Sunday, April 10, 2016

Resolute

Some time in January I began a post about the new year weight loss frenzy. It's always like chalk on a black board to me. It settles down after a few weeks and then gears up pre-summer.
It made sense to me to be tired of sugar and big dinners and party food. I was tired of it and there wasn't that much of it my life. We had nice holiday dinners but nothing too over the top. In fact I served a fennel, orange and pomegranate salad that I read was a good after holiday thing to eat because it's so light and refreshing.
It is.
It was.
Then the goosestep of my life drove me through another holiday (Easter) and I could have written the same post again. Easter candy every where. And ham. Oh lord the ham. And then all the posting about how unhealthy it all is and all the recipes framed as healthy instead of, oh I dunno, good. Just good.
I've written that post so many times.
Other ideas for posts run through my head. I power up Blogger and then ... it's always something.
Today I have some time. I have some focus. But I'm filled with sadness and no small amount of rage about big lifetime metaphor stuff. The actual detail of life is about the mommy and laundry and what to make for dinner and swimming and reading and the shifts of seasons. Nothing terrible. Nothing wonderful. Just life. But my inner world is a storm.
I knew a woman who always said: it is what it is. I always blanched at that because I hoped for evolution and change. I worked for those things internally and externally. But she had a point. There are things that you just need to live through. And feel. There are things that aren't going to get much better. There are things that are going to get worse.
My intention has always been to be with what was happening and who I am and what I feel and make every effort to understand it all. Accept it. Just be with it.
Writing has always been both a way to process my internal world and communicate. Right now I feel like I'm yammering.
I mean. Really. This is another kind of post I've written too many times. A post about why I'm not posting.
Very often. Late at night. I've just read something. I'm filled with thinking. I want to write. Some times I even scribble notes trying to remember what I'm thinking. They're usually illegible. I have books filled with book marks trying to remember what was triggering all that response. But sleep pulls me under. Some times I wake up during the night picking up where I've left off. And then it's morning and time to get fed and clean and packed up for the day and out the door and do all the things. Back home. Pick up the book. Rinse. Repeat.
Jeez.
It is what it is.  

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

The Year

I'm really tired. My bones feel tired.
To overstate the obvious it has been the year of the mommy. After a rough start we seem to have found a groove of sorts. I have friends who go the sports club where I swim so I get a ride four, sometimes five days a week. Mom lives right next door so they drop me off for my afternoon visit and sometimes one of them picks me up. They help me get Mom to Oak Street on Fridays and home on Sundays. Mom loves her care givers, particularly the home health care woman who helps her get started in the morning. She has music therapy on Wednesdays so I stay home that day. I usually get three or four calls and I make a few of my own. It's not totally off but it gives me a wee bit of distance.
But I don't really have that many friends in the Hood. There are times when they all leave town, or someone is sick, or just busy. I feel like I'm crawling along and suddenly the floor falls out from under me.
As long as the mommy is in assisted living she's OK. But OK and good are two different things. I want her to be good more often than not.
Am I taking care of myself? I dunno. I try. Swimming is essential for my well being. Books are essential. Good food and a balance between cooking and not having to cook. It doesn't seem like much.
At this moment I'm really down. Of course I am. Christmas was tough. And my systems of support have been wobbly. In a week or so the rhythm will come back and I'll be OK.
I mean, it is what it is. Ya know?
Hardest fucking year of my life. I'd like to qualify that with some acknowledgement of love and beauty but I'm too tired right now.
As a friend of mine says. "Onward."

Thursday, December 03, 2015

Occupying the Nest

When I was in SF I had a night light in the living room. It was a three sided brass (copper?) thing with a picture of Buddha. It was more decorative than functional. When I moved into the nest I put it in the kitchen where it was still more decorative functional. There is a streetlight right out side the window and the nest was never really dark. But I had a ritual of lighting the night light in the evening and turning it off in the morning. I had to get new blinds, which block a lot of light and it is actually dark now. I'd given up on the little night light ritual after I moved the Cuisinart and the Kitchen Aid in front of it. Recently I moved it into the bathroom where it is now a very lovely night light. It's bright enough to cast some light into the hall, which is useful now that the blinds keep out the street light. Every night I smile when I see that night light. It has finally found the spot in which it can fulfill its night light destiny.
The nest isn't huge but it does have an entire room that I did not have in SF. I call it the library, which is a bit ostentatious for the size of it. It is filled with book shelves, (which will some day hopefully be filled with books). Karen helped me move things around to make it appear that I have way more than I do.One of my old shelves is on the side with a few books and a lot of junk. Despite my best efforts it is the stash shelf. For now.
It is my favorite room. I wasn't going to put a TV in it but Mom had a small TV in her kitchen and I ended up putting it on top the fireplace. The fireplace is another formally Mom's item. Electric but pretty. Now loaded with a mash up of things from my Grandmother's mantle, some books (of course), random collected stones, shells, candles and so forth. I sleep in there when the Mommy is here on the weekend.
DeAnna switched the chaise lounge from the library and a recliner that was suppose to be the place where I sat to look out the window. It ended up not quite fitting. The chaise is larger in someways but fits at an angle. I sat in it the other day with a cup of tea watching the world go by.
I sleep in my bedroom when the mommy isn't here. This may sound like a given but because of joint pain I couldn't get comfortable in bed. And then Mom needed a new bed and we got an adjustable Tempurpedic, which is wonderfully comfortable.
I haven't broken my habit of dragging my meals to the computer but I am still trying. When the mommy is here we eat in the kitchen/dining room. She looks out the window and narrates the activities on Oak Street.
When I was in NYC I lived in a studio big enough for a single bed, a small dresser and a small refrigerator. My first place in SF was a bigger studio. And then a one bedroom but I had no furniture for the bedroom. I remember noticing that I sat in the same spot on my futon long after I had more furniture. I'd become overly acclimated to small space. Now I wander from chair to chair. From room to room. I sit by my sink and stare out my window. If I feel I haven't spent enough time in a room I move. It's all so amusing to me.
The first time I left for a few months and then returned it didn't quite feel like home. It didn't smell like home. Now it's mine. I feel it wrapped around me. I fill it up.
I have always needed/wanted a good place to live. I used to want a fireplace and I've had a few. Real ones. With wood and ash to clean. Even the tiny place in NYC felt like ... life in NYC. But I think if I had found something bigger and nicer I might still be there. I lived in my last place in SF longer than I'd lived anywhere, ever. It was physically painful to leave.
But.
And.
Now I am in my nest. Where I can occupy my destiny.
Heh.    

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Ephemera. More. And More.

When I wrote the first ephemera post I was feeling comfortable, even happy, with the addition of family photos to my walls. And family memorabilia. And then we started clearing out the storage.
Oh.
My.
There were boxes and boxes of photos. Lots of landscapes from trips. I was happy to toss those. With the possible exception of David Hockney I'm not that into landscapes. There were pictures of groups of people that I didn't know. Interestingly the mommy and her mommy both spent lots of time in groups of women. Eastern Star. D.A.R. Various bridge clubs and church groups. I like that but ... I tossed them. K took pictures that were so far back you can barely see who it is. So ... Mom in front of a statue, or a tree, or a house. Mom. Very tiny in the middle of this ... landscape.
I am not emotionally suited to this project. I clench up every time I toss something. It feels like tossing a person's life.
Mom likes looking at some of the pictures but gets upset if she looks at too many. She never asks to see them. And there are so may old, old, old pictures of generations back. Some are very cool. But I don't know who they are. I toss them and then I clench. I have two copies of my grandmother in her wedding dress. One needs to go. I am not emotionally suited.
Somehow I've become the archivist for the family. And...they don't really care about all of this.
It's not just photos. I have a statue of Lincoln. It was Grandma's. I saw it during my childhood. I never really wanted it but there is NO Way I'm tossing it. And there is all the silverware. My aunt's silverware. My grandmother's. My mother's. I like a lot of it and I have pulled it out from time to time. Plus I use some of it regularly. But...I have way more than I'll ever use. I. Just. Can't. Let. It. Go.
There is more in the storage and a few boxes are now in my home storage because I was confused about what to do with them. I did all this with my own ephemera before I left SF and still had work to do with all of that. I am NOT emotionally suited. I feel damaged after each session of sorting and tossing. People say it feels good to clear things out but it doesn't feel good to me. Not while I'm doing it anyway. And not when it's someone else's stuff.
Mom had a friend who she'd known since they were both babies. The friend gave Mom a ceramic plague with a cartoon of two older ladies, which reads: Lucie and Betty. Best friends forever. Betty passed last year and Mom fell into a deep depression. If I hang the plaque on her wall it could trigger more depression. But I feel like weeping every time I try to put it in the trash. I realize that to some extent this is me dealing with the loss of Mom before she's gone. My life is filled with moments of needing to let go of her. It's a protracted last act of our time on the stage.  
I had a small stick that a friend's son had given me when we in a park sitting on my desk for years. I tossed it with watery eyes when I was clearing out in SF.
Not.
Emotionally.
Suited.
It has in some ways cured me of want to buy anything, ever, again. Although there will always be a book I need. I'm still caught by kitchen stuff. Dishes. Salt and Peeper shakers.
Oh lordy.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Religion

I've been reading Fields of Blood. With that as a background the mommy and I watched a lot of the pope this weekend.
I like him.
The coverage (like all coverage these days) was filled with hours of watching people waiting for the pope while people talked about how great he is. We clicked away for most of that. We watched most of the three masses and the visit to the school in Harlem. All of this broken up by hours of Mom's favorite show: Blue Bloods. She likes Tom Selleck. She has a hard time following plot lines these days so she likes to watch things that she knows, most of which seem to be cop shows. NCIS is her other favorite. It made for an interesting juxtaposition. Cops. Crimes. Lots of shooting. Blood.
Pope Francis talks a lot about peace. I listened to that as I read a section of the book in which Pope Alexander VI (AKA the Borges pope) orders a bunch of killing.
Armstrong (as usual) is detailed in her description of how violence, politics and religion wound together. Her scholarship is profound and overwhelming.
Every so often I try to wrap my head around the Ottoman Empire. Seriously. I always end up feeling dim witted. There were points in the book when I had to skim because I couldn't take it all in. I couldn't take in the information and the relentlessness of war. It's just always there. It always has been. It's sort of easier to understand how people with limited resources felt the need to protect themselves. Maybe even easy to to understand the desire to use your beliefs to buoy justification of that violence. But it never ends.
I could write an entire post about Blue Bloods. At this point I have watched episodes over and over. Even if I read while it's on it's the background noise for so much of my day now. It seems like they try to take on issues in policing and represent them from different angles but there is a lot of shooting and shouting and twisting of the rules. It tends to wrap up neatly with this one NYC, Irish, Catholic family taking care of everything.
I was a Protestant kid on block full of Catholic kids. I walked toward the public school when they walked toward the Catholic school. The only hostility I remember was when a kid told me I was going to hell because I wasn't Catholic. I went home in tears and my Grandmother dragged me to the kids house to demand an apology. Not terrible hostility. Just the background awareness of difference. Just a mini war. I also remember wanting to be a nun. My babysitter became one and I wanted to be like her.
I was a devoted child. I was a fatherless child. I wanted God. The father. In my adult life I continued to look for God. I wanted an active relationship. I wanted to see cause and effect. I wanted miracles. Now I say I believe in God but I don't know what I mean by that.
If you walk into the nest you'll see a lot of Catholic iconography. I like the art. There are also Buddhas and Ganesha and Shiva and lots of fat women. Ha!
When the pope stops every thing to go and kiss the forehead of a child I tear up. I feel that longing for belief. But there are the problems of belief.
The Saint of Small Type from MarkFiore on Vimeo.
Fields of Blood.

Monday, September 07, 2015

What's The Question?

Mom has been living in retirement communities for many years. Retirement communities are filled with older people. Older people die. It's just part of the experience. Death is always occurring. Surgeries, health issues, medications pepper conversations and every now and then ... someone dies.
You can be philosophical about this. You may not even know the person. Your concern naturally goes to their family. It's such a regular occurrence that you become a bit hyper vigilant but you know you can't be in that environment and fall apart every time someone dies. It's even more true in assisted living.
There was a woman who lived at the end of the hall. If I stood in front of Mom's door I looked into that woman's apartment and some times saw her and some times waved. She would walk around and around the hallway just before dinner and some times looked into our apartment and some times waved. She was almost always the first one in the dining room. I tried to smile and make conversation. She'd smile but she never spoke.
Last week I didn't see her for a few days and then one day her door was open when I arrived at Mom's. It was clearly being emptied. The handy men were there and noticed my startled look. "She's on the other side of the building now." The other side being memory care. I felt relieved but then I wondered why I did. She's not dead. But she's in some kind of decline. Piles of her belongings are in one of the side halls waiting for ... what? Family? It would be bad faith to ask. They can't just be telling other people's business. I did not really know her. Why should I care?
She just seemed so fragile. So dear. So focused on her walking and her dinner. Will she still be? Or will she sit in her room? Is she sad? Mad? Does she understand what happened and why? Does she even have family? Was it her choice?
Mom went into memory care after her sudden, shocking and rapid decline. I chose memory care because she needed a lot of help. But the day we arrived she rallied. She looked around and saw the other people, saw that they were very confused, feared that that was her future and she shook for three days. It was the worst. I left sobbing every day. She didn't remember (and still doesn't) the months of delirium. There are no locks of the doors on that side. Occasionally another resident would wander in. She never wanted to leave her room.
Mom's mind did clear enough to ask for her to be moved to assisted living. But I also put in lots of support structures, most of which are me being there or her being in the nest. Her apartment is small but nice and she has a view of a garden. She's OK. There's nothing wrong with memory care but it isn't as ... private? Or something. I don't really want her to go back but a time may come and I may have no choice.
Jung said, "The meaning of my existence, is that life has addressed a question to me. Or, conversely, I myself am a question and I must communicate my answer otherwise I am dependent on the world's answer."
I'm always looking for meaning. Meaning comforts me. I understand that meaning is a shape shifter but I still love that feeling when something rings true.
On her death bed, Gertrude Stein asked Alice B. Toklas, "what is the answer?"  When Alice did not respond she said, "in that case, what is the question?" They were her last words. Her last words. Does the lady from the end of the hall have a question? Or an answer? Does Mom?
A family member is having some problems and I feel like she's asking the wrong questions but who the hell am I?
When famous people die we talk about the meaning they brought to the world. Or the mess they created. We care. We don't care. We make jokes. We make memorials.
I'm not concerned with how long Mom lives. I just want her to be safe and comfortable and as happy as she can be. My requirements for my own end of life are much too grand. I (like Jung) am arrogant enough to think the world cares about my questions and answers. I'm "chicken scratching for my immortality." - Joni.
And.
What exactly is the question?

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

The Banging Narrative

Way back - well probably not way way but it feels way - I wrote about the day Mom moved into the bad faith assisted living place and I thought I had her settled. Sigh. It was a short post that referenced an essay I'd read in which Ann Patchett takes care of her grandmother. I remember the feeling of finally having time to myself and the reading being too close to what I was feeling.  I pulled a longer quote in which Patchett wrote: Could I do this every day for another five months? Absolutely. Another five years? I wasn't entirely sure. 
Never more true. And. Never more meaningless. Ready or not. The day begins. 
I keep banging into this narrative. I watched Still Alice, which was a self inflicted bang. Although it's about early onset Alzheimer's and Mom doesn't have Alzheimer's. Or they don't know but probably not. She has a fairly normal level of Dementia for her age. These are distinctions without difference. Her mind is shredding. Watching the movie was, again, too close. 
And then I read a piece in The Sun about another ageing mother recently. All this and countless stories from friends and family and people I barely know. Bang. Bang. Bang.   
I feel like we so often hear about the ninety year old person who just climbed a mountain, or who is still working, or leaping tall buildings in a single bound. In the last twenty years of Mom's life I've seen so many different story lines. Some inspirational but most exhaustingly difficult. It's not the level of ability or acuity that hits me. It's the chaos in terms of care. 
Jimmy Carter has Cancer. I love him and I want him to get the best care and he will. And I sort of resent it. Because the whole time Mom was so sick I felt time and time again that I was being told she was old and there wasn't much to do. I had to fight for information. And there were things that could be done. I remain hyper vigilant. Every rash, every mood shift, every bodily function. Is there something I need to do? Who can I ask? Who will care?
Mom is 89 and on no meds. She's really very healthy. She's had multiple joint replacements. She uses a walker but she gets exercise most days. She sleeps most of the day and is always tired. She may have something going on that will be the cause of her death but her new GP spends most of the time during appointments shuffling papers and failing on his lap top. I have to keep him focused. 
I'm not concerned with the length of her life. I'm concerned with the quality. She's safe. She eats well. She has focused care and she spends the weekends with me. She has music therapy and will be having physical therapy soon for shoulder pain. She had her teeth cleaned today. 
So.  
Sometimes she's just afraid. She doesn't know why. And I can't help. She seems obsessed with what people think of her. Do they like her? Was she always this way and just never let it show? Or is she just lucid enough to see that she's confused. She dreads making choices. She says, I love you over and over and over and I hear - please don't leave me. 
Can I do this for another five months? Another five years? 
People keep telling me what a good daughter I am. Maybe. But I am also filled with self pity and doubt. I never feel like I do enough and I regularly am not doing enough. There is a list of things that need to be done. I am not getting them done. 
This narrative is everywhere. I'm not even sure why. I guess we are living longer. I guess health care is a new industry. I guess there is only so much that can be done. I guess people my age are in this narrative and we are sharing. 
The end of the narrative is ... she's gone. I didn't read ahead. It's just a given. 
Bang.