Woman of A Certain Age

In Cases Like This

2010-10-27T10:01:00.000-07:00

"It's cases like this that remind firearm owners about the importance of gun safety and making sure their children understand they should never touch firearms without their parents' permission."

The case referenced (Seattle Times, Oct. 26) is that of a four-year-old boy (not in Seattle but in Kitsap County) accidentally shooting his mother with a shotgun. Yes, I said four - not fourteen, but four.

How could a four-year-old even hold a shotgun, you might wonder? Well, he wasn't holding it. And it wasn't loaded when he walked up to it. This little boy placed a round of live ammunition in the gun, whose bolt was already "pulled back and locked open" while it lay on his parents bed, ostensibly "under a blanket."

The boy "slipped a shell" into the gun and "pulled the trigger."

How did he come to have a shell? According to the police: "the boy's 25-year-old father had, at some point, given his son a shell to handle because he was curious about firearms and ammunition."

Really? He was curious? Well, it's good for children to be curious, isn't it? That's how they learn. And we should encourage healthy curiosity. Most of us don't encourage it by giving children live ammo to play with, or maybe that's just me - and everyone I know. To be clear, my former husband and his family were hunters. His was a lifetime NRA hunting family. I'm a vegetarian pacifist, but I really do believe the best we all can do is to live according to our own conscience. And I lived with it because my in-laws were also conscientious and clear about gun safety. My children's father kept his guns locked in cases, not lying around, and ammunition was locked in a separate case from the guns.

The Sheriff's Office spokesman was quoted in the Seattle Times article as saying no arrests are expected but that if prosecutors decide to file charges it would be "something along the lines of negligence." He noted that the family "has been pretty shaken up by the incident."

I'm writing with a lot of italics in this piece because what struck me as I read the Seattle Times article was that it matters very much how we say things. How we say things reflects a great deal about how we live and how we treat one another, how we take or don't take responsibility for our actions. And here we have the authorities who are charged with protecting us all giving this Dad a pass in a situation where he clearly and obviously was not only negligent but put his family in harm's way. The authorities might well say they have not given him a pass, that they are taking all appropriate action. I hope that is true, but their words are not reassuring in this regard.

At the time the child shot the gun the father was not at home. I imagine that the father did not intend the child to do what he did, but he made it terribly easy for the child to do. Because it's hard to wrap one’s brain around this, I repeat: the gun was on the bed, the child had his live ammo which Daddy had forgotten that he gave him, the bolt was pulled back and locked open.

"All the kid did was drop the shell in the chamber, touch the bolt release and pull the trigger," the Sheriff's spokesman said. "He had probably seen his dad do it a hundred times."

Fortunately for everyone involved in this case there was a chair between the gun and the mother and the chair took a lot of the impact. The pellet wounds were less severe because of that and she was treated and released from the hospital.

That quote at the top of this page? It's from Dave Workman, who the Seattle Times says is the editor of Gun Week and a nationally recognized firearms authority. Experts are doing such a great job of guiding gun owners about safety issues, aren't they?

In case you're worried about the little family affected this time, to recap: the 23-year-old mother has pellet wounds in her back, the father is, according to the Sheriff's office and the newspaper's headline, "kicking himself" and I'm guessing the little four-year-old boy is scarred for life. In cases like this, though, that's to be expected.

Anonymity and Intent

2010-05-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

Why be anonymous? I don't get it. I understand the value of stealth, as a friend puts it. He enjoys visiting cities because he can move about in them, among all those people, but still retain his privacy because no one knows him. For instance, he can sit in a coffee shop, undisturbed.

Here's another iteration of anonymity. Someone left an anonymous comment on my blog. It was a useful comment, factual in content and helpful to me because it addressed an error I made. I had relied on a memory which proved faulty and am glad to have the misinformation corrected.

The thing about the written word is that we cannot always catch the tone or subtext of it. However, we often do have an idea of tone and subtext when we know the person whose words we are reading.

In this case the correction seemed to have some attitude embedded. I could almost hear the words "you idiot" attached to the end of each phrase, which may or may not be an accurate interpretation of tone.

I'm already mortified when I realize I've said something that's not accurate. And my friends know that I'm quick to own my mistakes, so it's difficult to imagine a friend commenting anonymously. Yet in this case it's most likely to be one of my Facebook friends who left the comment as it came very soon after I posted the blog to my Facebook page - odder still, as we are not anonymous on Facebook.

In any case, it's okay to be a smart ass. Some of my best friends are smart asses. But I take their criticism better when I'm looking them in the eye. And as I said, I could be misreading the intent because of the fact that the writer didn't identify himself.

Critical comments are helpful to me, as this one was, and I do appreciate them. Some things are hard to say, to be sure. But this comment should not have been hard for anyone who knows me to say publicly or privately.

I've changed the blog so it only accepts comments from people with names. I've never sent an anonymous letter to the editor, though sometimes that might have felt the safer thing to do. An anonymous comment on a personal blog? If the intent is good, what's the anonymity about? If the intent was to embarrass or shame, be honest enough to own it.

Deciding

2010-05-23T11:36:00.000-07:00

Summer of 2001 I moved to PT. I didn't know anyone in the town, just my son's future in-laws who live about 20 minutes out. The job of unpacking, moving too much stuff into a smaller house, figuring out how to make home alone in a new place, was exciting and daunting. One evening as I stood in the garage breaking down boxes, the blush of sunset in the sky got my attention. I threw down the box-cutter, closed the door and started walking the mile and a half to North Beach.

I was just in time to walk down to the water and watch the sun set over Vancouver Island. There I stood, shivering, since I hadn't yet learned how chilly it is at the beach in the evening. Soon as the sun set, I turned to start the walk home, chanting silently "sweater, sweater, sweater. Next time: sweater sweater sweater" and hugging my goose-fleshed arms.

There was an enigmatic-looking man standing at the edge of the beach and as I passed he said "Don't you think it's a little declasse to leave 15 seconds after the sun sets?" Smiling, I shook his hand and we introduced ourselves. Small town. He knew I was new. I acknowledged that I was. Then he said this: Well, you're going to have to decide what kind of artist you are, since you live in Port Townsend now. I thought for a second and said "I'm a writer. Nice to meet you." Then I refused his offer of a ride and set off walking home.

As I walked, I thought about what I'd said. I'm a writer. I thought of how Dr. Emmel had encouraged her writing students to do that. "Do you write every day? Then own it." I am a singer, a photographer, an actor, too. But the thing I can't not do is write. The fact that I haven't sent anything out to publishers feels delegitimizing, but I keep at it. I think of Mary Oliver writing for 25 years, seriously, before trying to get published. Patience. I keep at it, working at a daily practice.

Variety of experience certainly gives a person more to write about. It's fine to have other interests. But now, nine years after that evening on the beach, I'm still not sending stuff out and I feel more than a little foolish. The business of making myself the best I can be is unfinished at a time when the life I have ahead of me is scarily shorter. I am feeling the pinch of time.

But I do remember, that one day when a stranger on the beach asked me to choose, I did. What I have to do now is get up every day, choose again, and do what needs to be done.

Another Day in Paradise

2010-05-22T22:53:00.000-07:00

Walking with Shadow at the end of a busy day - just a quick spin around the dirt path behind the school and a walk through the fairgrounds was my plan. But right away we came across an off-leash dog, Stormy by name, sweet by nature. I unhooked Shadow and the two trotted towards one another, did a bit of circling and sniffing, then continued on to greet each others' women. The other gal doesn't live in the neighborhood year-round but shows up in summer to stay at her sister's for a while. Delighted to see Shadow, she seemed amazed at how fit the dog is. "She's not even limping anymore!" This past year of consistent daily walks, increasing our distance, has been good for us both. Shadow trotted off, signaling time to continue our walk, and I caught up and leashed her. Another perfect afternoon was passing too quickly.

Then we were walking through the fields at the fairgrounds, another woman walking towards us. She was carrying a couple of canvas shopping bags in one hand and what looked like an empty glass pie dish in the other. I recognized her as a local artist who I've met a few times and called out:

"Foraging for pie?"
"What?" she queried back.
"Are you foraging for pie? Because I don't think you'll find any out here - doesn't hurt to try."
"Whaaaaaaat?" she said, thoroughly puzzled.
"Oh!" said I, "that's not a pie plate after all. Sorry - I was being silly."
"Wondered what you knew," she said "because I was just having pie, but no, this dish had poppyseed cake in it."

She offered Shadow the dish to lick, saying "Now I won't have to wash it." She said she'd just been at her friend's memorial service and that it was a very good one. Given the direction she was coming from, I asked if it was for Etta. Yes, it was.

Etta is one of the first people I met here. She had a flower farm next to the fairgrounds, a beautiful place. She made bouquets and put them out at the end of her drive in canning jars on a table with an umbrella to shade them. She kept a small, slightly rusted tin there and a sign saying "Bouquets $6." You could put the money in the tin, or there was paper and a pencil if you needed to leave an IOU. Her bouquets were beautiful - sweet peas in spring, then peonies, then a grand variety of blooms and colors through the season. We walked past often to look or to buy.

I'd first met Etta when my son's wedding was drawing near and his future mother-in-law didn't have enough blue flowers in her garden for the arrangements she wanted to make. I walked down her dirt driveway, knocked on her door and asked Etta if she would have many blue flowers in August. She said that she would and, true enough, sold us two big white buckets-full on the wedding day and at a reasonable price, too. Somewhere I have a photo I took of her Gypsy Wagon out by the flower field where I found her that day when I went to pick up the flowers. She told me she kept it there for sleeping in summer.

From time to time after that I'd see her walk across San Juan Ave. to Admiralty Ave. to get a horse she had pastured there. I was sad when I heard this lively woman had died of cancer. But today I learned from her friend that she'd done well at dying. She'd taken charge of how she wanted it to go and her family and friends had been there to help and support her.

Still, this woman and I agreed, it's hard to lose one's contemporaries. We all know we will lose our parents and that's a tough thing. But we don't think about our friends dying. And when they do (as I learned a few years ago when two of my dear ones died in a month) it's a particular kind of loss. Our closest friends know all our secrets and we theirs. And though Etta and I were not close, it comforted me to hear that she'd gone as well as she could and that her friends were holding the memory of her close.

It's not a half-bad thing when even strangers you touch remember you well. Just yesterday I'd remembered a woman named Judy, stopped at the corner of Admiralty a few years back when I met her on my way to the beach. Her bicycle lay on the ground, helmet still on her head, as she picked and ate thimbleberries. Picked isn't the right word. She, in fact, introduced me to thimbleberries, which I had never heard of, and showed me how they will fall into your hand with almost no encouragement when they're ripe. She's gone now, too, but for memories.

What happened there in the field today, though, was that this other woman and I talked about how much we love living here, how we are steeped in beauty and are always reminding ourselves how lucky we are to be here. Then she pointed and asked me was that an eagle floating on an updraft above us. It was indeed and we watched it for some time.

Then, as we parted the woman asked me to remind her who I am, how we know each other.

I thought for a second, then remembered.

"I met you first, several years ago, at a Verbal Tease, those monthly readings that used to happen Uptown. You read a piece about how you had lived on a boat and the practical difficulties of that and I liked your work a lot. Also, you stopped one day when I was walking in the rain, to see if I needed a ride. That was awfully nice of you, but I was nearly home and said no thanks."

She smiled and we hugged and went on our way in opposite directions, both carrying and riding the ebb and flow of life in a small town.

Weeding Thoughts, Weeding Words

2010-04-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to be in the garden right now. Yesterday evening I mowed, so the weeds are far more noticeable. And I want to be out there working among the pink tulips, blue wood hyacinth, the blushing rhody, the budding lilacs. I'm a pretty hardy gal but I do not weed in a chilly rain - a warm misty rain, yes - but not this.

So instead, I am writing. Maybe I should be grateful for the rain since I've just finished a draft of my third poem in two days. The pages of notes I have to write from, notes scribbled while traveling or in church on Sunday morning, to remind me of some thread that seems to be calling for examination and expression, remain untouched. The hands keep typing, though, which feels great.

The animals wonder why our breakfast is delayed and they're starting to prick my leg to nudge me along, but this is what I want to be doing - writing. When the day dawned chilly and wet, Plan B should have been: pay the bills, which have been waiting since last week. But my mind keeps weaving thoughts so I keep writing.

Today I was editing yesterday's work when an ordinary moment, something from about 13 years ago slipped into my head again to haunt me. Now that seems an oxymoron to me: ordinary/haunting. But, though it's ordinary, it's an image that often comes to mind. Probably because it was sweet, unexpected, made me feel loved. And I crave that a lot - feeling loved. I crave romance; want to be wanted. Who doesn't? But why, of all the experiences in my past, does this one little moment keep coming to mind?

It wasn't a moment that signified the ultimate satisfaction of my wish to be desired and loved. It was an early moment in a two-year love affair, which ultimately left me sad and disappointed. But it was a sweet moment, a real moment. So I began with that and wondered why an ordinary moment can mean so much after years have passed. Then I thought of two more moments, not of the same ilk, but each their own. In the poem I describe each of the three moments. I reflect on each. And there it stops, at six three-line stanzas.

I read it over and wonder if the poem is whole. Is it saying anything? That final writer's question: so what? I don't know yet. It takes time between a draft and knowing if the work is meaningful.

At this particular moment, I think it's time to be grateful and remind myself that I'm weeding and cultivating one thing or another, rain or shine, inside or out...and that even poets need to pay the bills.

The Lucy Chronicles. The Lost Blog.

2010-04-19T14:51:00.000-07:00

I found this in my string of copied blog articles on my desktop and don't see it posted on either of my blogs, so for the record, this was written between Oct. 15 and Dec. 16, 2009 the day Lucy died.

Me, Lucy and the sometimes-miracle of steroids

As I wrestle Lucy out from under the bed again, it hits me. She feels good on this drug. A year and a half ago I was ordered to take prednisone for three months because, a. the medical people I turned to for help thought it was the cure for what might ail me and b. when it became obvious that wasn’t the cure, they decided to keep me on it anyway because I was in pain and they thought it might help. It didn’t. I felt like crap. I was dull witted (it later turned out that could have been from B vitamin deficiencies), I was not physically relieved and I began to have the weight gain associated with prednisone use. Now Lucy, a cat, is having all the relief that I did not experience from the drug.

She had an accident in June, most certainly took a tumble in one of her Evil Kneivel style leaps, broke off a fang and split her lower jaw. She got repaired and recovered. For three weeks early in September I noticed her nose running again (the symptom that got us to the doc in June) and I started taking her in to find out what was wrong and get her some help. We saw two vets, in the same office, six times in less than two weeks. The first guy thought our regular vet had maybe missed a piece of tooth in surgery in June and it was infecting her jaw and sinus. The original vet didn’t think so but gave us antibiotics and said everything seemed okay. I persisted in returning because I have known and lived with this cat virtually every day of her now 16 years and I knew something was wrong. We had to find the reason for this recurring infection and treat her.

But no one was getting the urgency of the problem. I tried desperately to describe her struggle to swallow with all the mucous draining down her throat and the bare fact that breathing was becoming a constant struggle for her. Finally I took one of her quarter tablet antibiotics with me and asked the tech to please give her the pill so they could see for themselves how she reacted while trying to swallow. Then maybe they’d get why she was losing weight. I heard Lucy choking in the exam room. The tech stepped out a minute later and asked if they could do xrays. “Yes, please,” I said. Then the vet called me in, deeply sobered and said: “There’s a golf ball sized growth behind her heart, and two smaller ones in front, possibly on the lungs. I have to have a radiologist read it.” He gave her a steroid shot and by that night she was her old happy self, eating a bit and wanting love and attention. That was a Monday. The report confirmed there was no hope, although specifics could only be learned through surgery and neither of us thought that was a good idea with a 16-year-old cat, especially given that the cancer was so close to her heart. He said to bring her the next day for a super steroid shot that would carry her 1-4 weeks and we would just work to keep her from suffering.

Lucy and I struggled through that night, me sure that each breath might be her last and at some point hoping it would be so she would not suffer anymore. Obviously, Monday’s steroid shot had worn off. At one point she jumped down from the bed and continued gasping for breath under it. I fell apart, sobbing. Lucy jumped back onto the bed and came next to me again. So many times in my life I have seen cats do that, come to my side when I am crying or sick. I toughened up for her sake and just kept repeating “I’m sorry dear, we’ll get some help as soon as the vet is open.” And I called at 7:30 and asked what was the earliest time one of the offices would open so I could go in, warning them that we were not coming for the steroid shot because I did not want to see her struggling for breath again through another night when that shot wore off. By the time we got to the office I was not sure I should go through with it. Tony let me in and said he’d changed his mind about the shot and would instead give me a good supply of amoxicillin with prednisone in it and I could give that to her twice a day to keep her comfortable. This seemed a good idea. It took until night for her breathing to normalize again after another prednisone shot and I was ready with the pink liquid to keep her levels up so she would not be in distress.

Lucy’s amoxicillin/prednisone cocktail stopped working entirely after about a week. I was, in fact, taking her in to have her put to sleep when the vet remembered the stronger steroid shot (depo something) and that gave her a miracle week of being herself again. However, a week later another depo shot seemed to have no effect at all. That was Thursday a week ago. Last Monday I called and he suggested still another of the depo shots and this time, by Tuesday night, she was feeling better and we’ve had a whole week of comfort and cuddling.

This morning the nose is running again, the sure sign of another downward slide. I think we’ll just keep getting the depo shots until the cancer takes her or the shots no longer give her relief. I’m so grateful to be able to keep her comfortable and she seems to have adjusted to the little intrusions of weekly vet visits and me wiping her nose. She didn’t even run off this morning after I did that. I’m grateful, too, quite selfishly, for this extra time with her feeling well. I was not in a great frame of mind to accept another loss through death. Sharing these days with her, knowing where we’re headed, is helping me work towards acceptance.

Lucy and I have had lots of hours of petting and reading to her on the bed. I can’t know if I’ve got her for an hour more, a day, a week, a month, or six months. I believe she will die sooner rather than later and I remind myself this is about her, not me.

Born feral, Lucy has always been alert and watchful. Yet she’s a gentle, graceful companion who often pricks my skin, ever so lightly, to ask for petting. When I first come to bed she marches around me in circles, sometimes circling the whole body, sometimes just my head, crossing my chest each go ‘round. If I turn over, and boy do I all night long, she adjusts. She generally cuddles into some curve around my hips but lately has nestled a little higher near my chest. Remember that American Indian saying “It’s a good day to die”? Well, maybe so. But it seems to me that each day is another good day to cuddle with Lucy.

Some writers have a muse. I have a mess.

2010-04-18T00:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I start a new poem it feels so chaotic that after I sketch the ideas onto paper my head hurts. It's as if I birthed it, physically pulled each line out of my brain. There is no energy left for excitement about the birth. It's more like a crazy, messy conception, the aftermath of an unforeseen passion seeking honest expression, demanding it, refusing to be denied. The wildness of this process, followed by the sudden relief of having begun it, leaves me spent. Yeah, I see that this is all a terrible sex metaphor. Sans the cigarette. Anyway, when a poem begins that way, I have to put it away for a while. When I pick it up again, most often I'm surprised at what's there. Sometimes I barely remember it. A few times I really have not recognized my own words. This has even happened with what I thought was a finished piece of prose. More than once in my life a teacher read my work aloud in class and I didn't know it was mine. But other times, with these crazy obsessively scribbled notes, it's like finding an old friend and being happy to see the familiar face. And then I'm ready to get to work on it.

I first wrote this note on the back of a page I started a new poem on a week ago. I still cannot go into the paragraphs and lines that are meant to become a poem and see what's there to shape. Just now when I turned the page over and glanced at it, the second I remembered what it was about I had to turn away.

So instead I wrote two new poems today. The first was exploring joy, love and gratitude in a complicated relationship. The second poem was the shadow side of the first. The part I'd left out. Because I have a tendency to do that: to look on the bright side and make that so important that I don't have to see the shadow for a while. But ultimately the shadow will be seen. By me at least. I usually can't look away for very long.

For now I'm calling it a day. Two poems. One with a good start; one out of too much pain to be good yet. And a third, raw still, which I can't look look at for now. And that one is the one - big surprise - that has the most potential. Of that I am certain.

Deliberate Fortunate Change

2010-02-01T13:10:00.000-08:00

Since March, 2009, I've been keeping track, with a list on my Facebook page, of miles I'm walking. The idea is to keep myself honest so I don't fall into the trap of "thinking" that I am walking most every day when, in reality, it only seems that way. I reread an entry on this blog from last March this morning and was both heartened and warned by what I saw in comparing then to now.

The best news is that back then I was thrilled to be walking up to 3/4 mile each day (with an occasional 2-3 mile walk to push myself) and I was walking the 3/4 mile in about one hour. One hour, people. The year before that it was taking me half an hour to go around the block. It's a small block. Now I can walk three miles in an hour. I know that's not record breaking race time, but I'm not racing. I'm just trying to get healthier. I am noticing that my efforts to increase my daily distance are working. I almost never skip and almost never do less than one mile. And more often I do two. So I'm pushing myself to do two or more, hoping to average two in a couple more months. I just checked my tallies and I was fairly consistent. The problem month was August. My cat Lisa was dying and I spent more time with her. A couple of days after she died, the second week in August, my neighbor died. My dear friends' dog died the next week. All of these things meant I spent a lot more time with friends and caring for Lisa. And then my Mother died. A trip to be with her. Only walking in hospital corridors. A trip to our hometown for the funeral and travel back to my own home. Only 21 miles that month. Plus, I had been walking less because the doc had diagnosed me with shin splints, which were causing a lot of pain. I had been so enthusiastic about walking thirty miles in March that I had done 41, 49, 47 and 49 the next four months. Clearly my body was not ready for this. But in September I did 26, then 39, 48 and a half. But only 31 for December because Lucy cat died on the 16th. and those last three weeks I was mostly in bed reading with her. January found me back up to 42 miles for the month despite being sick with a cold for a couple of weeks and completely missing a few days of walking.

What I'm getting from this review is that, while I am ready to increase my miles, I'd better be sure to do it gradually so I don't end up with shin splints again. Still, the fact that I am walking further in less time is most encouraging. And the fact that I've been pretty consistent, with the exceptions being for obvious good reason, makes me feel good. I'm off to a good start in February - my "month" starts the 28th. and ends the 27th. because that's when I started keeping track. I have two three-mile days in already, with one at one mile and another at 2. Today is one of those dreary, rainy, chill-that-goes-to-the-bone days, but I will probably still walk. Thanks be to Shadow for this! I don't like to let her down.

I've lost about 20 pounds these eleven months. Slow and steady. People are starting to ask me if I'm on Weight Watchers. A woman told me on Sunday that she saw me at a reading a week ago and noticed my face is getting thinner. I've always believed that change involves patience, consistency, honesty and a change of habit. Like a lot of people who live alone, I had become a lazy eater - even though I'm a vegetarian. This laziness seems to be absent now and I am cooking more, eating better. I feel less craving in general and less need for chips and desserts. I feel - satisfied. And that's got more to do with my whole day and the accumulation of good days, than simple appetites.

Another habit I've gotten into while living alone is procrastination on tasks and cleaning. The past two months I see a big difference in that area. Walking out to the living area in the morning I feel happy to be up and starting my day because the house is basically clean and there are not constant backlogs of everyday chores staring at me - no piles of dirty dishes, laundry, no fur-covered carpets. I'd even gotten to the point where I let burned out light bulbs linger in their lamps until maybe 6 or 7 of them waited to be changed. You can see where that left me - in an increasingly depressing darkness. Not now.

So maybe it's a bit of a reverse domino effect. One good thing leads to another. Maybe someday we'll have a catch phrase: Good things come in threes!

Last night, at the end of a lovely happy day, I pushed the envelope and stayed up until 1 a.m. again. I used to do this all the time and wrote about it last March as a twisted way to try and lengthen my life by lengthening my waking hours. But re-reading that post reminded me of how awful I feel when I get up without enough sleep. And the body has its own clock; one does wake up at the expected time, even, usually, when exhausted. So I am reminded that the price for late hours is too high for this body. It throws me off for days. I get less done. I get discouraged. So when I am tempted by a 10-midnight Improv class, I must remember: it's not worth what it costs me later in body damage and disruption. I'll wait until I can take an earlier class.

Meanwhile I'll keep stretching, keep walking, keep cooking. And I'll keep making the hard choices. I skipped the Requiem performance yesterday in favor of getting the laundry done and spending quality time with a friend. I've turned down two performance opportunities in favor of maintaining this healthy momentum. And here I am putting writing first on my agenda today, another promise I made myself, regarding changing habits.

I titled this blog entry Deliberate Fortunate Change but I haven't said anything about the fortunate aspect. I am conscious of the fact that despite some tragic turns in my life, even in the past few years, I am so fortunate to be financially stable and not have to search for a job (yet) or work at one I hate or have to expend most of my energy to do. I've volunteered a ton in my life partly out of appreciation for my own circumstance. But I am also fortunate to live in a beautiful, nurturing place and to have dear and loving friends. I am grateful for all of this every day. I know how lucky I am.

As for the job of being my best self, I'm finding more quality in more time at home. I think I appreciate everything more because of the choice to do less and be more.

The Cutest Couple in the World

2010-01-31T00:52:00.000-08:00

Can you be cute if you're 6'4" and you're wife is 5'9"? My brother-in-law Paul and my sister Kathy are not an elderly couple so we're not talking cute in that longevity sense. They are not silly people who wear odd colorful clothing or have unusual hobbies. They are Evangelical Christian, Republican, grandparents, loving and hard working people who have a sense of humor. And it's a good thing they do. Things happen. Things have always happened in their lives, home, orbit. And the sense of humor gets them through - no that's not fair. The sense of humor helps them be in their life and not standing outside it, whining about what might not be going well. So this little example of how they relate is not anything original out of my head. It's something my sis shared with me in an email the other day and I find it too good to keep to myself.

She wrote that Paul had taken the day off work because he had not slept at all the night before. When she woke up he confessed to her that he had tossed and turned all night long because he could hear a woodpecker that had previously drilled a hole in their house, sitting in the cavity, repeatedly fluffing its feathers. The head of their bed is on an outside wall and they have always had trouble with woodpeckers working on the wooden clapboard siding on their saltbox set in the Pennsylvania woods. I'm sure Kath understood and empathized with Paul's dilemma. Then he said: "Yeah, it was driving me crazy, this woodpecker just fluffing its feathers over and over. Then I realized that wasn't what I was hearing. What I was hearing was you snoring."

Fluffing its feathers. Snoring. What kind of mind and imagination comes up with that as an explanation for a mysterious sound in the night? It was an "aaaaaaaaaaah" moment for me when I read it. And then Kath signed off her email saying: "So he's home napping now. Either that or he's moving his stuff into the guest room."

Nerve

2010-01-25T17:37:00.000-08:00

I keep trying to take myself seriously. It’s a process. I’m at that point where I’m staying conscious that writing is the most important thing, for me, that I do. Yet I don’t give it nearly enough of my time. So today I remembered that Monday is the day that local poets gather at Lehani’s from 5-6pm and put their names in a hat to get time to read aloud to one another. It’s been months, if not a year, since I last went down to try out new material and see how it’s working. Today seemed the ideal time to push myself towards being more present and diligent as a writer. I pulled out the poems I’d written over the past four months and read them through to see which might be most ready to read. I was only looking at those I felt were my best of the recent efforts and wow did that bring home how easy it is to start congratulating oneself on new work. Poems I thought were done, polished, as near-to-perfect as I could make them, all seemed suddenly slight. Then, I wrote a new one, based on things that came up as I took a long walk in the woods today. I worked it and liked where it landed on the page. It looked good, sounded good, too. But if poems I’d been working on for 1-4 months seemed less desirable after a little time out of sight, how could I trust a new one? Still, it’s important as an artist to stand and deliver. I find that I know better how well a poem is working when I read to an audience, rather than just to myself at home. It’s not just whether and how that audience reacts, but the fact that my own awareness is heightened by risking the reading of my work to people I know are discerning and thoughtful writers themselves.

So I printed out half a dozen that I thought, for various reasons, might be my strongest choices, punched them, put them in a notebook and drove downtown. (I'd likely read three but I prefer to have choices even in this situation.) When I got to the door I saw no familiar faces inside. In fact there was almost no one there and it was 4:50. The owner confirmed that they had indeed changed to Friday evenings at 5. I deflated. I was not relieved, but disappointed. It was like standing on the edge of the dock with my toes hanging over, bent into first-dive position; or taking my paddle firmly in hand to push off the bank of the Nantahala River and into the rapids. When you’re ready, you’re ready. Not necessarily ready to succeed but ready to try. Maybe this is just a reminder to me, like the title of that song by Madeleine Peyroux that I’ve been listening to so much lately: Don’t Wait Too Long.

Come to Mama! I've still got it - cooking a fabulous sauce.

2010-01-20T17:09:00.000-08:00

Maybe it was because I lay on the couch last week, sick with a cold, and watched some Julia Child episodes on a public TV fundraiser. Or maybe it was just my kitchen-womanly pride, but I wanted to cook this week. I mean really cook. So I did. Thursday evening my friend David was stopping by upon his return from a trip. I'd offered a homecoming dinner. I felt lousy at that point but figured I had to eat, too, so I made a risotto and wow did it taste good. Just a classic arborio rice, glazed in some hot oil and garlic, then a cup of white wine cooked into that, followed by the long simmering to absorb, cup by cup, about a quart of broth. The result? Hot, creamy, flavorful risotto. I made a side dish of acorn squash halves, baked with some butter melted in the cavities, and then filled those with peas which had simmered with finely chopped onion and dill. Talk about comfort food!

Then Sunday, while visiting with my friend Denise, I roasted some parsnips, onions and pears (after tossing them in olive oil) and blended half of that with broth and half with cream and then simmered it all together while reducing a cup of balsamic vinegar to a thick drizzling garnish. WOW! What a success. Actually I worried that after coring the parsnips (which I've never done before and am not at all sure is necessary) that they were not enough, so we added some carrots to the roasting mix. This soup was a savory, delicious treat, far exceeding my expectations. I would not have known there were pears in it but I surely won't try making it without them. Something very right was going on in that roasting pan and soup pot. I've already bought more parsnips and pears to try it again without the carrots. I accompanied the soup with my favorite corn bread, which is made with sour cream and is corny enough while also being moist and tender. It worked but I think I'd prefer the soup paired with a yeast bread or chebe bread.

I guess I was feeling my oats at this point, because I invited another friend to dinner on Monday night. I had an unexpectedly busy day Monday so found I was very tired by mid afternoon. But as the dinner hour approached I decided I did not want to compromise the meal or choose some easy old standby to make. I'd been thinking all afternoon about what I'd like to have and at about 4:30 it came to me. Pasta with Vodka sauce. My friend Shari shared the recipe with me years ago and I could not find it to save my soul Monday night. So I made it from memory. First I sliced some tiny carrots julienne style and sliced up some baby zucchini, green pepper, then sauteed all that in some olive oil with herbs and crushed garlic until just tender. Then I turned off the heat and put a lid over the veggies to keep them warm. For the sauce, as Julia would say "first you make a roux:" 2tbsp. butter/melted then 2tbsp. flour stirred quickly in; then add a cup of cream, slowly whisked into the roux until smooth. Stir in, a bit at a time, a cup of white wine - I make this recipe with white wine because I prefer the flavor of wine to vodka. I used a full bodied chardonnay. [Now is a good time to start the pasta cooking.] When the wine you've added to the initial cream sauce has smoothed into a velvety texture, gradually add more cream until you have about 2 1/2 -3 cups of it. Then, stir in a couple of big handfuls of fresh, finely-grated Parmesan. Fresh Parmesan melts in nearly instantly. The "fresh" grated stuff we buy in the store takes too long and leaves the sauce vulnerable to separating. I hadn't made that pasta sauce in years. Sometimes Alfredo is disappointing to me - bland. But I love this. I laid the pretty melange of veggies over the pasta which I'd tossed with about 2/3 of the sauce. (Next time I might saute mushrooms until brown and have just those with more pasta and the leftover sauce.) I did scratch the idea of making hot chebe bread. I felt the pasta was enough starch for this meal. Such a rich entree, though, demands a salad. I had some good green leaf lettuce and added to that a cut up fresh pear, some toasted walnuts and a few shavings of Asiago cheese. I shook up a quick dressing of finely chopped leek with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. The balsamic and leek made a great flavor contrast to the pear and Asiago.

Honestly, I surprised myself. Like a lot of single people living alone, I'm pretty out of practice at putting actual meals on the table. I take a lot of short cuts but try not to compromise myself nutritionally. It's just easy to bake a potato and steam some broccoli or make a quick omelet. But a meal like this one makes me wonder why this gluten free vegetarian ever goes out to a restaurant. Plus, I'd been feeling worn out and yet I did this. Not just any old meal, but this. Telling about it, I'm reminded of my Aunt Van, who was maybe my age now (nearly 62) when I saw her leaving my Mom and Dad's house one day by the back door in the kitchen. She paused at the round mirror over the radiator where my mom kept a hairbrush and always checked her hair and make-up before going out. Aunt Van, a statuesque woman with dyed chestnut hair and I Love Lucy red lipstick, thrust out her chest like a pin-up and said aloud to the mirror: "Uh! Van, you still got it!" As I floated around the kitchen and felt myself near accomplishing my vision of a lovely meal, I felt a little like my spunky Aunt Van. Come to think of it, I don't think Auntie, fabulous as she was, would ever have pulled that off.

Sunday in Seattle

2010-01-17T11:59:00.000-08:00

When I moved here someone told me that Port Townsend is one of those places where it's easy to stay put. They say we're at "the end of the line" which practically means our postal estimated delivery times (for mail going off the peninsulas) are usually off by a day - or a week. It also means The City of Dreams that PT was supposed to become did not materialize. The train ultimately didn't come here but went, instead, to Seattle. I believe most people who live here still think of PT as The City of Dreams but in a more personal sense than was originally imagined. So yes, indeed, I found myself settling in and appreciating the fact that I live in an environment which other people save up and pay money to visit on vacation. But in the back of my mind the little voice reminded me "if you want to stay happy here, get out of Dodge once in a while!"

My first thought when I consider getting out of town is to go to Seattle. I love the city and figured, when I decided to live out here, that Seattle would still be my city since I'd chosen to live in a small town. Every small town needs a city to claim as its own.

So last weekend I took Sunday in Seattle with a friend. First stop was the Calder exhibit at SAM (Seattle Art Museum). Alexander Calder caught my eye first at The Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, CT. [The Atheneum is the oldest public art museum in the U.S., established in 1842.] I remember my joy at showing my children, nieces and nephew the Calder sculptures in the courtyard, including one of the red dinosaurs, and my own joy at being greeted by a new Calder mobile on the sidewalk outside the entrance one day. Having grown up in a town that was isolated, and in circumstances where it was unaffordable to travel to museums, I was excited to be raising my sons where we had access to this wonderful place.

So it was a joy to see Calder's work, and a lot of it, in SAM last Sunday. We were a little disappointed that despite fans installed on one ceiling over a very large mobile, none of them moved much. The air was just too still. A large circle on the floor quietly warned us away from the mobile's space. Once, later in the day, I wandered back to look at it again and saw a guard make a sudden shift in movement toward me. Looking quickly down at my feet, I danced away from the line, raising a hand and smiling at him. He smiled and nodded back and returned to his position but I saw him do this dance with several other mesmerized viewers.

The small pieces of work, both mobile and stationary, were delightful. The alligator, a piece of colorful, carefully folded metal is perfect and one of those items I'd never tire of seeing. There was also some flashy jewelry, or as Calder described it "swell joolery." A woman could not blend into a crowd wearing his spokey, flaring earrings, that's for sure. The photographs of him at work and in studio were not terribly captivating. There was a video running of his circus that did seem to have people mesmerized. I was taken with his mechanical/artistic meldings for entertainment's sake but more-so with his pure joy and the loss of all artifice as he made crude but ebullient sound effects and played like a giant child with his tiny and complex creations. It was very like watching my young son play with his plastic dinosaur village or his older brother at play with legos or toy cars. In the end it was more engaging to me to watch Calder's face and listen to his vocalizations and take in his pleasure than to be entertained by his circus. It was good to see Calder again, like an old, not very close, but admired friend.

Next was Michaelangelo. Normally I only try to take in one show each visit and perhaps wander the other exhibits before leaving. This time we both wanted to see these two so we dug in and spent some time. Most interesting to me was getting an overview of Michelangelo's life and time, with a time line and quotes placed throughout the exhibit. I was stunned to learn that he carved his Madonna of the Steps at fifteen years old, two years into his apprenticeship. He dedicated all of his youthful energy to perfecting his art. Late in life he burned most of his drawings so that history would only know him for the perfection he accomplished. Fortunately a few remain and it was fascinating to see the changes he made between drawing and finished painting, in one showing the Virgin Mary as accepting Jesus' judgement on the sinners suffering below them. Whereas in the drawing Mary was shown in her role as interceder, pleading with him for mercy on the sinners. The quotes on the walls revealed a man at times suffering for art and greatly disheartened and at other times arrogant in his accomplishment. And then there was the one that said he was sorry that he would die soon when he was only at the stage of having learned the alphabet of his art and had so much more to accomplish.

We could not leave the museum without visiting a piece we had seen last visit, which I fondly refer to as "The Head." It is that. Or appears to be one wrapped in moire silk, all brown. On close examination it is one piece carved of wood and the texture achieved is amazing. So after seeing that again we passed the larger than human black rat sculpture, made it past the stupid stupid cars hanging from the ceiling (I know, "One man's meat...") and got out onto the street again. We walked up to Belltown and caught a cab, as the bus would have been 15 more minutes wait, to Seattle Center. This gave us just enough time to find lunch in the food court before the matinee performance of Electra. I'd never seen the show and I was mesmerized start to finish. I will admit to thinking at first blush "oh, dear, I'm going to tire of this girl's suffering." But I did not. The entire cast was perfect. And they seemed to me a viable ensemble who had worked out their relationships among the characters and knew how to bring them true. The set was just right with interesting use of chain link fencing among a few pillars and tiers. There was tension and physical play between the players throughout, even to taking the murders "inside" the castle, then dragging out the bodies with great effect. The contrast in costuming for the commoners and struggling oppressed with the styled queen was very effective. She represented regal and sensual and the line between passion and perversion beautifully in a classical one shouldered draped formal white gown. He, Aegeius, came on in the final scene to a laugh because he entered in a white suit, hair slicked, looking like a smarmy wise guy. And yet. His sorrow on viewing his wife's body was incredibly moving and brought us to the point of looking at all sides of the story at a perfect moment to do just that. The other men were ragged warriors and convincing in that, and the women wore various shades of white, layered, passing for ancient Greek draped dress. The nun and servants were clean and simple and the sister was pure and innocent and Electra was a hot mess. Not hot as in sexy but as in energy. She was filthy and didn't give a damn, which added tremendously to her character. When it was done we were on our feet instantly applauding the professionalism and achievement and our own fortunate experience as witnesses to the play. I'm very grateful that my friend chose this show. I probably would not have. Which is why smart people sometimes choose challenging friends.

Our favorite Indian restaurant was closed. Second choice was not to open for another hour plus. So off we walked toward downtown and the ferry. I cannot tell you how wonderful it felt to be walking from the Center to the ferry on a balmy January day. I remembered how two years ago when I was ill I felt the acute loss of that ability and how limiting it was. I could not even go into Seattle by car for fun. And now, here I was, swinging along again, a friend at my side, though my favorite, well-loved city, Seattle. I stopped to show my friend an architectural feature I liked: triangular wedges that were balconies - so refreshing after seeing thousands of tiny rectangles hanging in the air. Then I noticed the wedge complimenting those, or vice versa, hanging over the main entrance to the building as a marqui/entry roof. He then explained to me that this is the sort of design they are looking for in the uptown business district in PT, where larger buildings are broken up this way, with a variety (as this one had, going from rectangular features to triangular and then with a globe atop one end) and not just big flat facades. Then my friend was kind enough to guide me to some bridges and walkways which pedestrians can use to get closer to the waterfront so we had a beautiful walk down to the ferry. A ferry wait is not so bad when you have good company and a nice drink to talk over in the bar at the terminal.

When we got to the other side I remembered a new Indian place in Bainbridge so we popped in there and ate well before coming along home. That one day, to me, was a vacation and a lift. The advice I was given to "get out of Dodge" still proves true today. May we all have these options. I did not, growing up. I'm grateful that I do now.

I Have a Code Id My Doze or What I am Learning from a Cat and a Dog While Lounging on the Couch

2010-01-15T12:47:00.000-08:00

I asked for it, really. I've been bragging for months that I have not had a cold or flu in four years. Tuesday morning I thought I has having an allergy attack so I got up at 6:30 a.m. and changed the furnace filter. I'd checked it a week before and thought it was fine but my incredibly painful and narrowed throat suggested otherwise. Indeed, it was fuzzy. Not black or grossly dirty but, well, fuzzy with dust. So I switched it out. Usually a few hours later my throat would be fine. Not so this time. So I may have to acknowledge, after several days suffering in the headache, sore throat, earache, sinus pain department, that I have a cold. You can be sure if I'm lucky enough to have a long hiatus between colds again, I will not be bragging about it. Because clearly this is karma, yes? Or I'm just due.

So this is how I found myself lounging on the couch, feeling grumpy and miserable and alone. But wait. I'm not alone. I have Gracie and Smokey and PJ, the cats, and Shadow, the dog, to keep me company. Far as they're concerned, prayers have been answered. I am finally where I belong, all the time, except for when I creep into the bedroom to try and sleep at night. Gracie and Smokey are relatively well balanced cats, emotionally speaking. They like attention, but like most cats, they do not need attention. Their dignity is in tact. Fine examples for an independent woman of a certain age.

On the other hand, PJ is a cat I often describe as "the neediest cat in the world." I have also noted before that he is the best example to me of why neediness is not an attractive quality. Everyone who loves cats loves a lap cat, surely. I do too. But this cat gives me no time without his considerable weight balanced in some way on my body. Laying on my side on the couch, watching tv? No problem. He curls up on my hip. Not next to it, not snuggled behind in the crook of my legs like Gracie likes to do. This fellow perches on my hip, which is less than comfortable for me. It makes me feel, too, that I am his slave because any sudden move could roughly dislodge him and send him tumbling. Try to sit up and read? Good luck. Reading, to PJ, is an invitation to lay on the paper. Or to keep scrunching above it as I wiggle to try to insinuate my discomfort and discourage him from his position, until finally he is effectively resting on my bosom, fur in my face, as I try to turn pages.

And then there is the question of food. Being sick gives one license to eat while sitting in front of the tv, yes? It is also an invitation and challenge to PJ and Shadow to join me in case I want to share, or maybe drop a morsel or two. Typically, PJ is at my right hand, once moved from my lap, and Shadow sits at my left, one eye on PJ, one on me, as if to say: "Do you not see that cat there? Wouldn't you like me to move him for you? You're not thinking of giving him anything, are you?"

Naturally I want them to respect my space and that this is my food and so I have been trying to ignore them both while eating. PJ doesn't give a rats ass. He just continues to wait at my side. Shadow, on the other hand, has lately taken exception to the fact that this cat is spending so much time on the couch with me. And Shadow is doing something a friend told me her cats would do when she had offended them. Shadow is giving me the back. Yes. She looks at me imploringly. Shows me that she is being very polite in not chasing the cat and not stealing food from my lap. And then she simply turns her back on me and waits. Head high. Regal. None of the slumping and sighing she's done in the past when I deny her requests. She is working me, people. And next to those moody eyes, this is her best tactic. So far it's not paying off, but it does make me feel that I have offended her terribly and threatened her status.

That's my little report from the infirmary today. Right now it's time to warm up some leftovers and see what psychological ploy the fur family will use on me this time.

Dreams just happen, right?

2009-10-15T18:16:00.000-07:00

So the dream went like this: I’m in a large bedroom/sitting room with quite a few people coming and going, leaving gifts. There is an attendant in the room, a woman, whose job it seems to be to supervise me, and others, who are stopping by to visit. The door to the room is open. I step out onto an interior balcony, just outside the bedroom door. Indeed, below is a large room filled with people- it seems to be everyone I know - sitting on chairs, happily chatting as they wait for the wedding to begin. There are gifts and ribbons everywhere. I feel confused and unprepared. I go back inside and I find the attendant walking carefully behind an old woman who is on hands and knees, rolling a wine cork (with her nose) across the floor towards me. A young woman who loves me comes in and gives me a small box, a gift for me for later. I am flummoxed. I look down at myself and see that I am wearing a very formal black lace shirt and skirt. This does not seem, to me, to be wedding attire. I realize I really am not ready for this wedding. I begin to worry about whether I have time to change or put on make up and just then a man enters the room and walks to me. People seem happy to see him. He stands close to me, holding three greeting cards people have handed to him. He says something to me about some object. He’s very good-natured and says perhaps we can fill the object with gifts, which convinces me that we are indeed getting married, but the problem is I still don't know who the groom is because he has no face. But we hug and kiss and he leaves the room. I noticed he was wearing a short-sleeved summer shirt. I’m thoroughly convinced that I must change my clothes, out of my funereal black and into something summery and casual. I remember a long white cotton dress I bought some years ago but have never worn. The image of a heron adorns the front and it has long sleeves and a long skirt. [I actually do own this dress and have not ever worn it.] I wonder if it will seem odd if I put full make up on but decide I must at least put on some lipstick. As I began to do this in the bathroom in front of a purple sink and mirror, I wake up. I wrote the dream in my journal and came to the computer to see if perhaps eHarmony had sent me a new match. After all I'm not even dating anyone and have long been convinced that I don't even want to be married again. There'd been no new matches since I tightened my criteria recently, but this morning there were two in my e-mailbox. The first was a former federal agent whose passions are hunting, fishing and football. Match closed. The second was......okay this is hard to say because.......well......okay, it's Santa. Claus. No, I'm not kidding. It's Santa Claus. Seriously. Long white beard. Round belly. Yes. BUT, I am not closing this match because he actually seems like a very nice and articulate man. His passion is being Santa, obviously. In Seattle. Contrary to what we may think, he claims that this is not a seasonal position. He has plenty of work and finds, too, that children recognize him all year round. And he feels a responsibility not to disappoint those children. Plus he's halfway through a six volume set on Lincoln. I'm pretty sure Santa is not the man in my dream because that fellow was not round-y, though I obviously don't know if faceless-groom-guy has a beard or not. The e-sorting of men has slowed down a great deal but there are still interesting moments in eHarmony land. Not to mention what goes on in my mind just before I wake up. And now I can't get that old song out of my head, only I see the title this way: Santa? Baby!

Sorting

2009-09-25T20:56:00.000-07:00

Tonight I've been sorting through men who I'm sure do not even know I'm here. But e-harmony sends them to my mailbox so something must be done with the ever growing list. I've just done some pretty fast culling, eliminating anyone who:
1) has a primary interest in fast cars or sports, either participating or watching
2) looks more fit than my kids
3) has lots of mis-spellings in their profile
4) answers more than two questions with an emphasis on wanting or loving women
5) lists drinking alcohol as a primary activity
6) didn't bother to answer most of the questions
7) lives entirely too far away (because I didn't assign enough import to distance)
8) holds no attraction for me

One of the men in my mailbox today pulled a big sigh out of me, just by looking so darned cute. And I'd have closed that match if only I could have sent a little message. I'd have said: "I'm quite sure we're not a match but that is the most charming, unaffected, endearing portrait I've ever seen of a man. You must be a great guy." But you can't send a little message! How wrong is that? You can only send questions you select from an e-harmony list and I imagine that fellow would have looked at my photo and thought "This gal's a little heavy for me, I'll just close this match now." So he'd never get to know how knocked out this fairly discerning woman is by his photo. And shouldn't we all get to know those things whenever possible at this stage of life?

Finally, I left one obvious mis-match with a 79 year old open (apparently I also need to assign more importance to the age-range I selected). Why didn't I close this match? I believe it would be lovely to meet this man. He says he was a broadcaster, influenced by Edward R. Murrow and actually met Murrow a few times. Better still, he says that when he's 85 he'd rather be hiking on Mt. Rainier than sitting around an old folks home. He's looking ahead to being 85. Six years older than he is now. And he's looking at that like it's a ways off. Here's a man who, I believe, is living every minute of his life with intention and joy. I have a feeling this man sparkles with energy and that a room is enlivened when he's in it.

My mailbox full of men is really very interesting. Note: not one has contacted me. So: Am I dull? Too girly? Too high maintenance? Too talkative? Too serious? I'm not worried about it. I am who I am. Just as the men in my mailbox are. Life is good.

A Mailbox Full of Men

2009-09-17T09:02:00.000-07:00

A recently reanimated woman signed onto an online match service to see what she could see. Let's be honest here, she is me. And I'm not looking for a lot, really.

Why? I enjoy the company of men, very much, especially if we have core interests in common. I thrive on good conversation and have that with my friends, yet I do miss having a companionable man in my life. So, while I'm used to and like living alone and have trouble even imagining living with someone or marrying again, I've decided to see what connections the net can bring me. Dating in a small town, especially for a woman of a certain age, isn't very likely to bring great results. We all pretty much know each other and most people are already married or matched. Before I moved out here I heard a radio piece about this very town, on NPR, where one person interviewed said: "Every single person here has dated everyone else already and they're in line to go around again." Funny? Not so much. I knew then if I wanted a mate I'd better move to a bigger town. But I didn't want a mate. So I moved here. Right now, though, in one important way I'm like most of the guys in my online dating service mailbox: I miss the cuddling and conversations that come with a long term meaningful relationship. So why not give this internet thing another try? It can't hurt to be optimistic and try, right?

The most endearing thing I've seen in some of these profiles is the answer to the question: "Who is the most influential person in your life?" Variations of this same answer have come up now and then: "My wonderful wife. We were married 37 years." This melts me every time. Who wouldn't be drawn to a guy who loved his wife and was married that long to her? I consider raising the top of the age range I've requested to find more widowers. Though I am divorced and haven't had a successful partner-relationship in my life, wouldn't I have a better shot with someone who had?

Opposites attract? When you're a woman of a certain age it's amazing how many potential matches you can close after just reading a line or two. Say the first line is: "The one thing X is most passionate about - great cars, motorcycles, diving." And say the last line is: "X typically spends his time - cleaning the car, eating barbecued wings, maybe a movie." Say the woman of a certain age is most passionate about: "the arts." And say the woman of a certain age drives a '97 bottom-of-the-line Toyota Corolla that might be dark green and definitely always has a dirty dog blanket over the back seat. And she's a vegetarian. And she would like to live at her local movie theater and just rent out her house. Match closed.

Adventure Guy. This guy is articulate, interesting in the thoughtfulness and maturity of his answers to profile questions. So, I'm attracted immediately. Most of his photos show him to be far more fit than I am, which normally would be enough to close the match. I wonder how old the pictures are - but I try to take people at their word so I'll assume these reflect, at least, who he sees himself as: kayaking the Sea of Cortez; strapped into something that appears to be a very pricey backpack...or is it climbing gear? Reality check. This guy is five years younger than me and he's into adventure. I did white water open canoe slalom racing for 13 years to challenge myself (and because I thought it was good for my marriage), and I will step onto a stage to act or sing but I honestly do not like adventure if it involves speed or bodily risk. Match closed.

The Berkeley Guy. On the surface you'd think this would be a great match for me. His first passion: couple dancing. He does it twice a week. The couple dancing, I mean. I've always wanted to learn to dance. He loves cultural activities and puts live theater high on his list. I love theater. So why did I skim this match and close it in less than a minute? He's too perfect. Not for me; for himself. The man is already in love. And he realizes how fortunate he is to have himself, just as wonderful and enlightened as he is. And he wishes more people would see how great he is and how much he wants them to just be happy, too. Match closed.

The Regular Guy. He's not saying much in his profile except that he appreciates and loves his family and friends and that's the most important thing in his life. Occupation: Construction. He doesn't give me a lot to go on here, so we might not have much in common. No indication of interests or activities. But his most influential person? "My late wife taught me how to love and be a good person." Match open.

Eau de Pheremones, or Reanimation, Part 2

2009-09-14T22:43:00.000-07:00

A funny thing happened once my sensual side was sparked, or as I put it in my last post, reanimated. The pheremones apparently are flowing again.

I went to Mt. Rainier for a couple of days of wildflower peeping and walking. I got there late the first night, slept well, enjoyed acquainting myself with the lodge at Paradise, and got up and out early for a walk in the morning mist. I lucked out, second week in August, to find the wildflower bloom still at peak. I'd never witnessed that and felt I'd put myself into a little bit of heaven, which was just what I needed after burying my cat a couple of days before and saying farewell to my dying neighbor before driving up the mountain.

That afternoon I went out walking again and found that a man about my age seemed to be trailing along and stopping when I stopped and, indeed, he started chatting with me as I was taking photographs. Pleasant enough, but I felt my boundaries firming up and after walking a ways I bid him farewell and went into the Inn. He followed "to see if it was as he remembered" but then left me alone.

Back home I discovered a phone call from a fellow who belongs to an organization I'm a member of but who I don't know at all except to say hello to when I see him. Last time I did that I saw something light up in him. Now anyone who knows me knows I'm no femme fatale. But I think any of us, when we are animated and feeling our best, have a different effect on others than when we're, say, idling in neutral.

Then a day or so ago I was walking downtown when I ran into another fellow I know. I crossed the street to say hi and we chatted amiably for a few moments. As I said goodbye we shared a hug as we usually do. But as I stepped away he reached for me, hugged me again, and put a sweet little kiss on my lips - something he'd never done before.

So all I'm saying here is this: I had put myself to bed, so to speak, sensually, some years ago after one too many unpleasant experiences with men. I'd grown comfortably independent to the degree that I felt "this was it" and I was 99.9% sure that I would never feel these feelings again. I'm overweight, out of shape, trying my best to work on those things, but most certainly past my physical prime on the exterior at least. And yet...a fellow touched me about a month ago and I have felt reanimated, happier, more complete ever since. And now it seems I'm passing a little of that joy along. May it continue.

Post Script: 26 November 2011
Happy to note that I've lost 20 pounds since I wrote this, in a healthy, slow way. When it snowed on monday and the roads weren't good I walked uptown, about 2 miles uphill from me, and I did it in good time, feeling strong all the way. That would not have been true a year ago. This day after Thanksgiving I'm feeling very grateful for good health and increasing fitness!

Working it out while I sleep

2009-09-12T10:17:00.000-07:00

I woke this morning from a nightmare. I haven't had one in a while but my dreams and nightmares are stories and I can usually, if I take the time, figure out what it is my subconscious is working out. Sometimes it doesn't seem so much like I'm working out a thing as reliving a trauma and this may have been both but was definitely the latter.

My mother died a couple of weeks ago at 11:20 p.m., and I felt grateful to be with her at the moment of her death, after a few days of being companion and advocate, along with my sister, as she made her way towards the end. I mean to write about that but as yet have felt too tender to do it.

One year before my mother died, on the same day, August 28, I was present at another death. A former neighbor had called me to say he'd returned to town to die. His cancer was quite advanced. He wondered if I would visit once in a while and have tea and chat with him. Easy enough. I made strawberry muffins and brought my teapot and tea along too.

A few weeks later he asked if I could help more often and I said that I would. His best friend works out of town a lot and it was at his urging that this new arrangement was made. The friend left town on a Sunday and on Monday my former neighbor, who had been out of touch with me for five years, asked me to help him get registered with Hospice. We did this.

I began doing some laundry, making sure he had meals on wheels and other food, cooking a little for him and joining him now and then for breakfast. I'd drive him on errands too. This was not hard for me. What became difficult was the fact that not only was he dying but he was unable to allow Hospice to be in charge of controlling his pain. He had OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and a stash of drugs he'd collected from different docs in different towns. He asked me to come into his therapy session and we talked about that. The therapist said he had a right to his stash. The problem was, he tinkered with his meds, which had been painstakingly doled out in containers by Hospice to help keep him calmer and pain free. One day he'd be relatively comfortable and the next hour or day he'd be in great pain and pacing or saying the same thing over and over "why doesn't Hospice want my pain to go away?" They'd raised his fentanyl patches from 25 mg to 50 to 75 to 150 in about a week.

Sadly I went one day to take him to therapy and found him disoriented, meds laid out in little piles everywhere, including a slightly fuzzy pile that had obviously been in his mouth and spit out. And he'd taken off his patches and all the extras were gone. Hospice speculated that he'd sucked the meds out of them for a quicker hit. His OCD was out of control and I told him I was doing my best to stay with him but I really needed him to calm down and stop asking, over and over, why Hospice, or I, did not want him to have pain relief. Because, indeed, that was our main goal in helping him: to keep him comfortable.

I suggested we leave early for his appointment, go by my bank, get money and go pay my house cleaner, then stop at the beach until it was time for his appointment. I just wanted to help him focus on anything other than the sensation that his pain was a constant ten and nothing was helping. Hospice told me over the phone that more patches would be delivered but not to leave them in the apartment and that they might have to let him go off their program as he was not cooperating and was the most difficult patient they'd ever dealt with to date.

He agreed to my suggested outing before the appointment and I gathered my purse and a few things and was standing waiting for him to come with me. He paced from the bathroom to the bedroom three times and when I asked if he was ready, he said: "Just a minute. I have to change my pants before we go." He walked from the bathroom to the bedroom and closed the door and then I heard a gunshot. I was on the phone talking to his friend Mark at that moment and I screamed and ran from the apartment. I thought if he had not succeeded he might be staggering out of the bedroom shooting. And if he had succeeded I was not going in there to see it.

I ran from his place to another in the complex, as far away as possible, and asked for help. That neighbor walked me to another neighbor, who took me in and called 911. Officers came, asked me if he had a gun and I told them I was pretty sure it was a gun. I said "...it sounded like a firecracker but it wasn't a firecracker." I remember the officer in charge was looking directly into my eyes and I recognized him and the others around him were like a blurry blue cloud. They efficiently and bravely went up to his place, warned the closest neighbor to stay down and burst through his door and found him, dead. Another officer was interviewing me. I was, I'm sure, in shock. I had not known that he had a gun. I was surrounded by loving, caring, supportive people and it has still been a tough year absorbing this event and healing from the fear. At first on my daily walks I feared strangers I saw, sure that they had guns concealed in their jackets or coats. I don't have that reaction now.

But deep in the subconscious it's still getting worked out. So this nightmare is part of that and is partly about losing my mother, too. I dreamed I was walking across a field, past a soccer game and to a house with three intact sides and an open front. All the people in the house were people I knew, including family members, but none were at their current age. Except for Dr. Krieher, the elder care doc at Hershey Medical Center who tried to evaluate Mom and help us understand what was going to be happening with her. She was in the center of the open house, directing people in their packing and leaving preparations. For some reason I left the house and was walking towards the youthful soccer game when a man passed me, walking towards the house, and he was carrying a gun, moving with obvious purpose. I turned to watch him and he walked straight in and raised the gun to Dr. K, who shouted out to me "Call 911. Tell them Paul did it." In the dream I did that, then the soccer teams and I fell to the ground to avoid gunfire and the police came and apprehended the man. But the man was not my brother-in-law Paul. It was Mike, the former neighbor who committed suicide a year ago. Paul, though, while I was with the family after Mom's death, told a story about shooting a great many crows, randomly, when he was young, so I think that's how he squeaked into the dream.

Maybe all the people in the house were people dying or preparng to die. Maybe I turned away and towards youth/vitality/life as a healthy instinct to embrace life. Maybe my quick response to the Docs cries was a reminder that I do what needs doing even when things are terrifying. Maybe it had to do with feeling overwhelmed by death right now. My neighbor Ray died, then two months later my eldest cat Lisa died, and a couple of days after that Ray's wife, my friend Marjorie, died. I was at her side twenty minutes before she passed away. It's all been very sad and a lot of death in two months. Then Mom's passing was a deep, intense experience and happened to come on the same day as Mike's suicide. And the day after I got home from her funeral there was a funeral for a man I'd been in a band with a couple of years ago. I'm kind of spent. And I'm grateful on more levels than I have the energy to describe. Grateful for friends, for the kindness of strangers in that apartment complex, for the resiliency to heal and go on with joy and hope.

Reanimation

2009-08-19T00:52:00.000-07:00

I never saw it coming. Seriously. I was clueless. And then, there it was. My "on" button was pressed. And I lit up.

My initial reaction to someone's sexual interest in me was "What??? Wait. Not a good idea. We're not doing this" and finally "I don't do this anymore." Which is to say I don't go from no hint of sexual interest to sliding into bed in a few moments time. But the overture felt fantastic.

A week later I still have a spring in my step. I'm taller. I feel vibrant. I feel more complete. Which is interesting because I did not feel less than complete before. I often say to friends that I am content and not looking for a relationship at all. In fact I have expressed a lot of doubt as to whether I still have the ability to share my life intimately with someone. I like having everything in my space and on my schedule arranged according to my desires. Yet I have known in the back of my mind that if someone wonderful and companionable came along I would probably open to possibility.

I wasn't looking. And this person wasn't looking for much from me. He just wanted some fun. I felt pretty sure that if I tried to "just have fun" I would end up feeling badly about it afterward. So I called the game on account of maturity. And yet...

It's been a wild week of internal questioning and responding to this reanimation. I cannot deny, and have been fascinated by, how alive I feel, how complete, how much more myself. So finally tonight I went on EHarmony's site and filled out the interminable questionnaire and perused my "matches." Not one felt right. I'm not terribly disappointed or surprised at all. I've tried that in the past with similar results. I'm not desperately driven to find a partner but my spark is not extinguished either.

With any luck I will remain reanimated. I don't think it served me well to tamp down my natural sensual nature. This feels much more like who I am. And after a week I'm getting more comfortable living in this state of being again.

What I've learned about myself over time has not vanished. I am who I am, who I've worked hard to become, but I do feel more open, more whole. I am grateful to feel more alive.

Update: 26 November 2010
15 months after this post I find that that experience, that reanimation, continues. I've come to realize I would very much like a partner and I have no doubt now that I will be open to making a life with someone if I'm lucky enough to find a good match. Sometimes it's hard to keep hoping for that, but I find that I can't stop hoping, either.

I Heart Lucy or The Keystone Cops performed by one inept woman

2009-06-29T01:42:00.000-07:00

I just reread my last blog about what a serene and reflective and luscious day I was having on Wednesday. Note to self: do not enter blogs about the day until the day is over. After that idyllic morning, here's what happened. I got up from the couch and swung my foot into the base of the coffee table, spraining the middle toe on my left foot, which bruised almost immediately, although in truth I might have had twenty toes throbbing for all the resonating pain I was experiencing. I hobbled to the computer to take my mind off it by doing a little work. Still in my robe, sitting there trying to figure out why iphoto kept seizing up, I was thinking that force quitting a program several times a day was probably not a good sign. Then the phone rang. My friend Lee informed me we were not shooting rehearsal that night, but only dress rehearsal thursday as the set was not yet ready. As we talked, the doorbell rang and Shadow morphed into Cujo. I hastily told Lee I'd be right back and dashed to see who was at the door. It was the locksmith trying to deliver a receipt and keys for a job he'd finished the day before. Shadow apparently did not remember the locksmith fondly. Grabbing Shadow by the collar I pulled her out the sliding door onto the deck where I could fasten her to a cable until the locksmith left. I did all this in bare feet, having learned nothing from the stubbed toe incident an hour earlier.

One step onto the deck and I slammed a huge sliver - sliver????- no, chunk of wood into the bottom of the same foot. Yowling in pain I grabbed the keys and receipt from the locksmith, while yelling: Sorry! Thanks! and hobbled to the computer room, hung up on Lee and just rocked and whimpered for a minute. Then I called my neighbor Bridget and asked if she'd remove a splinter for me. I put on some jeans and a tee shirt and got myself next door. Everything at this point was moving in slow motion because all I wanted in the world was for Bridget to pull that tree trunk out of the sole of my foot. She, of course, was formulating a plan as to how to do this, recalling how her father would run through the house yelling "surgery!" when he had to remove a splinter from her when she was a child. I had carried over my faithful Uncle Bill's brand tweasers but Bridget didn't even acknowledge them. She got out the mega tweesers that I'm quite sure would not even be called "tweasers" if they were hanging out in a bar for implements of a surgical nature. They'd probably be called BubbaBoyPointyHead. They looked about 8 inches long which is never comforting when an implement is metal and being directed towards an injured part of one's anatomy. But BubbaBoyPointyHead wasn't going anywhere without DaSlicer. Bridget's husband Jake got home just in time to assist. Bridget had cleared with me the necessity of slicing the skin along the top of the sliver before trying to remove it as it was "so big" that she felt it couldn't just be pulled out without a larger opening to exit. Jake found some sort of razor blade in the garage which he kept assuring us was clean and only needed to be sterilized. Bridget held a flame to it and then very neatly made the cut (her Dad would be very proud I'm sure) and after a couple of grabs got a good grip on the tree, er splinter, and pulled it out. She cleaned it up with an alcohol wipe, very thoroughly and I told her she was a really good Mom and I had needed one that day. I thanked her and went home, much relieved. As I left, Bridget was thinking of calling her Dad. I guess the memories of "surgery" were making her a little verklempt.

I went home and called Lee to tell him all my screaming was not for anything life threatening. As we laughed about my foibles he said "did both injuries happen to the same foot?" "Yeah," said I, then "Damn! I've just set the good foot down in some fresh cat vomit." Laughter is the best medicine, right? Even when you're wiping cat vomit off your "good" foot?

There was a tiny speck left under the skin, but I hoped it was nothing or would just fade away or work its way out, if it was a bit of wood. It has not so far done that. And I haven't been for a walk since. When I get up in the a.m. it seems not to hurt. Until I walk around a bit. It's beginning to feel larger. I'm not sure what that means except that I am going to call the doc in the a.m. and see if I can get in and have the speck removed. I'm sick of not walking Shadow. I miss it! I am not looking forward to the doc reopening this wound and digging around in there but it's got to be done, I guess.

May I not have another "I Love Lucy" or Keystone Cops day for a really really long time! May you not, either!

Sea breezes and kittenish Cats

2009-06-24T09:45:00.001-07:00

Our perfect summer days have tiptoed temporarily out the back door. We're back to a chill wind and overcast sky. Often as not in summer, later in the day, the sun will make an appearance and we will traipse along outside, through northwest beauty, in comfort once more. This morning the little bells hung from eaves and branches around the yard are ringing steadily in the wind and I just realized that I have developed a morning routine:
* Rise.
* Clean up cat vomit;
*gather Lucy and Lisa's dishes;
*wipe up food covering the floor around Lisa's dish;
*wipe the floor itself;
*carry dishes to kitchen,wash them, refill them, put them back down.
*Feed Gracie, Smoky & PJ.
*Lock the boys in the bathroom so Gracie doesn't eat too much.
*Feed Shadow.
*Take her out back to do her business - clean that up.
*Brief check of email.
*Back to bed if possible, to read a little bit and pet the ancient cats who live in the bedroom.

Today I was able to do that, go back to bed. Lisa had lapped up water but ignored the new food, I think, though she may have helped Lucy with her plate. Nowhere in sight, Lisa Miranda was likely curled up in the little cat-bed under my bed as is her habit for part of the day. Later she will ensconce herself up near the pillows and be quite annoyed - except for getting whatever petting she desires - when evening comes and I am in her way again.

But Lucy is always ready for a visit and some ritualized petting. I say ritualized because she walks in circles around me, almost invariably, as I pet her. When I come back to bed this morning she is on the window sill. She walks over to the Dolly (which I put in that window each day) and pushes her off the sill, peering over the edge to see Dolly hit the floor. She is satisfied. Her big job of the day is done. Then she leaps to the bed and allows me to pet her lovely gray fur.

I'm reading an interview with Mary Oliver, about the generative process of making her poems, and it occurs to me that I am living somewhat as she does. Except going out into nature is not the first part of the day for me. Being with what passes for nature (and relationship) in my house, is my daily spark to consciousness and being present in this world. Later, Shadow and I will walk 2-4 miles, pulling inspiration and plain good exercise from the experience. But for the moment I am content right here, with the little bells clanging in the breeze which meanders up from North Beach and pours in the bedroom window.

I never saw the ocean until I was thirty. In my fifties in Virginia I drove forty minutes to sit on a beach and breathe that healing moist air. Now at 61, though I can't afford waterfront luxury, the sea air sometimes finds its way to my bedroom. Last night it helped me drift off to sleep and it greets me again this morning- how lucky am I? Very.

Lucy Fur, aka, Fang

2009-06-09T00:12:00.000-07:00

My son Ian rescued Lucy from an island in Long Island Sound where her mother, a stray, bore two kittens in a stone building, dubbed "the castle," which Sarah Lawrence College's crew team used for boat storage. When he realized that the island regularly flooded, he figured that the mother cat likely wouldn't have time to get two kittens safely across the bridge to the mainland. So when they were weaned he tried to catch them both but only could snag one.

Ian had driven a couple of hours to deliver her to me at the vet's office so I could get her checked out and bring her home safely among the rest of our fur family until we got her adopted. She was, I think, a couple of months old. He walked through the door and approached me holding out the box as if he was presenting me with the crown jewels. I have always been taken by that delicacy and strength in one motion, when one hands over something reluctantly, while feeling the weight of some mandate to do it. In this case I had told him it was unfair to keep her in his dorm, illegally, until she was grown past kitten-cute and then hand her off to be adopted. Of course he knew that was a reasonable assessment. And I certainly couldn't take on another cat, already having Paws, Sheba, Puff, Spike and Lisa Miranda.

When I looked into the box all I could say was: "She's mine." There was no way I could adopt that kitten out and I could see why Ian wanted to keep her with him as long as he could get away with it. She didn't so much look like a kitten as a block of deep rich gray fur. She was completely irresistable. The vet tech took her in back to do blood work but was gone an awfully long time. When I asked at the desk what was going on they said: "Everyone back there wants to get their hands on that fur." She was healthy except for a hernia and now I can't remember if we got it fixed immediately or waited a bit and maybe they did it at six months when they neutered her.

I lived in the big log house at that time, with five other cats, the youngest of which were Ian's Spike and Bill's Lisa Miranda, each about four years old. Lisa and Spike had had trouble integrating into the family of cats. Paws had tumbled each of them across the floor when they approached him. Sheba and Puff hissed them away. So tiny Lucy had her work cut out for her - at her age she was bound to try and bond with one of them. Her last try was successful, sort of, when Lisa allowed her to follow her everywhere, quite closely. I saw no affection between them but at least the little one had someone to shadow.

Now they are 19 and 15 and live in my bedroom and bathroom, in chosen isolation from three Virginia cats I adopted despite the Connecticut girls' objections. But they are the queens who sleep in my bed and next to, if not often touching, one another. And of the two of them, Lucy has become the cuddle cat. She spoons and cuddles me so delicately that she is a constant comfort without ever causing me discomfort. It occurred to me today that I have been preparing myself for months for Lisa's death as she has flirted with it and is a walking skinny mass of matts. But Lucy? I have not even considered her leaving. Yet this morning I began to worry that this little "cold" she's had is not only not getting better but is suddenly much worse. The sneezing became very frequent and the runny nose downright disgusting. It sounded difficult for her to breathe. I called. They could get us in at two. Which really means about three, so we sat in the office for nearly an hour. Then Dr. Tony looked at her and quickly said "here it is. She's broken her tooth. Must have got it caught in something." "But what!" said I "What on earth could she break a tooth on in my bedroom?"

"Anything" replied Tony, "caught in a bit of cloth, the bedspread...." I was shocked to see her proud little fang hanging loose. "It's infected her sinus" Dr. Tony said, "We've got to put her under and get it out of there and get her on some antibiotics."

I felt like a child. I had failed her, not noticed the dangling fang. Not been there when she was caught and struggling. And I'd told her in the car not to worry. I'd said we would just get some meds and drive right back home. Promised I wouldn't leave her. The normally silent girl was meowing loudly and none too happily. We'd be home soon, I promised again. Now I felt panicked at leaving her because everything I'd thought and said had been wrong. And I think that was the first moment I realized that I won't have her forever. I want to delay our parting as long as possible, which of course meant I had to let go of her right that moment so she could get the help she needs.

So here I am about to go to bed without Lucy for the first time in fifteen years. All I can think of is whether she's sleeping. Or crying and frightened. Did they do it after hours tonight or will she be sedated in the morning? Will I be able to bring her home early tomorrow? One thing I do know is that I am anxious to have her curled up beside me again. But even better will be if her impish side comes back quickly. Even feeling lousy she had done her daily devilishness yesterday. I'd found the old woman cloth doll on the floor, her hat torn off, her yarn hair a mess, her neck starting to separate from her body, her shawl flung aside. The little cloth lamb had been tossed off the shelf too. But in a new twist, my antique hat pin holder was in the laundry basket and all the pins were helter skelter. So, yeah, I think even more than cuddling, I want to see that spunk back. It reminds me she was feral when she was found and is still a little wild thing inside, despite our shared contented sleep. Sleep well tonight Lucy. Deb's coming back for you. I promise.

Never never never take a chance when bone tired

2009-06-03T23:58:00.000-07:00

The first oddball thing that went wrong today was that I reached into my purse and came out with a handful of hand lotion. A tiny bottle of it, in the bottom of my purse, had unscrewed its own lid (okay, maybe I shouldn't swing my purse around?) and the lotion was now coating all the contents of the purse. So I stopped what I was doing, emptied the bag, wiped off what could be saved and tossed the rest. Thank goodness the camera seemed okay. Then I plunged the purse into the bathroom sink with water and Woolite. Fast forward to the end of a day that began with a fire truck and two ambulances idling outside my bedroom at 6 a.m. ( my neighbor had a heart attack but is resting at the hospital now and expected to improve) and ended with a three or four mile hike. I still have a ton of work ahead of me to prepare to leave five cats and a dog and gardens for a few days during a heat wave, but I decided all I could manage tonight was to change the cat litter and vacuum.

When I finished the pans in my bathroom I noticed the purse, squeezed it out and began filling the sink to rinse it while I went to the kitchen to wash up the feeble 19 year old cat's dishes and bring her fresh food.

You already know, don't you? Yes. This sink does not have a safety drain feature. Yes, it ran over. The floor was flooded.My hairdryer, hanging on the side of the vanity, had water running through it. And worst of all, the vanity itself was full of water, cabinet and drawers.

Now a bag of ruined stuff is in the garbage - and really, hadn't I meant to get rid of those tampons these seven long years since menopause ended? The rest is spread all over the bathroom and bedroom, drying out. I had no idea I had accumulated so much bandaging material and so many spare toothbrushes. Not to mention little travel items like a tiny box of Q-tips - they really do absorb a lot of water.

I believe I need ice cream and sleep. Maybe I can rise "early" and get done what needs doing and take off for Seattle just a bit late. Of course I have no idea if I'm bussing it or driving because I don't know if the bridge is repaired and open yet. But I'm going to take a wild guess here and say I'll be driving the scenic route along the Hood Canal. And after all, isn't that a great start to a little holiday?

Friendship that works

2009-06-03T21:57:00.000-07:00

So, today I invited my aforementioned friend for a long walk. He sounded happy to hear from me and eager to join me and Shadow, which was a relief to me. I had let the gossip about us rattle me but he sounded like himself, so maybe it was all going to be okay. We walked to the beach on a trail he'd not been on before, which was fun. And he threw a stick for Shadow to swim for, then we walked back up through the woods to the idyllic overlook on the bluff and sat down to rest. He didn't need a rest, but I'm walking more than usual and I certainly did need one. There in the grass I screwed up my courage and asked him: "Have you been getting asked the sorts of questions I'm being asked?" And so it all came out and he seemed genuinely surprised about it. As we talked, all of my anxiety, clearly born out of a fear of losing my friend over gossip, melted away. We shared disappointment about the folks who'd invited me to dinner, then uninvited me. My friend said: "So what they were saying, in effect, was that they don't believe you." And I felt his empathy. It was a cleansing, energizing moment for me. I felt more myself again, confident that I know who I am and who my friend is and that no matter what people say, the truth is the truth.

When we got back to my place I suggested we go out for a bite..." Are you sure you want to be seen with me?" he asked. Oh yes I did. Oh yes I do. I said that at this point I feel so empowered I rather want to flaunt our friendship. We sat at a window table in a restaurant in the center of town. Over dinner we talked about many things, as we often do, and this time spoke of the fact that we have each always been drawn to and comfortable having close friendships with the opposite sex. He said maybe when he is seen with someone else out and about that will take care of the situation. But then I realized, and had to laugh out loud about this, that then the gossips will feel sorry for me because in their minds I will have been ditched for another woman! There is absolutely no way I come out of this unscathed in the minds of these people. They have decided what they believe is going on so any change will have to reflect the story they already believe. How completely obvious is it that one cannot do a thing about the thoughts of others? The only thing to do is let go of it and go about continuing to be true to who I am.

After dinner I went up to his place and we shared some leftover chocolate birthday cake I'd made him along with delicious strawberry rhubarb sauce he'd made, a scrumptious combination. Then I drove us here, we visited a few minutes more and he rode his bike home and called me to share some news about a serendipitous contact from an old girlfriend. Because who do you call when interesting things happen? You call a friend.

Life with Shadow

2009-05-01T23:26:00.000-07:00

Shadow's had a rough start to the year. Why? Because I did. I was filled with anger and anxiety. A lot of fear. Residual, unresolved stuff from a trauma last year. It just bubbled up and showed in her before I was aware that it was coming from me. At Christmastime she began acting like Cujo whenever a delivery person or stranger approached the house. She stood on her hind legs and flung herself at the full glass door. Fortunately it's some sturdy glass, what they call a "full light" wood framed heavy glass. My voice/commands meant nothing at these times. She was protecting us and our territory.

Then, on walks, she began lunging at cars and other dogs, much in the way she'd behaved at the front door. My left arm became near useless for a couple of months, very painful, from inflammation developed by holding her tight while she lunged. I began walking her with treats in my hand, anticipating the moment, getting her to lay down until the car or dog passed, then rewarding her. Things remained dicey. I got a gentle lead and that worked. She only flipped out once on that. But today, and yesterday (the gentle lead left at a friend's house) I walked her on the old extension leash. And she was GREAT! She did not always come when called immediately but we worked on that. The big joy for me is that right away I realized I am calmer, more settled in my emotions, so she is too. Tonight, walking at the dark side of twilight, I became fearful for a few minutes on part of the walk. I realized she immediately lost her easy gait and seemed on guard again. I thought about pheromones. I'll bet she smells the change in me when I am anxious or fearful. What an amazing creature. My therapist on a leash. Keeping me conscious.

I'm very grateful. And I feel a responsibility to do the best I can at taking care of myself so that she doesn't suffer along with me when I don't.

Deficient again. Good grief.

2009-03-20T12:07:00.000-07:00

March 20th. 2009

Before doing a writing assignment for a workshop I thought I'd warm up here. I failed pretty miserably at resetting my body clock. Until last night, the same game was going on: Deb trying to milk more out of each day in a sad attempt at lengthening her life. More hours a week = more life, right?

Let's talk quality. I know damned well when I'm sitting in front of the TV at night with burning tired eyes that I am not extending my life or enhancing it. I know that medical studies show that lack of sleep is a factor in lots of negative physical outcomes. And I know how I feel the next day: slow starting, dragging around, tired. So I am making an attempt to improve my quality of life.

I began, a couple of weeks ago, with a post on Facebook, to keep myself honest. I am recording there, each day, how far and often I walk. I'm trying to increase distance and move to two walks a day instead of one. Progress on the former is steady, the latter is spotty. Due to some harsh, cold, damp weather I will forgive myself for not getting out twice a day very often. But walking is getting easier and I am getting stronger. My former minimum walk of 3/4 mile is now up to pushing for a mile, at least a half hour instead of twenty minutes. A few days ago I managed a three mile walk (with a break at the beach half way) with only aches and no ill affects after it. I backed down to one and a half to two since then and hope to build back again.

However I am fighting three difficulties in my quest. One is the whole getting to bed difficulty. Not getting to sleep. I drop right off. But I realized a second reason I avoid going to bed. I have nightmares. Since being present (in the next room) when a man dying of cancer, who I was helping with daily care, shot himself to death, I've had some post traumatic stress and anxiety, not to mention anger. Part of the fallout has been nightmares. Duh, I realized last week, no wonder I don't want to go to sleep!

The second difficulty has been Shadow's change in behavior. Around holiday time she began turning Cujo at UPS men, the mailman, visitors in baseball caps, missionaries and more lately, cars driving down our street. She has for sometime been doing this while she's riding in the car, barking at certain bikes and dogs who are out walking. I have been working on it but lately have felt too worn and on edge to deal with it effectively. My anger comes up. I want to pick her up and shake her. I can't. I don't. But I want to. And my right arm is much less painful from the strain of all her lunging after two months of walking her with my left arm, but I'd hate to reach the point where I cannot walk her at all while I heal both arms! So I've been working hard at being conscious and focusing on her more intently when we walk, trying to catch the behavior early enough to get her in a sit/lay and stay until the stimulus has passed. I did better at that yesterday, though it was exhausting.

Which brings me to the third difficulty. On March 6th. I saw the doctor for "routine maintenance" and he sent me for blood-work. I went directly next door to the hospital and got that over with, no easy thing for me -the stone- from which lab techs must somehow coax blood. Now when I suggest putting a hot pad on my hand for a while before they try, they don't even raise an eyebrow. So yesterday - yes, 9 working days after the blood draw - my doctor's nurse called suggesting I go to the pharmacy and pick up a prescription for potassium. I did. I took the horse-pill with a glass of water like the paper said. She also told me my cholesterol has soared over 300. The exact number did not register as I was so stunned by the three hundred part. So I figured they'd put me back on Crestor, which had worked very well at lowering my cholesterol until they took me off it a year ago while trying to diagnose my sudden deterioration, which involved a lot of muscle pain and they thought Crestor "could" have been, though we found it wasn't, the culprit. But no. I cannot start the cholesterol meds until I visit the doctor again. Next week. Okay. Fair enough, I guess. I procrastinated and did not go in for my six month check up in February as I was asked to do, but waited until March. So who am I to complain about slow reporting of lab results, which were probably available on the 6th. but I was not called about the deficiency in potassium until the 19th? I am complaining because on the 17th. and 18th. my malaise was palpably worse. On the 19th. I felt incredibly bad. Scary bad. Like back to last year bad, without the muscle pain. I had invited a friend for dinner and besides my walk and the trip to the pharmacist, dinner was all I could manage. I did not make a dessert. Anyone who knows me well knows the significance of that statement.

BUT, I did eat dinner with my friend, and I did get to bed at eleven and I did sleep a blissful eight-hour sleep! And I woke up feeling like myself. Not sick and scared like I felt yesterday but well. So I feel a tad pissy about not having this potassium two weeks sooner. And I remember my friend Carolyn, at Dana Farber Hospital in Boston, at the end of a weeks experimental chemo. The nurse changed the iv bag and almost immediately Carolyn started complaining to her that whatever was entering her veins was burning and she couldn't bear it after the week of chemical assault. "What is it? Stop it now! I can't bear this!" And the nurse told her it was potassium and she absolutely had to have it - it was vital. "There must be some other way. What do I have to do to make you stop this?" Carolyn demanded. The nurse said there was a pill but that she could never keep it down. She would throw it up. "I won't. I promise. Take this out of my arm now and give me the pill. I promise I will keep it down." And she did. And the nurse put another in her blue cosmetics bag and said she must take it by one o'clock the next day, Saturday. Carolyn promised she would. I drove her home later that day. And the next day I called her at one. "Carolyn, did you take your other potassium pill?"

"What?" she answered. "What are you talking about?" So I told her and she took it. And for years after (she lived ten more rich and full years) she would ask me "Tell me again about how I talked to the nurse at Dana Farber." She was rightly proud of how she'd advocated for herself and taken control of her care even though she was weakened and wrecked from a week of 24/7 chemo, then an experiment to save her from a deadly breast cancer. All this was considered her only hope after a double mastectomy and radiation. And she could not even remember doing it. That's how strong she was. So when I feel like pissing and whining about all my "deficiencies," I think I'd better remember that day and take the damned horse pill in her memory and be grateful.

Update: 26 Nov. 2010
Most nights now I do get to bed at 10-11p.m. and I wake up early and refreshed. Walking 2-4 miles daily helps. Getting rid of the TV in July helps. Getting off Facebook last April helped. And the supplements, well, I'm sure they help too. Not too great a price to pay for feeling great.

Being Deborah Now

2009-02-25T00:32:00.000-08:00

Here I am. It's pretty obvious what's going on here, I guess. I'm sixty-one, working out how to live here now. A year ago I thought I was dying. I was, as it turns out, just deficient in B12, B1 and D. B12 apparently leaves the body slowly, but when it got low enough it took me down suddenly and shockingly. One day I was walking upright, albeit in pain and kind of pulling my right leg around. I had been conscious of pulling my right leg for nearly two years. I was thinking I had suddenly aged a lot. And that it was all because I was out of shape, fat. But it was the B12. I had developed parietal cell antibodies and lost my intrinsic factor, likely due to years of taking zantac and then prilosec, on doctors' orders, to deal with severe reflux. No one had warned me of this possible side effect. No one figured out why I was suddenly down and hurting and feeling like hell for about four months. Then, with lots of physical therapy and persistence and B12 injections and B1 and D supplements, I regained some spring in my step, feel reliable on my feet and move with bearable pain.

So now I want to put that in the past and get back to living my life as best I know how.

This little spot is for self examination and celebration and keeping myself real. Today's challenge has not been met: I am to get to bed by eleven at the latest and get my sleep patterns round to what I need again. I have been trying to extend my days...hang onto them until the last possible moment. I have given so much of my life away obsessively, hoping to be a good person by serving, volunteering, and a lot of that has been fulfilling and good. But now that I have more selfish goals, my great fear is that there is not time to achieve them. So I have been somewhat mindlessly trying to stretch my days into night. This is not serving me well.

So, hello, and goodnight/goodmorning. I have failed two nights in a row. Not a great start. But at least I'm conscious and maybe tomorrow I'll be able to begin resetting this body clock.