The Mile

I woke up thinking about this story this morning, so it must be time I shared it.

I was at the Triple Crown one afternoon getting a beer, and I saw an old classmate sitting on the back porch.  His name is Ray, and I remember thinking to myself that I would go and sit with him.  I had always felt sorry for him because he was picked on so badly at school.  He was small and slight of frame.  He wore glasses and he was mild mannered.  So, obviously in our jock obsessed world and our phobic Texas ways, kids started calling him "gay Ray."  I suppose these days that wouldn't seem like too much of a burn, but it was a different time, and calling someone gay publically (whether they were or not), was not cool.  He was often threatened.  I don't remember ever seeing him defend himself, verbally or physically.  I don't remember anyone else ever defending him either.  I just remember that nickname going on for years and feeling sorry for him. 
So I asked to share his table.   I said, "Remember me?  I'm Molly we went to school together."

He said "Oh yeah, I remember you."  And then he told me a story.

"This is weird, but do you remember ...?  One day in junior high gym class, we had to run the mile.  All the boys in class  began lapping you and chanting 'Moo Cow!  Moo Cow!  Moo Cow!'  as they passed.  Then, everybody else passed you too, and they all chanted.  It was horrible.  The gym teacher didn't even do anything.  I felt so sorry for you.  I always wanted to tell you I was sorry that happened."

"Oh, uh, no- wow,"  I stammered, "I had forgotten that."

Like a flash this memory returned to me.  Of course, I hadn't forgotten the nick name.  I had been "Molly Moo Cow" since fifth grade when John Fontaine had cruelly dubbed me so.  (Twice as cruel because before this, I had a school girl crush on him.)   I was tall, broad and developing at an astounding rate.  The name caught like wildfire, and soon lots of kids called me that.  The mile run was three years later and it was still going so...

I had, however, managed to block out that particular incident.  I'm sure I had never told my parents for fear of it somehow being my fault and punishable (my life was a closed book), and at the time I only had a tiny handful of friends who probably all saw it.  I remembered it now though; feeling sick as I always did when we ran a mile in the spring Texas heat, the feeling like my head would pop off in heart pulsing pain, how I was no longer sweating but dizzy and wanting to barf, and having to stop and walk, like always when we did the mile.

Then here came the jocks and other fit popular boys... chanting.  Followed by the others, all picking up the chant.  Looking over for help from the coaches to see them smiling.  A chorus of voices;
"Moo Cow!  Moo Cow!  Moo Cow!  Moo Cow! Moo Cow!..."
It still seems like it can't be real- a movie scene or a nightmare.

Ray and I had grown up together.  We weren't friends- didn't eat lunch together or even ride the same bus, but we had quietly watched the other be bullied and tortured.  Our hearts were opened up with compassion, and what we ultimately held on to was not the pain we had felt ourselves, but the times we wished we had stood up for someone else. 

What would it have been like if I had stood up for and defended "gay Ray'?  Would anything have changed if he had come to the aid of "Molly Moo Cow"?  Why didn't we stand up for each other, even though we wanted to?  I was probably too scared of my own bullies to draw too much attention to myself, and maybe Ray was the same.

 I hope that I have grown out of this fear, because just because we're not in grade school doesn't mean there aren't bullies and mobs of assholes chanting.  I hope that I have the courage now to stand up for someone else when given the opportunity.

Our compassion for someone can be a mirror.  Sometimes, by seeing our pain in someone else's eyes, we can finally accept it as our own, and doing so learn compassion for ourselves.

Transformation

     From December, 2016...

     These last few months I have been trying to "find myself".  I have been rediscovering what it is I might want out of life while working a very few hours at a coffee house.  I have been meditating and learning healing breath work, and I have dislodged some deep trauma.  I feel it in my muscles and bones, so I do a crap-load of yoga to try and release it.  I feel like a washcloth that is being rinsed and wrung out- twisted up to let loose the gunk and then starting all over again.
 
     It's kind of like cleaning out a closet you haven't looked at in a long time; there's no telling what might be in there until you start to drag it all out.  There's stuff in there that is going to take you down memory lane, things that no longer fit you even though you keep holding on to them, and bits that you forgot you loved so much.  You take it all out and look at it, and the closet starts to make sense, but the room is full of shit now.  All that crap is all over the bed and the floor and it's hard to tell how to organize it.  You have to decide what goes and what stays.  It's going to take time and it has to get worse before it gets better.  That is the nature of change and growth.

       Hopefully that can also explain what is happening right now in US politics.  Apparently there is a lot of shit that is still in our American closet.  Many US citizens, turns out, are not only afraid of and discriminating towards the gay and trans community and women (knew that, duh), but racial prejudice is still rampant!  The closet has been emptied and we can all see eachother... we can see the racists, bigots and misogynists and ALSO the LGBTQA+ community, the women who won't take shit any more, the witches, the goddesses, and the strong communities of all races.  The next generation will decide what stays and what goes from this big closet cleaning.

    It's exhausting but every time I think I need to be going to look for some "good job" or trying to hustle some money I just want to go get into the child's pose for an hour and maybe take a walk a read some books and do some writing and I realize the right job is not my answer.

    I am trying hard to love myself and it's going to take a lot of practice to get it right.  Writing is becoming part of my practice.  I have been journalling and working on rough pages for something that may someday become a book.  It could feel really selfish to be loving myself in this way, but I am hoping to connect to this human condition of knowing our own mortality and feeling the loss of our friends and family, of realizing the grand impermanence of every day and the gift of every moment, and of the glorious miracle that is consciousness.

Wherever you go...

My husband, Furly and I went on a road trip this fall.  We wanted to see some places we had never seen and do some camping and hiking and fishing.  We had not been on a trip together for a few years and thought we deserved some time to "get our heads together" out on the road. 

Personally and professionally, I am sort of at crossroads in my life, (or maybe this is what they call a mid-life crisis); either way I have some choices to make about what the next bit of my worldly existence will look like.  I thought for sure I would find some answers out on the road, like some young beatnik poet.  This trip was almost to be a sequel to my post-college wide eyed Great American Road Trip, where I drove up the west coast to Vancouver and back.  On that trip I wrote songs, I made plans, I fell more deeply in love (with some dweeb), and I expanded my vision and my mind.  I was 22 years old and life was stretched out before me.

Things were very different this recent trip.  I mean, first off we went to Florida and through the swampy spooky racist deep south instead of cruising the Cali coastline.  There is a big difference in vibes, obviously.  Also, I am forty now, which sounds older in my mind than it is.  More than likely the real truth is that I am a different person now.  I have been changed.  My life begins now to stretch behind me, and I find myself becoming wistful and nostalgic.  I think more often lately of that which is gone than what lies ahead.
 
So it was very different.  We hiked and relaxed and did all our fishing and camping.  We toured the tourist towns and took all the pictures.  We had many fun times.  I did not find myself, write songs, make plans or decisions.  Know what I did manage to do a lot? Cry.  I cried in the car.  I cried on the trail.  I cried by the lake.  Don't get me wrong- I laughed and smiled and all that good stuff too, but for being on vacation, it was a lot of crying.  I could say "I needed it" but it would be more accurate to say I could not help it.  With so much quiet time out in nature and minus the distractions of work and home, emotions I had been avoiding had nowhere else to go.  Then I got so homesick we came home a week early, and I STILL had no direction, inspiration or clarity of any sort. 

 A couple weeks before we left for this grand adventure, I was visiting with a friend who had just come home from a long road trip of her own.   When I asked her how it was, she laughed and said, "Well, you know how it is.  Wherever you go, there you are."

There I was.  Here I am.  I am still hurting and lost and that sucks.  Furly is still hurting too, and that also sucks.  Taking care of Mom changed everything.  She has been gone over a year and we are both still pretty depressed.  Furly says we won't feel like this forever, and I know he is right.  Without the darkness we would not see the break of dawn and all of the promise it holds. 

Visiting the Dead

A short while back I got a job in a coffee shop called Wake the Dead working for a good friend and with a group of creative and interesting people.  My co-workers are fun and our customers, for the most part, considerate and friendly.   All in all, being at work is a mix of fun customer service, learning the craft of good coffee (harder than it sounds), and a list of tasks to fill the rest of the time.  There is no "down time," only sweet distraction.

It is difficult for me to be alone, for up through the stillness creeps my grief.  It's always waiting in the wings, like a migraine or an understudy, eager to be allowed to make it's appearance- to have my full attention.  I know that this time and space for my grief is also necessary, and I sometimes crave it.  (Grief itself has a rank sweetness that some of us would drink like wine until we are laughing and crying, before we are finally able to fall into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.)

Weekend mornings I get to work at 5:30am, and am alone in the quiet for not quite an hour.  At first it was very hard to figure out how to deal with all the sobbing and flashbacks at the beginning of my work day.  There was not enough coffee brewing and arranging of newspapers in the world that could take her off my mind, so I put on a favorite album of hers.  I still cried a lot, but it was nice too, in it's way.  The next day I put on the same album.  I cried some more, but I sang too, and loud.

The following weekend, after thinking about how much Mom would have loved that I worked in this shop, and the thousands of cups of coffee we must have enjoyed during our time together, I poured two cups of coffee.  I made hers extra sweet and creamy, and mine the way I like it.  She was visiting me at work.  I thought about putting on that same album, but I could almost hear her complain bitterly how she was tired of it.  (She was never fond of being overly sentimental.)  Instead, I silently talked to her about everything that had been going on; what it's like at my new job, how we are planning a trip for the fall, and how much I miss her but am trying so hard.  When we were done I said goodbye and washed her cup, but it's sort of our thing now.  Now I like to open the shop in the wee hours of the morning having coffee with my mom.  I put on some music I think she might like.  At the expense of sounding crazy, except that I can't hug and kiss her, it's like she's there with me.

There is some strange magic in love that is made of eternity.  I don't know how else to explain it or even what I mean.  Words, as usual, are insufficient in matters such as these.
When I am in the garden, I remember my mom's spirit and how we are all a part of everything.
I write in a special journal if I want to send her a letter,
and now we have coffee every weekend.


P.S.   This is my grief at 9 months and 20 days

The thing that matters persists.

     I was laid off one month ago, so I have had the luxury of the thing called "spare time".  Now that I have finally gotten over being sick, caught up on my sleep and my reading, cleaned the house and took care of my important errands (whew!) things in my brain have finally started to SLOW DOWN.
     I've been reading about the yoga paths, Buddhism and women's magic.  I went to a service at my old church and said the Lord's prayer.  I started meditating.  I "sat with my grief," contemplated Maya and called upon Gaia.  I started going for walks again, each lap a meditation, each step a mantra.  I picked up my guitar yesterday for the first time in awhile; I took it to the park and played my heart and emotion out into the universe on it, tears like boulders rolling down my face.  I have begun trying to learn whatever precious lessons life must be holding for me after such a year.  I know they are there.  They have begun peeking at me around corners in my mind and unlocking hidden doors for me.  I am getting glimpses of truth through the darkness.
     Mom is here with me through all of this.  She helped me flush out a good idea yesterday while I walked.  It doesn't matter if it was illusion of attachment or her ghost or an angel or that I know what she would say because I was lucky enough to talk to her a LOT.  The Thing That Matters persists because I can still feel what it is to love someone that much and have them love me back.  I still feel her love, and when I call her she seems to be there.  Souls or not, love is eternal.

Christmas Blues

I love Christmas.  This time of year has always been strange, mystical, serene and crazy all at once, but in all my memory I think this is my first "sad Christmas".  Sure, nostalgia has kicked in lots of years as I remembered past times, friends gone and magic lost, but this is different. 
Too much is different this year.  My family won't or can't get together for various reasons.  There will not be a big family Christmas.  I'll get to see some of my family, as long as I travel to them, and the others (that I speak to) I'm sending cards that will probably not get there in time. 
This is our first Christmas without Mom.  It's impossible not to miss her, and the closer it gets to...




and that's where this entry ends.  I must have broken down and called it a day, but I will publish it now anyways.  (9/5/16)

11/4/15

This week has been a roller coaster.  For weeks I cried every morning because I missed Mom so much and the pain was just intolerable.  I don't cry every day now, more like 2/3 of them, but lately it is at night when I am trying to fall asleep that I start to remember all of the hard and scary moments of the last year.  They run through my mind and I can hear all the times she screamed in fear or cried the regretful tears of a person who thought they would have more time.  During the day it is easier to go on about my business, not stop and think about anything but work or tv or some dumb conversation. 
When Mom was just sick but not dying or gone, I was still a good listener for my friends.  They would call me to talk about their problems, and sometimes feel bad that they were unloading on someone that was obviously going through some stuff.  It was a distraction for me, so I didn't mind focusing on somebody else's stuff.  Now, however, I find I have very little compassion for most people's problems, unless they are as tragic as mine.  I know that sounds terrible, and I really just am not used to feeling this way.  I am mad that people don't know how I am feeling, but it's only because I don't tell them. 
I packed up all of Mom's clothes yesterday.  I made no plans to get rid of them or anything, just put them in some plastic bins.  I came across her dentures again and wondered for the hundredth time what to do with them, knowing full well that I will probably keep them forever.  I got together the last of the baby wipes and the monitor to give to my brother with the new baby. 

A little poem on grief

It has been awhile since I did any writing.  I have been avoiding it, the same way I have been avoiding answering the phone or taking care of errands outside the house; like I avoid thinking about the past or the future.
I wrote a check at the grocery store yesterday, and instead of just getting the year wrong (first week of January- it happens), I had posted it 9-3-2015.  September?  How did I get that so wrong?  Then it hit me; that was the day Mom died.  Part of me is still right there, frozen in that moment four months ago, telling her she can be free and hoping I am right.


You died and I became a ghost
A phantom of my former self
I wandered drowning through a flood of memories
A hailstorm of images pounded me to dust
Every song a deafening blow
Every breeze a whisper strained to hear
I was the deer in headlights
the rabbit gone tharn
No one could speak to me
I disappeared
and cannot tell if I have been
or ever will be
found.

Ups and downs and being a new auntie

    I started to write about the morning my mom died, but I just can't.  Instead I want to note that the first day I really felt like the world was a lovely place again was the day I got to see my new nephew.
    He was born October 14th and Furly and I went to visit him the next day.  His name is Cade Merritt Sullivan, and he is a perfect little fuzzy bean.  When he cries, his mom says, "I know, it's hard to be a human," and I think, "Don't we know it sister?"  Her own mother passed away the same day Cade was born, just a couple hours later. I can't imagine what the combination of those two experiences feel like.  The little one is grandmotherless and all his family grieving, and yet our hearts are lifted in his presence.
    What is it about a baby that brings us so much hope, even with the knowledge of inevitable grief and pain and death that comes with life?  Is it the unwritten story we can imagine and hope to watch unfold?  Is it reaching into the past to find our own stories written in their faces?  Maybe they just smell good and feel good; a device of natural selection so we don't just leave them in the woods. 
    I am so happy for my brother and his wife, and a tiny bit envious.  Don't get me wrong; I don't want my own children, but my brother and his wife have a family now that they can focus on.  All of my brothers have families.  We have mom's dog and four cats.  I am so lost right now without my mom to care for.
    So we do little projects.  We painted the front room and we're going to make it our bedroom.  I planted a few things in the yard.  We watch TV.  We eat.  We drink.  I try to get up every day and say, "What do you want to do today?"  For so long we didn't get to choose what we would do, it seemed novel at first.  Day by day it becomes more burdensome.
What do I want to do today?  Nothing. 

TO DO LIST:
Read
Write
Cry
Call about cat spay
Call Mom's CPA
Walk the dog

Grief at 27 days: cry cry cry

It has been almost four weeks since my mom passed away.  I have cried every day for six weeks, usually in the morning, but not always.

It's okay though.  Sometimes I am crying because I am mad: it seems so unfair that she had to die.  Some days I cry because I remember a time when I could have taken better care of her.  Mostly I cry because I miss her so much and I know I will never see her again.

I talk to her though, and when I do it's as though I can hear her in my mind, telling me exactly what I know she would tell me.  This should make me feel better, but instead I just cry harder.

This grief is like nothing I have ever experienced.  I feel like the shoreline, slowly being stripped away and changed with each passing wave.  Every day is a flood of memories, both good and bad, full of useless "what ifs" and "whys."   My mind is a train and I can only sometimes switch the tracks, and then I can go to work or talk to another person.  At home alone, I have no respite.  I wash the dishes, fold the clothes, sweep the floor and all the while my mind is barreling down the track.

So my husband and I try to go to the river every day, we snuggle with our little kitties and take walks and in general try to be kind to ourselves.  We let ourselves cry and we give ourselves time, but we pick ourselves back up and try to move on.  I think Mom would be proud of us and how we are handling ourselves even if every day I cry and say "I love you, Mom," and I don't know if that will ever stop. 

She's been gone 6 days and I am hurting.

She's gone she's gone she's gone.  
My head hurts and I can't sleep and all I do is sleep but mostly eat and drink and
one moment
I am being pulled in a hundred directions
people needing something needing comfort needing assurance needing decisions and also a shoulder and I am supposed to be the shoulder and shoulder the burden but I think I need something
and the next moment
I am alone.
And I miss her.

And I had to hold her dead and cold body while the overnight nurse yanked off her last soiled diaper.
And my husband helped the man place her on the cart, cover her, and strap her in
(Bring out yer dead)
And I wouldn't complain- no I'm not complaining- because there were many blessings
And I'll have memories to last a lifetime...

But I wish I could hug her
or sit and drink coffee with her and talk like in the old days.
She would tell me I put myself under too much pressure. 
She would tell me to try to have a little fun.
She would not be sick, but the fierce and tenacious woman who raised me.
If I close my eyes, I am almost there.

A bit about our hospice team and an emotional day.

     Yesterday was a weird day.  Mom woke up feeling good, which is terrific.  She also ate three separate times, albeit only a few bites each time.  She even got a massage from Velinda, the hospice masseuse; she often declines if her mood is no good, so it was another good sign.  She was awake for a full nine hours in row too; on the other hand, she slept the next fifteen in a row too.
     Anne, the nurse, pulled me aside and told me Mom seemed weak.  I cried a bit about how this was actually a "good day" compared to the weekend.  I did not say that I had cried all weekend.  Anne asked me if Mom and I have talked about the "end of life stuff."  We did, months ago, but haven't in awhile.  I also confessed I have no idea how to talk to my family about what's going on.  Anne gave me a number to price cremation and said Murray, the slightly goofy and unsettling, "bereavement counselor" will give me a call, (if Anne remembers to tell him).  She has the worst memory, but Mom loves her dearly.
     Mom named one of her kittens Annie, and says it is after Nurse Anne.  Anne loves Mom too.  She went to Disneyland on vacation, and brought Mom home some Minnie Mouse ears.  For three weeks, Mom wore her ears every time Anne came around.  Margarita, another health aide, loves Mom too.  Twice now, I have seen her start to cry when Mom was declining.  She turns away so Mom cannot see her, but I do.  She has come to see us twice a week for five months now, and she is truly incredible.  She can change all of Mom's sheets and clothes in the blink of an eye.  More than once Mom has said, "Don't you need to change the sheets, Margarita?" only to be told it had already been done.  Roxanne, or "Roxy" as Mom calls her, has only been coming for a few weeks, but you can tell Margarita likes working with her, so we immediately liked and trusted her.  She is supposed to be helping Mom get in her wheelchair, but after the first week and a half, Mom hasn't wanted to do that any more.  (She went for three wheelchair rides before it got too hard for her.)  
     When Mom admitted she didn't want to get in her chair again, she got very upset and started to cry.  She said she felt like she had "failed" us.  It was very sad, and of course we all assured her she had not failed us; that all we want is for her to be happy.  It was very emotional for all of us. 
      I am trying not to freak out, but I am super sad and anxious and my brain goes a mile a minute.  I am supposed to go away for four days this weekend, and though I'm sure she'll still be here when I come home, I feel guilty for not spending every waking minute with her, because "the end" seems to be looming.  She is encouraging me to go, but I can tell she is a little scared for me to be gone too.
    Well, I could keep going, but I have worn myself out, and probably whoever is reading too. 

LIFE IS PRECIOUS- EVERY MOMENT OF IT- BUT ESPECIALLY
THE MOMENTS FILLED WITH LOVE.

Rough week...

It's been a weird couple of days.  Mom is sleeping more, eating less and didn't want to get in her wheelchair at all this week.  She is tired and sore and confused.  She sleeps almost all day day and eats almost nothing.  The nurse and two aides came today, and I told them how much she had eaten and slept lately.  Anne, the nurse, said she was "concerned" about the amount of confusion Mom has, and Margarita got glassy eyed and said something about "when she declines"  she would cry a lot.  I told her I had cried all the day before. 
I am scared of how I will handle things in the future.  I already feel on the brink "losing it" most of the time. 
I'm also supposed to go on a weekend trip soon- one I have had planned since December- and already I am super scared of leaving Mom and Furly for four days.  I am freaking out.
I still can't sleep that well, I am drinking like a fish and wish I could get more of that Xanax my friend brought to me:  if I didn't have "responsibilities" I would be F-ing up a lot more than I am.  I would be looking for the kind of trouble I don't usually look for.  Again, I am scared about how I will be acting before too long.
Furly dreams of dead babies filling the lake, and I dream of packing up to run away but never quite getting there.
I want to be good and do right, and I am just scared, and so is Furly.  At least I am not alone in all of this.  He loves Mom as if she were his own.  I am so grateful for him and for the time I have with Mom.

I got to hear a choir sing today.

I attended my friend, Lisa Chew's choral performance today.  It had been a long time since I had heard that many voices together, (easily 40 people).  It was an awesome feeling.  The waves of sound washed over me like the ocean pulsing away at high tide.  I sat in the back of the concert hall and shed tears of pure joy, thankful for my ears and the acoustics of the wood and the shape of the room and the baby laughing in the audience, and the pure humanity, fragile and raw and vibrating for the sake of harmony and unity, spelling out the sounds of the heart and echoing the songs of the spheres.

There is little in this life I am more grateful for than music.  It stirs my deepest depths and brings me peace even where there would be none. 

More notes Mom at home on hospice

Awhile back a wrote a bit about having my mom come home on hospice care.  That was four months ago now, and rather than looking back and reflecting on what I was feeling then (I'll let you, the reader, do that) I'd like to tell you how things feel now to me.

I am tired all the time; tired, and grateful, and scared and mad and sad and crazy all the time.  I cry because I do not want to go to the store.  I want to sleep all the time, and I am scared to sleep all the time.  I yell at my husband at least once a day.  I pretend it is all his fault. 

Good things happen every day.  Mom went out in her wheelchair today.  The five of us- Mom, Furly, two health aides and me- marched up and down the sidewalk, talking about the pretty flowers and how our neighbors were building a fence- like it was the most normal thing in the world- like it hadn't been months since she was outside before last week- like we just tool around all the time with her entourage and it's no big deal.  We were like a little parade.  It was very jovial.  The health aides admitted they were glad to be out in the sun.  They had just attended (another) funeral.

We are lucky.  We have family that visits and helps.  We have the best team of healthcare folks you could imagine.  We have each other.  There are many things we can learn right now.  Every moment is full of possibilities.  That goes for all of us- the living and the dying.  Who is living that is not also dying?  Just because you are "dying" doesn't mean you aren't also living.

Also, we never really talk about dying.  We only ever say "What do you want to do NOW?"  We are squeezing life out of days and weeks and even months.  Sometimes I am tired though, and do not want my whole life to be about squeezing out Mom's life.  I start to miss my own life, and in that same thought I feel guilty.  And at the same time I feel proud because it is not so easy.  And at the same time I feel honored that she trusts me.

I feel so many, many, things. 

Hospice House part 3

The house is a wreck.  There are piles of stuff everywhere.  The taxes haven't been done.  The car needs to go in.  I haven't been to work in a week.  My husband (aka my right hand man) had a pacemaker put in last Thursday, so I haven't had my usual help.  He's feeling better now, but I am afraid I have gone back into "do it all myself" mode.  I can't sleep well, I never relax and I feel like I am going bonkers.  I can't hold my liquor these days, because I am just to tired.  I can't meditate or do my yoga- I'm too anxious about time.


Thank God for my garden.  It's right outside the house and it's brimming with produce right now.  I have to thin the parsley every day.  I picked peas this morning too, having to get right down in the plants to find each plumped up pod.  I spend much of my days washing lettuce, cooking greens and shelling peas in the kitchen next to my mom's room.  The produce in my garden, like my time, is precious and must not go to waste.  Plus, since spring has arrived there is planting to do.  I wondered today if my mom will live to see the next batch of peas:  the ones she helped me plant just a few weeks before she broke her hip.

Notes from a hospice house: 2

It's very quiet here today.  No nurses or home health people come by on Fridays.  Mom is napping and my husband, Furly is out.  I have a baby monitor set up in her room, but only the sound of the oxygen machine is coming through: every few seconds it makes a sound like a short, exasperated sigh, and over time this sound has become weirdly soothing to me.  Even her dog is sleeping, which tells me for sure she is sound asleep.

I'm glad she's asleep.  She has had a rough day.  She is really having a hard time coming to terms.  No one could possible blame her.  She can't get out of bed.  She can't even sit up by herself.  The worst part of this limitation is she can't take herself to the bathroom or even change her own soiled briefs.  This obviously brings up some awkward feelings, as her mind is as nearly as sharp as ever.  In addition, the pain of her hip makes her reluctant to "go."  The nurses are getting concerned.

They tried to put her on her side yesterday.  It did not go well: even though they used all kinds of cushions for support, by the time they were out the door for 10 minutes, Mom said she was too scared to be alone because of the pain.  I had to put her back on her back.  Later on, her massage therapist came for the first time.  She gave Mom a special foot rub that was supposed to help her go too, and taught it to me.  She's had prunes and prune juice and a daily laxative- long story short we've tried everything. 

There's a long list of humiliating things about getting older and needing care.  I think we can safely put having to talk about your bowels all the time to that list.

Notes from a hospice house: (part 1)

My mom lives with my husband and me.  Two weeks ago she became bedridden and was put on hospice care.  It has been a confusing and emotional time for all of us.  For the sake of my sanity and to somehow make sense of all the thoughts in my head, I am going to try and write about my experience as a caretaker and all the thoughts and feelings that come into play.  My main goal is to be honest and open about what our day to day life is like.  Needing to share these daily moments feels a little selfish, but I hope in the process to honor my mom and all of the people who support her; our family, friends and hospice care team.




Now for some preliminary information.


   How We got Here/ The Catch 22:
     1.  Mom was having treatment for cancer.
     2.  Treatment made her weak and she fell and broke her hip.
     3.  Her health is too bad to have the surgery to fix her hip.
     4.  Without surgery, she can't be transferred to continue treatment.
     5.  Without treatment, the cancer is terminal.
     6.  Now she's in hospice care.


All I have left to say today is that I am really sad.  Mom mom's situation totally sucks, and it breaks my heart.   I have been doing pretty well until today.  For some reason I just can't stop crying, so I decided to write.  My mind is full of "what if's" and "if only," and I absolutely know there is no good in it.  Writing helps me to process all the noise in my head, and I do seem to be feeling better.


I love my mom, and I know this time is a gift.

Making Time

In my last post, I wrote about time.  I was feeling disappointed because I was expecting a large amount of time off from work, and it didn't happen.  If you happen to read that earlier post and it sounds whiney, it probably is. 

The beautiful thing about disappointment is how you handle it in the aftermath.  I decided, so as not to let my brain explode, that would start immediately to take back my time.  Writing about it helped a lot.  As I wrote, I remembered that time is an illusion anyways.  Then I realized I could create more time in my life if I wanted too.  I don't mean by bending the perception of the universe (although that is fun to try too), but dammit- how much time do I spend watching TV again?  Jeezuz!

I had this list of stuff I wanted to do when I got my vacation, but why couldn't I make time to do a lot of that stuff now?  The next day  I started going to the gym again.  I went every day for a week until they were closed on Sunday.  Monday, Furly went into the hospital for three days.  After that he quit drinking, and therefore, I cut way back myself.  You forget how much energy and time is wasted just consuming sometimes.  I was ready for creating, not consuming.  After a week of dealing with doctors and stuff, I got right back on the horse and worked out every day again this week.

So, I have conquered the first thing (Oh and I started writing, right?)  I spend less time sitting and watching the tube than before.  I need to start tackling some of the other things on the list too.  I want to take  a yoga class.  I want to record my next album.  I want to book more shows and take care of the house and see my friends and all of that.  I can't blame not doing those things on having to go to work. 

The silver lining here is plain: If I hadn't thought so long what I could do with extra time, I would not be so motivated to make some.  If I hadn't expected a big change in my life, I wouldn't have known that I wanted one.  And so, "up from the ashes grow the roses of success"!

How To Laugh to Keep From Crying or "Why Buddhists don't make 5 Year Plans"

I have had a lesson in detachment and living in the present this week.  Some would call it "an opportunity for personal growth."  Others would call it suffering a severe disappointment.  Perspective is everything, and today I must change mine if I want to quit this silly crying.  I'm acting like a child.

You see, I feel like I lost something, but I didn't really.  Truth be told, it was never mine in the first place.  Nobody owed it to me.  I did not deserve it.  It wasn't even going to happen for six weeks and three days (but who was counting, right?)

I was getting a pink slip.  (Not literally, but you know what I mean.)  I have worked for the same company now for over 12 years.  I know I don't deserve a gold watch or pension or anything for 12 years, but still I feel it's sort of impressive these days.  There are older goats than I there with more seniority too.  We were all getting let go.  Sounds terrible, huh?  Unless you throw in a severance that allows for vacation time before the job hunt begins.  Then it sounds okay.  Add in the nearly sure opportunity for re-hire when the company was back up and running, and it plain starts sounding like a pretty sweet break with the potential for long term change; especially if you had been working hard and steady for a lot of years doing the same thing.

You know, it's hard not to think about the future.  We are supposed to, right?  I mean, living in the moment is great, but somebody needs to know what day of the month the next bill is due, right?  Didn't someone tell you to make a five year plan?  I never have, but I know I was told to.

We were informed of the possible sale of our building nearly six months ago.  At first we were just told it was possible.  A few months later it was more possible.  Then it was likely.  Probable.  Most assuredly.  Wouldn't even make sense this late in the game if it didn't happen, so finally it must! 

It was only about three weeks ago I got into the idea of being jobless.  Heeding advice from my family and bosses, I decided not to worry too much about my financial future.  Everyone said "You should have some time off.  You deserve it."  I was IN.  I could line up another job right away and have extra money, but I was really was in it for the time.  I would postpose a job hunt.
Instead I started looking up dance and yoga classes at the activity center, planned to record my next album, and imagined a short tour around Texas and then maybe to California to see by big brother and his family.  I miss them.  Gardening, cooking breakfast for my mom every day, working on my house, writing- I had PLANS.  It was going to happen...

...and then it didn't.
At the last possible minute, the big developer walked away from the deal.  Others rejoiced that the watering hole would stay, but I was crushed.  What about my extra time?

It's the same as the losers on terrible reality game shows that cry because they don't win the prize.  They feel like they lost something because they already have made big plans for all that fame and money, but it was never theirs to lose.  I usually poke fun at those people, but I made plans too.

Not only did I make the plans, I got attached to them.  I know there are lots of positive things about not losing my job (duh), and about the business carrying on as usual, but my heart doesn't feel it today.  I fell for an illusion I created for myself, believing we could know the future and depend on it for happiness.  Any half decent Buddhist could see the problem there.  Again, duh.

Breathe in... JOY.  Breathe out... PEACE.  You are alive right now.  (Lucky you!)  This moment counts and no other.  It can be fun to make plans IF you remember the great illusion of time and don't take anything too seriously.  Which means, the "thing" I lost- that extra time?  It doesn't even exist.

Hilarious.