It's 3a.m. and I wake abruptly for no apparent reason. I have a cold, and realize I have been sleeping on my back with my mouth open for some time. My tongue is shriveled and dry, and the roof of my mouth is coated in....I don't know what. Ick. I swallow uncomfortably and take a sip of water from the cup at my bedside.
As I lay down again,I immediately think of him, and of swabbing his mouth out. Why so morbid? Perhaps it was the hour. No telling, really. In any event, I could see the swab - a marble-sized synthetic sponge on the end of a short metal stick, kind of like those wire things used to dunk hard-boiled eggs in dye at Easter. The sponge is pink like Pepto-Bismol, or like cotton candy.
I picture dunking the little sponge in a cup of ice water, and then running it over his cracked, open lips. Another dunk, and I administer a little bit of water to his dry tongue. His breathing is loud but not yet labored. His eyes are open just a crack.
"You can talk to him. Tell him it's OK. He can hear you," encourages the hospice nurse. Oh Dad, I sigh silently, I hope to God you can't hear me. I hope you're not aware of any of this. Tears sting my eyes, and I grudgingly croon to him. After I finish with the water, I look more closely at him, making sure he isn't in need of more morphine (that will come soon). His skin, thin and tight across his cheek bones, still has some color to it. His barrel chest rises and falls evenly.
But I check his feet. The infection has been in him for a couple days. "Feel the bottom of his feet once in a while," they told me. Apparently, when the body begins losing its battle, it willingly sacrifices the extremities to keep the main organs and brain oxygenated. His feet will be the first parts to go cold.
For this moment they are still hot, and I am both thankful and disappointed. It is all so unfair.
Back in bed, last night, my cold makes my own body hot and clammy from head to toe. It takes a long time before I can let him go, and return to sleep.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Letting go
Today and tomorrow. That's it. That's all that's left of summer. The panicky feeling I get come August has given way to a sad resignation. But still...
The air is so warm. The trees are so green. The sky is so, so blue. The bees and other bugs are going wild in these waning days. As I type, I am observing a mad pack of stinkbugs that has somehow infiltrated one of the screens in my kitchen. (Luckily - for me - the window is closed. For them, eh, not so much.) They have spent the last few hours crawling briskly up and down the screen, or left and right. They have such purpose, even as they collide with each other and tumble down into the window sill. I can only imagine their desperation. "We only have a couple days left, and it's supposed to get into the 40's tonight, guys! Hurry up!" "Yeah, but where are we going?" "I don't know!"
But the soft, drowsy air counters their urgency. The wind chime still clangs in soothing tones as it swings above the vegetable garden. The garden still bursts with produce in the bright sunlight. I stare with tired eyes at the latest batch of tomatoes on my counter. JBL insists the roasted tomato sauce I've been producing by the gallon is the only one worth repeating, but really? Do we need still more batches in the freezer? There are no fewer than 7 containers down there already. Well, at least I have an excuse for more grilled pizza this week...
The breeze gently pushes at the umbrella on the deck. It lifts the grand boughs of the poplars, oaks and sassafras at the bottom of the hill. Wait - what's that? Yellow leaves on the poplars, mixed in with the green. Look away! I want this glorious, lush, warm September to last for months. The breeze calls me out to play. But the cawing of crows and relentless screeching of crickets tells me that summer is done. Soon I will revel in the cooking of pumpkins and apples, the decorating of home for the new season, the first cozy fire in the fireplace.
For now, though, I will gaze longingly at summer departing. It is always painful to let it go.
The air is so warm. The trees are so green. The sky is so, so blue. The bees and other bugs are going wild in these waning days. As I type, I am observing a mad pack of stinkbugs that has somehow infiltrated one of the screens in my kitchen. (Luckily - for me - the window is closed. For them, eh, not so much.) They have spent the last few hours crawling briskly up and down the screen, or left and right. They have such purpose, even as they collide with each other and tumble down into the window sill. I can only imagine their desperation. "We only have a couple days left, and it's supposed to get into the 40's tonight, guys! Hurry up!" "Yeah, but where are we going?" "I don't know!"
But the soft, drowsy air counters their urgency. The wind chime still clangs in soothing tones as it swings above the vegetable garden. The garden still bursts with produce in the bright sunlight. I stare with tired eyes at the latest batch of tomatoes on my counter. JBL insists the roasted tomato sauce I've been producing by the gallon is the only one worth repeating, but really? Do we need still more batches in the freezer? There are no fewer than 7 containers down there already. Well, at least I have an excuse for more grilled pizza this week...
The breeze gently pushes at the umbrella on the deck. It lifts the grand boughs of the poplars, oaks and sassafras at the bottom of the hill. Wait - what's that? Yellow leaves on the poplars, mixed in with the green. Look away! I want this glorious, lush, warm September to last for months. The breeze calls me out to play. But the cawing of crows and relentless screeching of crickets tells me that summer is done. Soon I will revel in the cooking of pumpkins and apples, the decorating of home for the new season, the first cozy fire in the fireplace.
For now, though, I will gaze longingly at summer departing. It is always painful to let it go.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Simple
J took an empty oatmeal canister, covered it with paper, decorated it, and declared it her Compliment Can.
"Your what?"
"My Compliment Can. Every time I get a compliment, I'll put a cork* in it. When I have 10 corks, I'll make you a drawing surprise!"
My. Well....that's....inventive? Manipulative? Cute? It took about 2 hours to get her 10 corks, and I was careful to note when the compliments came naturally. And that was just about every time. I was gratified to realize I do tend to lavish her with honest compliments ("You did a good job putting the cards away. Great listening!"), and thought their might be hope for me as a mom after all. Don't get me wrong - I'm aware no awards are coming my way, but at least there's some positive in there to offset my snapiness.
I'm kidding of course - it's not about me. Truly, it was wonderful to see her preen under our attention. And it's always wonderful to inspire an authentic J work-of-art. The whole thing created a happy, loving mood to the day. Simple moments of pleasure thanks to the heart and soul of a 6 year-old.
*You can only imagine all the corks we have laying around with our wine habit.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Glimpses
In my dream, I first hear her on the phone. Or maybe it is from a distance. We had been talking about nothing, then she says, "Well it looks like today is the day. That day every year when I realize it's time to quit."
Immediately my mind sharpens and I realize she's been smoking again. Part of my mind taps on my shoulder and whispers (so I guess she's still alive here?). I shrug it off for the moment, focusing instead on the topic at hand. I don't feel the usual panic, but do register a dull feeling of dismay. Doesn't she realize about the oxygen? Doesn't she know she's going to die, probably with emphysema? But I encourage her.
"It's a good time to stop," I say with a careful voice. Her emotions were always like a great flock of blackbirds. The wrong tone could send them bursting out of the trees, off into the air with no one really leading their undulating, swooping swarm until inexplicably they would land again. Maybe along a wire.
"But we still have to go through...." here's where the dream gets fuzzy. I know she referred to him - something he hadn't done yet. Maybe it was a medical procedure. Maybe it was his death. Tap tap tap (he's still alive then, too?). I flash to an image of him propped up in a hospital bed. But is he really there? Yes, he's unconscious and very pale. The room is bright white and cold.
But I am so tired.
Suddenly we are talking in person. She is bustling around the room, getting ready. No tubes leading to the oxygen machine, I note. Not yet. I am in K's bed, but it's really J's room. Of course it is. And I am so sleepy, but don't want her to know. I want her to know I am also listening, paying attention. She tells me she has to go as I finally let me eyes close. Maybe she won't mind after all. I feel my body heavy in the bed, my bent knees slowly lowering to the side as I slip deeper. And as I go, I feel her approach me. I feel her hand on my heart, warm and steady, saying goodbye. She leaves just as I let sleep carry me away.
Immediately my mind sharpens and I realize she's been smoking again. Part of my mind taps on my shoulder and whispers (so I guess she's still alive here?). I shrug it off for the moment, focusing instead on the topic at hand. I don't feel the usual panic, but do register a dull feeling of dismay. Doesn't she realize about the oxygen? Doesn't she know she's going to die, probably with emphysema? But I encourage her.
"It's a good time to stop," I say with a careful voice. Her emotions were always like a great flock of blackbirds. The wrong tone could send them bursting out of the trees, off into the air with no one really leading their undulating, swooping swarm until inexplicably they would land again. Maybe along a wire.
"But we still have to go through...." here's where the dream gets fuzzy. I know she referred to him - something he hadn't done yet. Maybe it was a medical procedure. Maybe it was his death. Tap tap tap (he's still alive then, too?). I flash to an image of him propped up in a hospital bed. But is he really there? Yes, he's unconscious and very pale. The room is bright white and cold.
But I am so tired.
Suddenly we are talking in person. She is bustling around the room, getting ready. No tubes leading to the oxygen machine, I note. Not yet. I am in K's bed, but it's really J's room. Of course it is. And I am so sleepy, but don't want her to know. I want her to know I am also listening, paying attention. She tells me she has to go as I finally let me eyes close. Maybe she won't mind after all. I feel my body heavy in the bed, my bent knees slowly lowering to the side as I slip deeper. And as I go, I feel her approach me. I feel her hand on my heart, warm and steady, saying goodbye. She leaves just as I let sleep carry me away.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Welcome back
So, about my last post. I'm still a jerk, but I've spent the last 72 hours moving forward, working on my approach with my tired and grumpy daughter (girlfriend's having a time getting into the first grade groove, it seems). It's exhausted me, much to JBL's chagrin, but he continues to be a saint, as well as a great husband and dad. Hopefully J has benefited, but only time will tell. My struggle continues.
One of the ways I deal with my personal brand of crazy, as I have written many times before, is by running. Whether I am trying to crack the nut of my insecurities, or trying to take the edge off so I am less likely to lash out at those closest to me, running has been a saving grace off and on since I was 18. Unfortunately, I have struggled for the last six months or so to find the usual joy in it. I came in from a long run at the end of March and exclaimed to JBL that my 10-milers were no longer a Big Deal, and that I was considering making five miles my short run for the week. Then BAM! I got the stomach flu, was mentally derailed, and it's been all uphill from there. A place I used to go for happiness and relief in my mind was no longer...well... happy. I dreaded most runs, and was desperately glad when they were over. It sucked.
I may not be out of the woods (and I will never admit out loud if and when I am), but today was GREAT. How can one argue with 65 degrees and perfectly sunny and dry? I picked a challenging 10+ mile route in my local area, and steeped myself in my surroundings as I set off.
I love noting the crazy mix of homes I see on a run. There are 1940's farm houses - some abandoned and decomposing near the road just beyond their rusty iron gates. There are cold war-era brick ranchers, hunkered down with nondescript window coverings and bare-essential landscaping. There are laughable mac-mansions trying in vain to make new money look old, and there are many, many nearly invisible split levels nestled between farmlands and groves of trees.
As I round out mile 5, I am surprised that I still feel like my legs are on auto-pilot...that they are chewing up the road as I float through the sunlight.
It is almost fall, as the weather will attest, and the foliage around me looks nearly spent. Even in the bright, scrubbed-clean air of the morning, I locate few flowers. Black-eyed susans and hydrangeas cough out their last blooms. Roadside cornflowers have lavender blooms as vibrant as Easter, but their stems are withered and brown - sacrificing everything for one last round of sex. Only the crepe myrtles still boast summer color confidently, but everywhere else I note hints of gold and red. Acorns litter the shadows at the edge of the asphalt. Of course I think of J when I see them. She loves a good acorn hunt.
As I reach mile 9, I am the one now nearly spent. I go to that place deep inside where I find much-needed reserves. Push forward from the hips. Pump my arms on the hills. Slow the breathing to match the turn-overs of my feet. I force myself to look again at my surroundings rather than note with dismay the continued incline before me. As I make the last turn onto my street I feel my skin caked with salt and recognize that my legs are slowing down even with all the tricks my mind has served up. Luckily it's all downhill.
I spot J arranging chairs for an unknown activity in the mouth of the garage. I focus intently on the pink of her jacket, not letting myself stop as I wish so desperately to do. She turns at the sound of my clopping Bowerman Series Nikes and waves merrily. I am home. I am happy. And I look forward to doing it again next week. Thank you God....
One of the ways I deal with my personal brand of crazy, as I have written many times before, is by running. Whether I am trying to crack the nut of my insecurities, or trying to take the edge off so I am less likely to lash out at those closest to me, running has been a saving grace off and on since I was 18. Unfortunately, I have struggled for the last six months or so to find the usual joy in it. I came in from a long run at the end of March and exclaimed to JBL that my 10-milers were no longer a Big Deal, and that I was considering making five miles my short run for the week. Then BAM! I got the stomach flu, was mentally derailed, and it's been all uphill from there. A place I used to go for happiness and relief in my mind was no longer...well... happy. I dreaded most runs, and was desperately glad when they were over. It sucked.
I may not be out of the woods (and I will never admit out loud if and when I am), but today was GREAT. How can one argue with 65 degrees and perfectly sunny and dry? I picked a challenging 10+ mile route in my local area, and steeped myself in my surroundings as I set off.
I love noting the crazy mix of homes I see on a run. There are 1940's farm houses - some abandoned and decomposing near the road just beyond their rusty iron gates. There are cold war-era brick ranchers, hunkered down with nondescript window coverings and bare-essential landscaping. There are laughable mac-mansions trying in vain to make new money look old, and there are many, many nearly invisible split levels nestled between farmlands and groves of trees.
As I round out mile 5, I am surprised that I still feel like my legs are on auto-pilot...that they are chewing up the road as I float through the sunlight.
It is almost fall, as the weather will attest, and the foliage around me looks nearly spent. Even in the bright, scrubbed-clean air of the morning, I locate few flowers. Black-eyed susans and hydrangeas cough out their last blooms. Roadside cornflowers have lavender blooms as vibrant as Easter, but their stems are withered and brown - sacrificing everything for one last round of sex. Only the crepe myrtles still boast summer color confidently, but everywhere else I note hints of gold and red. Acorns litter the shadows at the edge of the asphalt. Of course I think of J when I see them. She loves a good acorn hunt.
As I reach mile 9, I am the one now nearly spent. I go to that place deep inside where I find much-needed reserves. Push forward from the hips. Pump my arms on the hills. Slow the breathing to match the turn-overs of my feet. I force myself to look again at my surroundings rather than note with dismay the continued incline before me. As I make the last turn onto my street I feel my skin caked with salt and recognize that my legs are slowing down even with all the tricks my mind has served up. Luckily it's all downhill.
I spot J arranging chairs for an unknown activity in the mouth of the garage. I focus intently on the pink of her jacket, not letting myself stop as I wish so desperately to do. She turns at the sound of my clopping Bowerman Series Nikes and waves merrily. I am home. I am happy. And I look forward to doing it again next week. Thank you God....
Friday, September 3, 2010
I hate me - and no, I'm not kidding
My friend Sarah doesn't believe in blogs. She says people aren't honest in their writing. They don't share their whole selves, but rather a sugar-coated version. I think in a lot of cases this is true, and I don't care for that sort of writing either. But then again, I've always been attracted to dark and troubled people.
I don't want to fall into that category, myself, and for the most part I think I have been honest. I have the luxury of full disclosure mainly because I can count on one hand the number of people who read these words, and that's on a good day. But I also over-share because, well, I do that in my regular life too. I have boundary issues. But don't all bloggers?
Anyway, I have to share what an abysmal mother I am. J and I missed the bus this morning. She tried to cheer me up when I grumbled about it, and I bit her head off. The more she tried to smooth things over, the more I insisted that the situation was a complete and utter disaster. Those were my exact words. I also told her it was completely her fault. You read that right.
Can you believe I am such an asshole? I can't. I say these things because I get upset and I want people to know I am upset and I want them to be upset along with me. But she's 6.
Of course I apologized. I hugged her and told her I loved her and that our lateness was not that big of a deal, and it was my fault too. But just like other times, I know she'll carry my tirade in her heart forever and I can never take it back. And like other times, I don't waste time berating myself (for long) afterward, but pick at the memory of the eruption to find how to keep it from happening again. These fits of temper come out of nowhere, seemingly. At 40, I still need to find tools to diffuse them before I let that feeling of justification rule my decisions. If I can't do that for J, who the hell can I do it for? God, I hate this...
I don't want to fall into that category, myself, and for the most part I think I have been honest. I have the luxury of full disclosure mainly because I can count on one hand the number of people who read these words, and that's on a good day. But I also over-share because, well, I do that in my regular life too. I have boundary issues. But don't all bloggers?
Anyway, I have to share what an abysmal mother I am. J and I missed the bus this morning. She tried to cheer me up when I grumbled about it, and I bit her head off. The more she tried to smooth things over, the more I insisted that the situation was a complete and utter disaster. Those were my exact words. I also told her it was completely her fault. You read that right.
Can you believe I am such an asshole? I can't. I say these things because I get upset and I want people to know I am upset and I want them to be upset along with me. But she's 6.
Of course I apologized. I hugged her and told her I loved her and that our lateness was not that big of a deal, and it was my fault too. But just like other times, I know she'll carry my tirade in her heart forever and I can never take it back. And like other times, I don't waste time berating myself (for long) afterward, but pick at the memory of the eruption to find how to keep it from happening again. These fits of temper come out of nowhere, seemingly. At 40, I still need to find tools to diffuse them before I let that feeling of justification rule my decisions. If I can't do that for J, who the hell can I do it for? God, I hate this...
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