* * * * * * *

My wife's family settled in Missouri in the Nineteenth century.  I don't know (or I should say, don't remember) all the details, but they wound up south of here in Maries County.  They started a small community which no longer survives, and a church there that does.  The family still meets in the church annually for a John Family reunion.

I've mentioned previously my own connections to the southern part of the state, and how much I actually enjoy going there.  Particularly this time of year, when the air is crisp but not cold, when there is fall color starting to settle onto the trees.  It's the reason my wife and I decided to get married in October.

So there was some pleasure in the drive today down highway 63.  But still, we both cried.

* * * * * * *

I spent some time this afternoon reading journal entries from my partner in writing, dating back to the early onset of his mother-in-law's Alzheimer's.  Raw stuff.  Honest stuff.  Bits about some of the early signs of declining mental ability, confusion about where she was, what was happening.  How he and his wife were trying to cope with it.  And now and then, when his MIL had a particularly bad period, or her health required hospitalization, wondering how long it would be before "Mumsie" passed away, how long he would be able to see through the role of care providing.

Thing is, this was *two years* before her actual passing.

Sometimes, the only way you can keep going is if you don't know how long you'll have to do so.  If you knew the true length of the road ahead, and the condition of it, you'd be too likely to give up.

* * * * * * *

This evening I'll fast after dinner.  I go in in the morning and have blood drawn for tests, and later this week I'll meet up with my doctor for a follow up to my earlier exam.  We'll find out what things other than my blood pressure need attention.  We'll also see if I need to do something in addition to the beta blockers mentioned in that post - possibly, though my bp is down 50/20 already.  This is a huge improvement, though I have about that much further to go to get to 'normal'.  Yeah, like I said, it was scary bad.

But I've begun to notice other improvements.  I sleep longer, better.  There are even nights when I don't wake up at 3:00, listening hard for the sound of Martha Sr's breathing over the baby monitor.

* * * * * * *

"What are you thinking?" my wife asked.

I watched leaves skittle across the road, tumbling in the draft of the car ahead.  A wide and glorious vista opened to the north, ridge after ridge of green, little clusters of other colors here and there.  "Lots of things."

Yeah, lots of things.

""I'm glad it was just the two of us.  Seems appropriate."

She nodded.

"I mean, we were with her pretty much on our own.  It just seems appropriate that it was the two of us to bury her cremains."  I paused, thinking of the memorial service.  That was for the family, for the friends.  We'd decided on making the trek to the family church, where there is still half the graveyard reserved for family members, on this day, because it was the anniversary of her parents.

I'm an atheist, and I don't believe in the survival of the soul or any such.  But it seemed like the appropriate day to bury Martha Sr, there next to her husband.  And that Martha Jr and I should be the ones to do it.

I now know how long the road is, and in what condition.  But I am glad I drove it the full distance.

Happy anniversary, Martha and Hurst.

Jim Downey

Knowing my point of view about such moments, the universe placed a copy of Sandra Hatfield's delightful novel Zero Degrees of Separation on my desk when it came time for me to review a book for the November issue of Georgia's Living Jackson Magazine.

Sandra Hatfield, whom I haven't knowingly met in this lifetime, lives a few miles up the road. Yet, we may well have walked some of the same pathways as we each found ourselves drawn to remember how the universe works; especially "death," "dying," and the "afterlife." As I read Zero Degrees of Separation, I discovered a fictionalized account of my own belief system in which "death" as call it and fear it and avoid it is a very natural transition between realms.

Most readers of Zero Degrees of Separation will clearly see before Hatfield's main character Christina sees it, that she has died. Even so, she finds herself thinking that she's never felt better in her life, for gone is the hospital bed where she lay dying where her family experiences the grief of our universal experience when we appear to be separated from family and loved ones for all eternity.

The novel provides us with a window into an afterlife that contrasts sharply with the traditional versions most of us grew up with. Whether Hatfield's version seems plausible or not as you read, Christina's experiences make for an interesting story. So, too, Christina's compassionate feeling for those left behind who are experiencing grief at her absence.

No doubt, Hatfield's many years of experience with Hospice and The Twilight Brigade, helped her write the novel's scenes about grief in a way that is not only real to readers, but potentially empathetic and helpful in their own lives.

Hatfield's novel, which I think you'll enjoy, is available from her own website for $18.30 (including S&H) via check or Paypal.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Malcolm R. Campbell

(Click on the photo to see it full size - have a close look at the child's shirt)

Yes, it is the election season when politicians traditionally kiss babies (and hope that the babies don't puke) and yes it is a blatant photo opportunity, but I do think that Key genuinely likes children. He has two of his own, and it appears that his family has been a stable unit since he married Bronagh in 1984. When I see photos of John and Bronagh their body language suggests to me that they have genuine affection for each other.

Compare this to Helen Clark: have you ever seen her doing the traditional kiss-the-baby routine? Look at the photo above and try to imagine Helen sitting there holding the child's hand. Nope, it doesn't work for me either: it's easier to imagine Darth Vader doing the deed.

Helen married for reasons of political expediency and cried at the wedding because marriage was against her principles*. Here is her attitude to children:

“I’ve never had any intention of having a child. I definitely see children as destroying my lifestyle. It’s inconceivable that I would become pregnant. I realise my attitude is unusual, but I have other interests which crowd out everything else, and I think I’d go around the bend if my small amount of spare time was taken up by children.

“I was able to develop as a professional person with no breaks in career...I wasn’t caught in the trap of the young bride who seems to stop maturing when her kids are born.”

Clark’s hatred of the idea of having children appears almost pathological, and again has worked its way out through her policy agenda. It was Helen Clark who introduced a 1989 law change making it possible for primary schoolgirls who get pregnant to obtain abortions without telling their parents.

When former National Party leader Bill English warned National would challenge the underage abortion provision in the Care of Children Bill, Clark’s response was terse:

“I’ve always believed that in the end it is a woman’s right, in line with her own conscience, to determine whether or not she has an abortion and you know that’s the view I will hold until I go to the grave.” [emphasis added]

Not only did she bring in the Care of Children Act, she also told parents how to raise children by pushing through the anti-smacking law.

This election gives us a choice between the freak and the baby-kisser. Which do you think bears the greatest resemblance to the average New Zealander?

**********

Use the category selector on the right to see my other posts on the anti-smacking law.

**********

*Take this comment from the Myers book in 1984 on the virtue of marriage:

“I felt really compromised. I think legal marriage is unnecessary and I would not have formalised the relationship [with husband Peter Davis] except for going into Parliament. I have always railed against it privately.”

And as for a happy wedding day - forget it. Retired political studies lecturer Ruth Butterworth, a long time friend of Clark’s, is quoted in Brian Edwards PR-piece, Helen, remembering the black mood at the “wedding”.

“She was resistant up to the last minute. I mean, she was crying on the day. It was just so awful because it was so deeply against her principles.”

Little wonder perhaps that Labour under Clark rushed to implement the de-facto Property (Relationships) Act in 2001 giving effective marital status to any relationship, gay or straight, of three years’ duration or more. Wedding rights without the wedding.

The irony that a woman who hated being “forced” to marry then went on to forcibly “marry” thousands of people in de-facto relationships is lost on Clark.

Click here for the source.

In our studio was our friends from XL Hospice and they answered questions that related to end of life issues and hospice care.  There are many concerns and fears, even misconceptions that are associated with end of life issues and hospice care.  There is the fear of pain related to the illness or the dying process; the fear of becoming a burden; the fear of being abandoned; and the fear of financing the cost of a terminal illness.  We are going to attempt to tackle these fears, misconceptions and the tremendous advantages of being prepared physically for the end of life.

We are also going to have three different perspectives. We will have a doctor who specializes in terminal illness and hospice care. A volunteer who assists families during the final days of a loved one. Finally, we will have the husband who will share his experiences of having hospice care for his wife until she died a year ago.

If you would like to listen to re-broadcast of this show, please click on the following

http://www.kbxl941.com/tvs/40-monday-september-22.html

For more information about the hospice, please check out www.xlhospice.com

These pictures were taken today before lunch. It is so nice to have him back home during the day two days of the week, not counting the weekend, which would make it eight days a week, according to The Beatles.

As you can see I haven't changed all that much. Just as silly as ever.

I have missed you all so much! Please stop by again as I think my p.a. is ready to get back on the blogging treadmill.

Y'all take care, ok?!

Turning to the deceased, I bowed, stepped closer, placed my right hand on her left, stroking her still warm forehead. "Hallo, Mrs. T.," I said gently. Draping a crocheed blanket over the sheet-covered body, I noticed my heart beating ... ke-thump, ke-thump. Taking a seat at the bedside, I turned attention inward to feel my racing pulse and outward to behold this body in repose. Two chants--one in Sanskrit, the other in English--acknowledging impermanence: coming and going, entering and leaving, living and dying.

Soon transport arrived in the form of Rob, a jolly Englishman "twice retired and still they call me in." He wrapped the body first in a shroud of cloth, then a white plastic sheet fitted inside a deep-blue zipper bag. We then re-draped with the special blanket. Together we accompanied the gurney down the hall, into the elevator, out the basement door to the van. "I hope I won't see you soon," Jolly Rob said as he folded the blanket and  I bowed to him and the van's closing doors.

Back upstairs a volunteer (who'd walked to the van with us) reached for a hug. My mom died here eight years ago, she whispered. Mom was claustrophobic and asked that we not cover her face when they took her body away. I made sure of that as I walked her out the back door, just as we did right now. You know: my mother was born on this floor when it was still the maternity ward ... and returned to die here on her 47th birthday. As I turned to walk away, the nurse who'd pronounced the patient's death stopped to share her experience of guiding the family through the last minutes of their mother's life. "I must have done this a hundred times," she explained, "it's always fresh, never easy. I do what needs to be done."

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute,” answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

“It’s nothing,” I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?”

“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.”

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

“I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.”

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You have to make a living,” she answered.

“There are other passengers.”

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life. We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

She reached for the list. Her former volleyball team was halfway down. With a frail hand, she used a pencil to etch them away. One less care. Dozens to go. Back to a particularly difficult entry. Her sister.

The photo was on the side table next to the hospital bed. It leaned, frameless, against a dusty Tiffany lamp. Curled edges spoke of the years spent in an old shed, forgotten.

Amanda was eleven years older than Kelly. With their father gone, she was like a second parent through rough times. Kelly was eighteen with their mom dropped dead, right in front of her. Massive heart attack, the coroner claimed. Kelly blamed Amanda at the time, said too many things, broke their bond. Then she did the unforgiveable.

Kelly picked up the phone, started to dial, then hung up. Her throat felt thick from something other than the meds. If only she had left it at her childish ranting after their mom died. If only she hadn’t…

This time, she didn’t stop dialing. She didn’t hang up. Four years was a long time. For the past six months, she’d kicked herself for letting things hang that long.

“Hello?”

Of course Amanda wouldn’t know who was calling. Kelly tried to speak, but she froze.

“Hello?”

Kelly’s chest squeezed. It was part fear, part disease. She panicked, making it worse, making it impossible to breathe.

“Answer now or don’t call back.” Amanda’s voice had an edge Kelly didn’t recognize.

“Ah…” Her traitorous lungs gripped her in iron. Now that she heard her beloved sister, she didn’t want to lose the tenuous link. Kelly tried again. “’Man… da…”

“Who the hell is this?” Amanda sounded nervous.

“Ka… ka-hell… wh…ait…”

Kelly grabbed at the closest inhaler. Two puffs couldn’t work fast enough, but her big sister didn’t disconnect.

“’Manda, it’s… Kelly,” she finally gasped.

“Kelly? Kell-Bell?” The nervousness turned to alarm. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”

“No.” Kelly concentrated on slow, steady breathing. She won back control over her lungs, for the time being. “I… I need my big sis. I need… to apologize.”

“For what? Sweetie, I’ve been trying to find you for four years. What’s going on?”

Tears made hot by fever slid down Kelly’s cheeks.

“Got pneumonia,” she panted. The relieved sigh on the other end broke her heart. “Cancer complication.”

“Oh my God.”

“Wanted to let you know I was a jerk. It was stupid.”

“What?” Amanda was silent. “Oh, him. Kelly, I never blamed you. He used you to hurt me. Not the other way around.”

In the haze of grief following their mother’s death, Amanda’s first husband seemed like a safe haven. Kelly never dreamed she could betray her sister so thoroughly.

“I knew better. I knew it was wrong.” She kept it slow to conserve precious air. “It was too hard to ask… to face you.”

“Where are you?” Amanda asked. Kelly heard keys jingle in the background. “I’m coming right now.”

“Chicago. It’s too far.”

After the affair’s explosive ending, Kelly had fled her native St. Louis. City life hadn’t been easy, but it was the balm she needed. Until she got sick.

“Give me your address. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“No. Don’t come.” The covered mirror on the other side of the room hid the reason for her latest shame. “Don’t see me like this.”

“Kell-Bell,” Amanda choked on the pet name. Kelly heard the soft gasping of a muffled sob. “How bad is it?”

“Bad. Not long.” A tickle in the back of her throat triggered a coughing episode that seemed to last forever. When Kelly could get back to the phone, her sister was openly crying. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh baby. My poor baby sister. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Ashamed. Bad karma. Don’t know.”

“Don’t blame yourself!” Amanda spoke with more vehemence than Kelly remembered possible. “Nobody deserves to get cancer. Do you hear me?”

“Love you, ‘Manda.” Things were getting hazy. Kelly got tired so easy lately. “Sleepy. Will send my things. Love you.”

“No, wait!”

Completely exhausted, Kelly put the phone’s handset back on the cradle. She let sleep overtake her. It wasn’t time yet, but it was close.

☼

“Kelly.”

The haze was slow to part. It was a hospice volunteer, one she didn’t recognize.

“Mmm?”

“You have a visitor.”

She didn’t get visitors. “Wrong room. Lemme sleep.”

“She says she’s your sister, Amanda. Can I show her in?”

“’Manda’s not here. She’s in St. Louis.”

“I’m here, Kell-Bell.”

Kelly had a hard time focusing on the figure at the door. It drew closer, and a familiar hand brushed her cheek. For a wonder, her skin didn’t feel like it would peel away at the slightest touch.

“Oh, Sweetheart. I wish I knew. Poor, poor baby.”

“Why’d you come?” She wanted to say more, but a deep chest rattle threatened to block her lungs again.

“Because you’re my baby sister.”

“Don’t deserve you…” She swallowed against her dry mouth and throat. Things needed to be said. “I… I ruined your marriage.”

“I told you on the phone, I blamed him, not you. He manipulated you. Yes, I was angry, and we had words, but I forgave you when I learned the truth.”

Kelly willed her eyes to focus. She wanted to see her sister one more time.

Amanda was beautiful. At thirty-three, she was mature and confident. Auburn hair was layered just so without looking pretentious. Clear hazel eyes that Kelly remembered so well were as sharp as ever, if bloodshot.

“Thank you,” Kelly whispered. It was more of a gasp, really. “Will you sit with me… for a while?”

“Of course.”

Kelly closed her eyes. It was too hard to keep them open. Amanda’s warm hands wraps around her frozen pair. Yes, she was glad her sister came.

“Think… Mom will be there?”

Amanda made a noise in her throat. Kelly barely felt the tighter squeeze around her hands.

“Kelly?” Amanda sounded like she was in another room, but her warmth remained nearby. “Sweetie?”

“Sleepy. Where’s Mom?”

“You’ll see her soon, Kell-Bell.”

“’kay, ’Manda-Panda.”

Kelly’s chest was full. It didn’t hurt anymore, but she couldn’t catch her breath.

“I love you so much.”

Amanda’s voice was fading, but that was okay. Kelly heard someone else talking to her, someone she missed terribly.

Then it was okay to let go.

☼

This story may not be reproduced in any form without express written permission from MJ Twain.

]]> http://oslik.wordpress.com/?p=684 Sat, 27 Sep 2008 12:44:09 +0000 oslik http://oslik.wordpress.com/2008/09/27/petice-proti-eutanazii-a-za-obnovu-ustavniho-prava-na-zivot/ Hnutí pro život zahájilo petici proti euthanasii a za obnovení ústavního práva na život, které by zabránilo budoucím snahám prosadit eutanázii, nebo by je alespoň výrazně ztížilo.

Text petice:

Vážený pane prezidente,
až do roku 2002 bylo právo na život každého z nás zaručeno ústavou.¹⁾ Od té doby může kohokoli z nás o toto právo na život připravit běžný zákon.²⁾ První z těchto zákonů je již na obzoru – průlomový návrh zákona o eutanazii, tj. úmyslné zabití nemocného člověka (na jeho žádost). Proto nejen protestujeme proti pokusům o legalizaci eutanazie, ale především požadujeme a trváme na urychleném obnovení ústavního práva na život každého z nás.³⁾

Petici lze podepsat zde.

(Já jsem ji již podepsal. V této chvíli, 27. 9. 2008 ve 14:30, má 414 online podpisů, bez zahrnutí podpisů na tištěných arších.)

Poznámky pod čarou k textu petice:

1) Původně zajišťovala ochranu života na úrovni ústavního zákona Úmluva o ochraně lidských práv a základních svobod (209/1992 Sb., čl. 2 odst. 2). Od 1. června 2002 po tzv. euronovele ústavy však Úmluva už nemá v ČR sílu ústavního zákona.

2) V současné době článek 6 Listiny základních práv a svobod, který má zaručovat právo na život, zároveň v odst. 4 říká: (4) Porušením práv podle tohoto článku není, jestliže byl někdo zbaven života v souvislosti s jednáním, které podle zákona není trestné. Pokud tedy zákon prohlásí dané jednání za beztrestné, může být kdokoliv z nás legálně usmrcen. Je tedy myslitelné, aby parlament prostou většinou přijal zákon, ve kterém prohlásí beztrestnost jakéhokoliv zabití. V současnosti nám žádný právní předpis o síle ústavního zákona nezaručuje, že se u nás toto riziko nenaplní.

3) Navrhujeme, aby čl. 6 odst. 4 Listiny základních práv a svobod byl neprodleně upraven takto: (4) Porušením práv podle tohoto článku není, jestliže byl někdo zbaven života použitím síly, které nebude více než zcela nezbytné, při: a) obraně každé osoby proti nezákonnému násilí; b) provádění zákonného zatčení nebo zabránění útěku osoby zákonně zadržené; c) zákonně uskutečněné akci za účelem potlačení nepokojů nebo vzpoury.

Tisková zpráva k petici.

Tisková konference proběhla 25. 9. 2008. Zaštítili ji poslankyně Anna Čurdová z ČSSD a poslanec Marek Benda z ODS.

Zde je video z tiskové konference.

Na konferenci dále hovoří místopředsedkyně HPŽ Zdeňka Rybová a primář hospice Anežy České v Červeném Kostelci MUDr. Jan Král. Podpora p. Čurdové je mírně rezervovaná, nicméně reálná.

Hnutí pro život rozešle 33 tisícům českých lékařů dopisy se žádostí o podporu petice.

I think of taste and texture when I think of rice pudding. I can already hear my siblings laughing at me. But I never got it. It always seemed strange. Perhaps I'll look for the perfect recipe, make it and try again.

As to desserts (which I do not make) her Dutch apple cake was great. Apple pie, amen. Cheesecake tastes wonderful but is almost healthy. Viennese torte was for birthdays. I would have loved one for my 50th, coming up very soon, but that is not to be.

I'd like to publish some of our family recipes but it may take a while to do so. We so enjoyed our time at the table. Hopefully we will, without Mom. It'll be sad for a while after she's gone. Dee

Spaghetti squash. I bought one yesterday and know how to roast it but didn't know that the larger they are, the more strands (delicate ones) can be obtained. Also, recipes mainly call for a microwave with plastic atop the squash. I won't do that. So I'm a spaghetti squash convert.

Things stack up. A little bit at a time, but eventually there is nowhere left to pile. Kind of like the inside of MIL#1's double wide. An Oprah intervention in the making.

For the last week my younger brother, CB, has been calling to vent his spleen and general mental unhingedness on me. While I continue to feel quite badly for him, I am not unaware that he needs me more as a go between than as shoulder. He gets nowhere with our parents when he is in one of his "moods" and though it seems to me that he is no longer effing his life up on purpose, it is really effed up, and he is going to need some cash to start righting it. Cash, by the way, is not something that a 42 year old high school drop-out armed with just a GED and a couple of decades worth of working under the table contracting is going to be able to come up with easily in the economy today.

Because Dad has been ill and largely unable to hold up his end of a conversation, I have been reduced to leaning a bit on Mom. Have I ever mentioned that she is not a crisis manager? Pressure and Mom mix like oil and water.

I know I am heartless, but I believe that despite what they have given monetarily to CB in the past - they still owe him a bit more. The sum he needs to escape Marin and retreat to Tahoe to "get a grip" is pocket change to the parental units. My position is pay him. It will ease the situation for a while, and we could all use that.

However, another wrinkle - that sly universe again - came into play when Dad's doctors hospitalized him yesterday. Pneumonia and fluid on a lung. Serious in an 81 year old man with pulmonary disease.

My conversation with CB yesterday went something like:

Me: Dad's in the hospital. Mom will talk with him about the money when all the testing is over, and they know what is going on.

CB: Okay, so when do you think that will be? Because I need the money by the 1st.

Yeah, CB is a bit ego-centric, but as Rob reminded me - aren't we all - in this life for ourselves kind of thing? Unless you are Mother Teresa that is. Oops, bad example. Or maybe an apt one because as self-less as we are all capable of being, what ultimately makes us happy, content or whatever, is having a life that is stable with people who care about - even love - us.

I googled the whole "fluid on the lung" thing last night then. It was not cheery.

• infection
• the beginnings of congestive heart failure
• cancer

Dad's lung doctor doesn't think it has anything to do with his existing lung issues or the pneumonia. This leaves us with two ugly scenarios.

Mom called me after they siphoned off two litres of bloody fluid. She told me - without my bringing up the subject - that she simply could not deal with CB or his request. To which I replied,

"So just send him the check then."

Because the way I see it, she will worry and feel bad if she doesn't, and since money isn't an issue for her - why not use it to buy a little peace and happiness for herself and CB?

And me. Let's not forget about me in all this.

Later in the afternoon, DNOS calls and tells me not to bring up CB again.

"I didn't," I tell her. "Mom brought it up."

"Oh." Clearly she had wanted to be bossy and now couldn't, "Well, Mom had one of her freak-out's about it."

I go on to explain my theory and plan. DNOS reluctantly gets on board and agrees to make sure that the money goes out this week and then says,

"I really don't care about CB anymore. I would be upset if he...expired...but I just don't care about him."

And I get that. I have a list of people I should care about more than I do too.

My gut tells me I need to be prepared to hop on a plane and go soon. I know I will have to go without Rob. He and BabyD will remain here until Dad dies. I will have to do the hospice thing again on my own and being the rock and go-to on top of it. I don't know if I am up to this or not, but life doesn't need our permission for anything it decides to do. There is no point looking for a whale belly to ride out the storm.

Bad timing and life. Go figure.

Yesterday, after several hours in my mother's room at the hospice, Jim and I left for an hour to grab a bite to eat. I ordered a Monte Cristo sandwich. Actually it was (insert name of your choice for each letter) A Ranch organic ham with B Farms X cheese amd house-made onion jam on artisinal panini freshly baked by C Organic Boulangerie.

Come on! They delivered our iced teas with a 3" wine carafe. Jim asked for sugar and our server's assistant (keep it pretentious) said "This is our simple syrup" and walked away. Clueless, Jim asked me "What is simple syrup?" I fixed his tea for him and said "sugar."

When we move here and I open a restaurant we're going to have a non-Vegan restaurant with a sommelier, farm-to-market consultant and apiary with its own beekeeper. When sugar is needed we'll summon the bees to table and they'll provide it on the spot.

In Texas they're still eatin' BBQ, drinking coffee at Sunday services out of styrofom and the mere thought of recycling is met with derision. OK, a middle of the road approach might work here. But if a highway billboard tells me to choose a "green" bank that saves trees by not allowing me to write a check, I just say, what? Some businesses aren't online and won't do online billing, even AT&T's dish network back home.

Why should I care if my insurance broker's office staff only drinks organic coffee in corn-based disposable cups? Should they bring and wash their own mug from home? Wouldn't we rather get the best insurance possible at the lowest cost?

Last night when we got back to the hotel, I hadn't eaten so Jim and I split a cheese plate. Interesting that they didn't label the cheeses. Several goat cheeses, one semi-soft and one Brie. A few water crackers, grapes, Marcona almonds and quince paste, plus local specialty honey. Normally one doesn't get that from room service at the local Sheraton.

Everything seems done to the nth degree in Sonoma County. So we went out to Safeway for cereal, milk and fruit, plus plastic bowls and spoons, and ate our breakfast in the rental car at a local park. Of course the parents immediately removed their children from the park. Who knows why. Maybe they didn't want to have them corrupted by Texans.

First appear toes, creeping shadow trembles, takes form and rises

Full figure fills to form the long longed for

Mouth moves to open, close, open, moan, gasp, choke

Giant pillars - long as lifetimes - rise up beyond seeing

Some semblance of Parthenon steams to life as the center stone spins

Winds whirl and grab at scraps so memories open and break and become the fabric for the gowns we wear

Grandmother becomes technicolor more than beautiful dreams

Hazel eyes electric sizzle life beyond death as image transcends knowing

We take a tea at the tapestried table, crackling warm bread and jam spreads smooth

You know, she begins, as her silver butter knife flashes light,

I remember the ease of dying. My last days were a terror of pain for sure. I waited for you. This you know. I stayed in that body, in that sick bed of hospice. I called out for you and held my wild magical soul in that decaying carcass just to keep those ears open to hear your voice one more time. And so when you finally did come and you told me, It's okay to go, I felt such joy - so much love and happiness - that I forgot what I was holding onto. I slipped out of that flesh and out of that room laughing as loud as the cosmos, crying out in glee.

She started knowing little about cooking so learned some Germanic fare from her mother-in-law. Then she had a daughter who was in government and lobbying before cooking school.

Another daughter began as a baker but has rounded out with healthy foods for her family. Her son doesn't bake but is an intuitive cook who learns and tests recipes and ideas until they meet his criteria of a dish worth eating.

The youngest sister is an expert baker and intuitive cook. Now you can see why I don't do pastry and baking! I left that to the more accomplished members of the family.

The lady who taught us how to cook, and how to live, how to read and all about math, is in hospice and we're all here to help out.

Mom taught us about a lot of things besides food, and by sharing food together, every meal with immediate and extended family will remind us of her unique intelligence, wit, and kindness.

We love you, Mom.

Our journey was only "diagnosed" about 5 years ago right now.  I was in the hospital then too but taking care of someone different.  After a month there, we came home this very weekend.  It had been life and death and we barely got out alive.  And I'm reminded of all of those details because we were in the emergency room two nights ago and he's been battling a fever of over 101° for five days. Bags of various fluids suspended from an IV pole can be our friend but they remind us of when there were seven hanging there at once.  

Less than two weeks after being released back in 2003, I got the call that my dad was in the hospital down in Indiana and was recovering from a stroke.  He'd had a quadruple bypass in the late winter of 2001 without any complications that I can remember.  After the stroke, a neurologist was added to the growing list of appointments he had to keep.  Ironic for the guy that had worked 34 some odd years without a sick day.  Now he had four doctors.  His hobby turned from garage sales to doctors' offices and he still came home with unnecessary plastic items.

I remember going to see the neurologist with them and was surprised at the casual mention of Alzheimer's as the diagnosis. Where did that come from?  Since when? The usual trial of meds began and some very unpleasant side effects seemed to us worse than whatever it was supposed to be treating.  Was quality of life no longer an issue?  Later in another setting with his internist, it was explained to me that he really had multi-infarct dementia caused by the strokes (at least two maybe three - and who knows how many mini-strokes that went "unnoticed") hitting his brain in the same spot that was causing similar effects of Alzheimer's.  I call them cousins.  Not exactly the same but way too many similarities to ignore.

During this last year with the three of us huddled in the same little office, the doctor patiently explained to my mom again that Billy had two terminal situations going on at once - congestive heart failure and dementia.  One would win out in the end and we had no guarantees of which would take him first but we could secretly cross our fingers.

The heart was quite a piece of work.  He didn't have a heart attack to provoke the surgery so maybe it was just a "routine" stress test.  What they found out after they were inside was quite different. Two thirds of his heart had been seriously damaged by silent heart attacks all along.  What did he think it was - trapped gas?  A pulled muscle?  A hang nail?  That would be just like Billy to not complain.  So they rewired the whole thing and closed him up to let that last third do its job.  And work it did - for seven years.  

A year or two after the major surgery, they added what looked like a pack of cigarettes under his skin - a pace maker / defibulator doodaa.  I must say it was strange the morning we moved him to the hospice center and a rep from the manufacturer came by the house with a laptop and magic wand to turn the gizmo off.  Yikes - that was a weird feeling but I totally understood that at that point we didn't want it kicking in and shocking him.

Now, post-hospice we know what won out in the end...his good heart.  Just yesterday I read an essay from the New York Times about a loved one in an Alzheimer's unit.  I walked through one of those this year thinking I'd better anticipate our options.  I was profoundly sad and am profoundly relieved that we never got that far. 

This week of forced pause while I do different caregiving in Michigan (Does he have Epstein-Barr?  Is it just the flu complicated with tonsillitis?  Will he be able to sleep tonight and start to rest?) has been odd.  While I'm worrying about this "other" him - I'm thinking about her there alone.  She's doing well.  She did some good grieving this week.   That wouldn't have happened with me there pushing papers and figuring numbers and mailing out death certificates to everyone and their brother.  This is where we are - and we know one thing:

It could have been so much worse - we are the lucky ones.  Some families are still in the throws of it all...and I think about them everyday during the hours I dreaded the most.

Yes I've been black but when I come back you'll know know know
Caitlyn has quite a way with the seniors.  She is so small and cute, it's hard not to be drawn to her, to feel her fluffy fur and her wet little nose.  Caitlyn prances around the nursing home and when she is stopped by a senior in a wheel chair,  ...She's a little nervous at first.  Then she relaxes and let them pet her all over. 

I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine
Caitlyn is most comfortable when she visits someone in their room.  She makes herself right at home, at their feet or the foot of their bed. 

He's tried to make me go to rehab but I won't go go go
Allowing dogs to visit in nursing homes.  It's a therapy that you now find is more welcomed than it has been in the past.  They use it to draw the Seniors out of their shells.  Feeling a nice wet nose will do that to you when you're somewhere you'd rather not be.  Like the hospital or a nursing home.  Dogs have this wonderful ability to give unconditional love.  And this is the reason, they are welcome to visit.

Many Thanks to Amy Winehouse for the use of her lyrics.

I had been asked to do a short entertainment 'spot' at a charity lunch, organised in the next village to raise funds for a local hospice. I took it into my head to do a 'tribute' piece to Gerard Hoffnung - a humorist, musician and cartoonist who flourished in the 1950s (before dying tragically at the age of 34). In particular, I wanted to reproduce some extracts from a hilarious address he gave at the Oxford Union debating society - a speech which fortunately was recorded at the time. I had a transcript of part of this, but needed a copy of the recording itself to refresh my memory of the whole. And I needed it in a hurry!

So I Googled 'Hoffnung' - and got many addresses of sites to visit. There were plenty of biographical notes, and several that offered to sell me CDs of the recordings - but these would not have arrived in time. Then I stumbled upon the website of Wrawby in Lincolnshire - an impressive and efficient site which told me a lot about the village and which included - for some slightly obscure reason - the text of the 'barrel of bricks' anecdote that was the highlight of Hoffnung's speech. It also offered, in return for a small contribution to community funds, the opportunity to download an audio file of the entire speech. In no time I had paid my donation, downloaded the file - and received an encouraging email from Richard Robinson of the Wrawby Internet Dept.

At lunchtime today (18 September) I did my Hoffnung piece - and I think it went down pretty well, even if it did not raise the gales of laughter that greeted the original in Oxford over fifty years ago. So - thank you, Wrawby, and thank you, Richard. If I ever get up your way again (I was in 'Rebecca' at the New Theatre in Hull a couple of years ago) I will look you up.

AMAZING...She heals people on their death beds in hospices! Plus....aids, TB, and most amazing..ta da...suicidal people! Girls, I think we are seeing the very first video of Xenu.

Check out the speech interpreter in the back ground! Bwahahahaha

But, this one is my all time favorite.....

CURSING PREACHER (and I do mean CURSING)

Whaddya think of this, BIOTCHES? LMAO

• Negotiate how much time your subject feels he/she can handle in any one interview.
• Carefully monitor the strength of your subject while conducting the interview. If you sense he/she is fading, ask if you should stop or continue.
• People at the end of life can't always be at their "charming best." If you find that you're sometimes met with sharpness or even anger, don't take it personally. It's not about you.
• Be calm and mindful, even if you're not!
• Time is of the essence. Cover the most important topics first. You may not have time to complete the whole story.
• If you can't find a quiet space and must be in a room with others, check with your subject about confidentiality. He/she may feel uncomfortable talking if others can listen in.
• Some medications can make people forgetful, so make sure you know what material you've been covering. You may need to remind your subject that he/she has already spoken on a particular topic.
• Your subject may have difficulty hearing. Remember to sit close  - no more than 3 feet away and to speak clearly and with sufficient volume to be heard.
• Be flexible. Don't be surprised if an interview session you've arranged has to be canceled at the last minute. A terminally ill patient's condition can change dramatically in a short period of time.
• Take care of yourself. Working with someone who is dying is emotionally draining. Make sure you do things that bring you nourishment and strength, such as listening to your favorite music, meditating, doing a vigorous workout or taking a long relaxing bath.

Photo by kenna takahashi

I am grateful for:

1. A new director at Nike.
2. Coffee:  I have experienced how I am without it.
3. Red Robins:  Shianne and I grabbed a quick dinner out.

With my $5,000 I will "spend" it as follows:

• $1,000 to Benton County Hospice
• $4,000 to hire someone to finish my unfinished home projects.