go to the bath place and then all the sudden, everyone is crying and I had to go the doctor’s office and they are all looking at my tail and putting shiny things on my chest because my heart sounded funny and Other Mom is crying and I’m trying to make her feel better but couldn’t. I hear Moms talking to each other Sea Ach Ef whatever that is and they are letting me sleep on the big white bed without me even having to sneak up there!. They are telling me I’m going to have a good life and we will make the best of it even if I only have two years.

Two years??? I’m a little upset about this. If I survived the garage door hitting my back, poison berries and a car hitting me; this old mutt can manage a little Sea Ach Eff. I get peanut butter in the morning before breakfast and peanut butter at night, too. Hey, this thing with my heart isn’t too bad. And no one makes fun of my big belly because it wasn’t from eating too many snacks and sneaking cookies from the pantry. I have a condition.

And that my friends is quality of life. Sort of. I have few complaints.

So what I want to know if I’m all sick and dying and stuff, why can’t I take myself for walks. I tried that and got yelled at: “Kipper get back in the house!”

I can’t help myself to food sitting at my eye level on the coffee table, its right there; I’m old and according to these people dying. But what do I hear? “Kipper, what do you think you are doing? That’s not your’s!”

A couple of days ago, Mom’s were sitting on the front porch and the front door was open, I had to investigate, make sure everything was ok, right? I walk out the front door and see a plate of food, on the ground. Must be for me, right? Especially seeing’ there was a bone on it, right? I pick it up and walk down to the mailbox where Mom was standing. Instead of her being all happy for the dying dog getting a bone this is what she says to me:

“Oh my god! That’s a chicken bone, give me that! Drop it! Now! And what are you doing outside? Get back in that house!”

I stand my ground, if I’m dying and stuff then I can parade around in front of the house with a bone in my mouth. So what does she do? Humiliates me, leads me into the house and pries the bone out of my mouth.

Last week we had snow and it was so cool. I love snow. I had to wait HOURS before I could play in it and so I ran out of the backdoor and buried my nose in the snow and I rolled in the snow and I dove into the snow and sniffed. Mmmmmmm it smells so good in the snow. Moms were grouchy about the snow and fussed at me for being wet when I finally came in the house. But the best part of the snow? My new stuffed animal, THAT MOVED AND WAS ALIVE. I found it in the backyard. Too bad Moms saw it at the same time. I had just picked it up in my mouth, had a firm but friendly hold of it when ALL HELL BROKE LOSE!

They were screaming stuff at me like: “OH MY GOD, HE HAS THE GUINEA PIG IN HIS MOUTH!! KIPPER DROP IT! DROP. IT. NOW!!! Holy shit this is someone’s pet and he is going to kill it!”
“NOW Drop it now!!!

I can’t remember everything because they were so loud and screeching it hurt my ears so I dropped the soft toy to have a big howl. And they scared me, too. Two years ago, I found another real toy and was in even more trouble because I killed it. Which is why I made sure I used what Other Mom refers to as my “soft mouth” on this toy? Then the toy ran away from me and you guessed it. Mom escorted me into the house and upstairs to the room with the big bed, shutting me in. Probably to give the soft toy a special treat. I haven’t seen that special toy since the big snow last week. But I smelled it. It’s here somewhere.

You would think they would let a dying dog have his own REAL pet instead of the not real toys like my Pounce Baby and the “Saurs. Not these two, they are determined to make my last two years feel like fourteen.

But this dying thing isn’t all bad, I still like my walks and I can keep up, too just like before the doctor put the shiny thing on my chest and said I was murmuring or something like that. I love my food and I love my treats. I’ll miss my boys and Moms but I’ll see them again. And when I do: I’ll explain to them why I gather the bunny-in-a-hat, my moose, the ‘saurs, Pounce, baby rabbit, Shamu the whale, my sea cow and snake in the back yard, all in a circle around me.

Cuz you all are so nice to read my blog, I’ll let you in on a secret, don’t tell Moms: I’m telling them stories about the time I moved the woodpile, could jump high enough to grab an apple off the tree, and ate tomatoes straight from the vine.

In the meantime I’m chillin’ on the couch. I'm allowed.

An Honest Day's Labor

Today I did real work.

I did exactly what I went to nursing school for: taking care of people. Lately, I’ve been feeling more like a facilitator than a nurse. Sometimes I am the “resource nurse” which simply means for 2 extra bucks an hour I oversee the care of about 20 patients and make sure nothing Bad happens. Juggling five balls in the air while typing on the computer and talking on the phone. I’m also in charge of making sure we meet the budget and don’t have too many staff members working if our patient census is low. Just looking at the description of it makes me want to simultaneously yawn and scream with boredom. Most days, when I am working as a bedside nurse I am in charge of five patients, their medications and their treatments; making sure the doctor’s orders are carried out; following up on lab and test results; following up on status changes. Referring to myself as a bedside nurse is laughable. Lots of computer time. A few months ago I guaged how much time I spent each shift charting at the computer and it was six hours. I spent a total of six hours documenting what I had done for the patient in twelve hours. But really, I had only worked with the patients for six hours. That’s terribly sad, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be a nurse not an administrative assistant. Oldest Friend tells me frequently: “you do real work, so few people can say that about their work life. “ Her words make me feel like a fraud because most days my work is rushed and I’m always always on a strict time based schedule. It’s rare--with administrative duties--I have time to do hands on work delegated to the nurse’s aid (aside from toileting and walks to the bathroom).

Today I worked as an aide on our unit. This sort of work is often thankless and always hard but I relished the difficulty. I had ten patients in varying degrees of healing and illness; a mixed bag of elderly, psychotic, young, brain injured and two living beyond the odds of survival. I have mentioned beforeI find the aid’s duties meditative and calming. My only time limits are making sure I complete blood sugars, vital signs and meals at the ordered times. Usually, everything I do is time sensitive. Without all of the charting, I eased through my day; no need to rush down the hall nor was I interrupted six times an hour with phone calls or requests for help or opinions or complaints. I worked my way down the hall; helping each of the patients with their baths or showers. Bathing someone is particularly intimate and I, being very shy about my own body, try to ease my own tension by talking to the patients’ about their lives.

Three of my patients were six to eight short years away from the century mark and each one of them had a unique story to tell. One grew up on a ranch and has entertained me for years with stories about the horses her father raised; another lived on a reservation and her grandparents had walked the trail of tears; and another was a hairdresser during the 1930’s. She explained the big Marcel wave device while I washed her body. I was rapt. Her memory was absolutely razor sharp and she could recall yesterday as well as an afternoon in 1930. This patient is particularly special to me because a few years ago I was privileged to help ease one of her beloved family members towards death. Attending someone at death is even more intimate than seeing to their most private bodily functions.

I’m sure the other nurses thought I was an extremely inefficient aid and out of my element because it took me at least 45 minutes to wash each of my bedridden patients. But one of these baths went quickly because she doesn’t speak. Diagnosed with schizoid-affective disorder for many years and living on her own until a month ago something snapped in her mind and she just sort of left this plain of existence and lives somewhere deep inside her own psyche.

She has been with us for a few weeks and slowly coming out of her catatonic place. She will follow you with her eyes and answer yes and no questions. It has been necessary for us to do everything for her because she wouldn’t move or couldn’t move. She doesn’t resist these ministrations; she is placid but she does look at us with huge round eyes and it is hard to interpret if she is frightened or confused. Today, her face was more relaxed and she did speak the word yes rather nod her head. Thankfully, the staff keeps her television off so her room has a monastic silence to it and only the ambient sounds from the hallway filter in. Usually mute patients make me feel a helpless and out of control but I feel a great sense of peace when I am in her room.

At lunch, I sat next to her bed, explaining to her what was on her tray and arranged bites. Her catatonic state is so extensive it is necessary for us to not only feed her but to cue her to chew and swallow. I had a container of high protein shake in my hand and she reached out for it. Deliberately. This woman has not spoken anything beyond one word and has not moved on her own for weeks. Finally, she made a need known. She was thirsty. I smiled at her and handed her the container and she drank deep droughts without being reminded to swallow. I looked at the spoon I was about to place on her tongue and returned it to the plate. Making eye contact with her, I asked: “Would you like to do this yourself?” She didn’t nod or speak but looked at the spoon for a few seconds, contemplating it, sussing out exactly what it was for and then she grasped it with a fist, like a toddler, raised it to her mouth and tentatively fed herself a few bites before she drifted away again.

I’m glad she drifted away because it would have embarrassed me if she had seen me wipe tears from my cheeks as I gave her those last few bites.

At last, an honest day's labor.

Joining The Club

Dear Mom,
It’s been ten days since I joined the “Motherless Daughters Club”. My initiation was fast and you gave me little time to prepare. I mean, I knew this would happen eventually but I wasn’t planning on Wednesday morning while I was taking The Beav to school. What a blessing I feel loneliness rather than regret or relief now that you are gone. Our relationship wasn’t always easy but are they ever between mother and daughter. We weathered a few years of estrangement and moved to a place of loving friendship many women don‘t get to share with their mothers. I just wish we had lived closer and I had had the gift of the daily relationship.


Dad is bereft. But that isn’t any surprise because you were his hero and he was always so proud of you. Did you know he was smitten at first site and was afraid to ask you out because you were so pretty and popular? “Too good for a hillbilly farm kid like me” is how he tells the story. The other night Dad and I were looking through some papers he found and we were discussing my past difficulties with relationships. I told him what a tough act the two of you were to follow. Of course your marriage wasn’t perfect. The perfection rested in how you dealt with difficulties. Dad shared with me a story I had never heard before. During the late 1960’s, he came home and found you preparing to leave us. You were terribly unhappy and felt like a failure as a wife and a mother. The two of you talked things out and were able to work through your angst. You were about 37 when this happened. I remember how hard 37 was for me. How sad for you, to be dogged your whole life by such feelings of inadequacy when you were breathtakingly beautiful and so talented at everything you did. One of your friends, from many years ago, was at your memorial; she said sometimes it was hard to be your friend because you were so good at everything you did. I laughed and asked her to imagine being her daughter. I’m sorry you ever felt like a failure. I’m sorry my sister and I were so hard to deal with and you wanted--in a moment of desperation--to leave us.


Even though Dad wasn’t a big chocolate mess on Wednesday (that was my job)we didn’t want him making the journey home on Thursday alone so me and TG joined him. It was the first time in many years I’ve made that stupid long drive. But we had a good time and the stories we told diverted our attention from the overwhelming and shared grief. In fact, I laughed and smiled so much my face was sore the next day. You would have had such a great time with us. But I ached to hear your side of things. The weather was crisp and clear, too and at midmorning we drove though stratus clouds in the high plains. I think the last time I was that close to clouds we lived in the foothills. I almost asked Dad if we could stop so I could try to jump up and touch them. But just seeing clouds close to the ground made me feel close to your new home in Heaven.

All week long, while we planned the memorial and undertook the unspeakable task of going through your things, I looked for you. Several times, I had to remind myself you weren’t in the next room. TG took such beautiful care of us; making sure we ate properly. Providing the exact comfort Dad needed Friday evening when he broke down because he missed you so much. This has been hard on her, too. I believe she carries the cellular memory of losing her mother when she was a baby and losing her mother-in-law pushes forward the primal loss. I’m so happy you got to know her. She loves you very much.


Your memorial service was lovely. About two hundred people gathered and your old friend gave the eulogy and I read a short note from one of the nieces who couldn’t be there. You touched so many people and they were all anxious to celebrate your life with us.

The wake was a blast.

You would have been so proud to have your favorite nieces and nephews gathered with your children and grandchildren. (It was dear how they called me Laura Ann, I loved it.)
But still Dad and I looked for you. Wanting to share things with you; The Beav said he heard your voice a couple of times. I did too, but it was just the echoes of your sisters in my cousin’s voices.

Yesterday TG, me and the boys returned to our home and I realized how much unfinished business the two of us had. You were going to help me learn to make buttonholes with my new sewing machine; we were going to hang drapes; and you were going to help me arrange and group pictures. On top of all of that, before we went to bed that Tuesday night you promised to tell me funny stories about Sister’s adventures in dating.

Thank you for being my mother. I miss you and I don’t know if I will ever stop missing you.
Kiss your sisters and Grandmother for me.

Love,
Laura

Dithering

Color me pissy today. Hormones maybe? A safe guess given I burst into tears when I saw a bald woman outside the middle school today. She was younger than myself and no doubt a chemo patient. Crying did help burn off some of my frustration but seeing her made me ashamed because the biggest reason I’m pissy today is I didn’t accomplish a single thing on my “to-do” list. I’m pretty sure this woman doesn’t give a shit about her to-do list and would trade places with me. On top of the horror of not accomplishing Important Tasks, I had to cook dinner and I hate to cook. I’m a terrible every day cook, give me a dinner party or holiday to cook for and I will rock a recipe. I can make beautiful food but just not on days that aren’t special. Like most Wednesdays. On top of all of this, I had to wait on Beaver after school and rather than just sitting in the parking lot I visited my crack dealer (insert Michaels link here) to pick up a few things I couldn’t live without.
Once I get there, I sort of stumble around the busy Halloween and Christmas displays. “Oh! Shiny! Look ornaments! Pretty! . . .Why am I here?” I forgot what I needed. My errand served as beautiful illustration of how my day had been going. I was supposed to get up early, walk the dog, do my laundry and go to Pilates and none of things happened. I also had great plans to finish a painting and start a massive music download for a special mix CD. Didn’t happen. So what did I do? I dithered around with images to use as transfers on shirts. But I didn’t actually do the transfers onto fabric because moving the iron and ironing board to the studio felt Herculean. I opted for sitting on my ass in front of the computer and HGTV messing around with images.

My Disregard the Body Karma came up and bit my wobbly dimpled ass this afternoon when I tried to upload a photoshopped image to flickr for this mixed media challenge. (link here). I swear my computer is possessed with gremlins playing “Hide The File“. My guess is a nine year old would have figured out where the file is because I’m all Short Bus all the way when it comes to software. I never did outsmart the Photoshop and Vista gremlins, rather I had to make a copy the appropriate size and then scan that down into a special desktop folder designated “Collage” blatantly displayed on my desktop. Given this frustration, I think my silent meltdown was appropriate when I arrived at the middle school in my gym clothes (too lazy to change) and received the: “mom-I-have-to-do-a-project-with-Tanner phone call” exactly thirty seconds after I had just made my ten mile commute.
I wanted to scream at myself for leaving the house in gym clothes, Sure I could make good use of the time and run an errand but I was in flippin’ gym clothes! I’m a Texas Girl and we don’t do anywhere in gym clothes except a jogging path and the gym. Ok, I might go to the emergency room but somebody better be Exsanguinated
I confess, once upon a time I routinely took the children to school in my robe and nightgown but this was when I lived exactly six tenths of a mile from the school. (One of my favorite people on the planet does this but she tops the robe with a beautiful scarf and makes sure she has on lipstick. I was fooled for about a decade.) Anyhow, I’m sitting in the school parking lot fuming at my kid for having the audacity of being so responsible and doing HOMEWORK after school. (It’s all so ridiculous , isn’t it?) when it occurred to me to just go to the crack dealer’s, gym clothes be damned. And so I went only to be distracted and daunted by Christmas to the point of forgetting my gold paint.
Despite my terrible attitude, everything turned out well, no one fainted at the sight of me in my stretch pants and tee-shirt; five o’clock traffic was forgiving and I cooked without whining (out loud at least).
Meanwhile, Dinner wasn’t a complete disaster and I ended up making chili out of various bits of leftovers in the ‘frig. Recently, The Girl kindly asked me to never make Sloppy Joes again. I had relied on them too many times and burnt her out. (all Klassy all the time at Chez Cleaver!) So what do we have in the ‘frig among the leftovers? Sloppy Joes and I think I did a fine job of disguising them with Other Stuff when I composed my chili. I even hit a sort of Zen space where I forgot how much I hate everyday cooking and sautéed onions in tarantella salsa and beer which added a nice kick to my Whore’s Chili.
So now that dinner is made and the dishes are washed and everyone is home; I’m feeling a little lighter. Almost ebullient. My weekly housewifery chores were done yesterday and I have one more day away from the hospital and yes, I have big plans:
Up early for a ass kicking class at the gym
Walk the dog after the boys leave for school
Meet Ms. A for a gallery tour at ten
Begin Christmas projects
Make dinner.
Dinner! Argh!