Amidst the Mists 6

He was back in the bed, back in the bedroom. 

It wasn’t hot and steamy and there wasn’t so much noise or people

coming and going. It was a pleasant place to be.

And he didn’t feel bad. 

He was propped up on pillows, his hands folded across his chest

(that was a tiny bit unnerving) He was breathing easily and nothing hurt

especially.

He opened his eyes. The room was filled with muted sunshine pouring

through the large window facing east. Muted because the sun was overhead.

He’d built in that window to watch the sunrises over the mountains and

across the lake. The time and trouble he’d had installing all those panes of glass!

It had been such detailed work, but he had never been sorry about the time and money spent. 

It was a perfect way to start the day, especially in the Dark Time

that was winter. 

There were a couple of children playing some game on the floor. Marbles

maybe. Young, still wearing baby gowns. Couldn’t tell if they were boy or girl

or both.

Right now he couldn’t recognize if they were his children, or his grandchildren, or

maybe one of each.

Closer to, beside the bed, a tall young man with dark almost curly hair was

stretched out with his feet propped up on a second chair. He was dressed in a fancy

suit. A party suit, not a funeral or church suit. Wouldn’t be suitable for a business

meeting, either. 

For a moment, he was puzzled that there was only one of the fancily dressed

young man there. Then he remembered that that was an okay thought, because

there really were two of him. His identical brother had been growing a beard the last he

remembered. (He wondered how that looked.)

The fancily dressed young man had a baby on his lap, a small one. An infant.

  He wondered distantly who had been expecting before he went running through

that fog curtain. 

The young man was talking to the baby, in a cheerful soothing voice,

threatening it with all sorts of dire consequences if it dribbled anything, from either

end, of any color or texture, even see-through, on his suit, which had been

ridiculously expensive and he’d probably never get another one like that. 

The baby gurgled and waved its hands, which were mittened.

The young man laughed back and continued making threats in a light tone

in his pleasant voice. He was now telling the infant about his adventures and

strategies that had got him his suit, which Pops insisted was a ridiculous expense.

How he’d like to continue that debate, hopefully with a lot less temper.

Not, the man in the bed noted, to not have argued about it at all. That was

honest, anyway. Funny how the young made such a fuss over clothes. He’d never

done that.

    In fact, until he married, he had been satisfied with off-the-shelf clothes that had

never fit properly. They were good enough.

“You’d think,” the young man informed the infant, “that Pops never had

tailored clothes in his life. That’s probably why he doesn’t know it's worth the price.”

The man in the bed raised a hand. “Jamie-my-son,” he said, and was pleased

at the sound of his voice. It didn’t shake, it wasn’t a whisper, and it wasn’t shrill.

The younger man turned and stared at him, his light blue eyes opening wide.

“Pops? Are you AWAKE?”

“Don’t call me Pops.”

The younger man leaned forward and pushed a button that had been wired

into the bedpost. It created a loud buzz outside of the room.

“You couldn’t wait til I was dead to bring in your electricity?”

“Oh, you were dead. You’ve died a few times, Pops. Last week or so, you’ve

been – mostly asleep.”

The room was suddenly crowded with people, and they made a heck of

a lot of noise. 

Too much noise, really. He closed his eyes while his son tried to explain what

had happened to the multiple family members who had come running when the

buzzer sounded.

“Don’t call me Pops,” he said again, closing his eyes.

The room erupted in laughter and cheerful, joking talk as he drifted back into

silence.

THE Return

 The words have returned to me, in a very big way.

Oh, they never left entirely. I could scribble out a poem, describe an evening on my porch, share a summer shower, and most especially I could write a lengthy rant and make others laugh at my horrible life, because I was making a joke of it, even while complaining and whining and feeling sorry for myself. 

Always, always, a thin trickle of words remained. 

But I was used to a river! A wide, full, flowing river, hopefully with a waterfall or an underground component that popped back out of a rock wall.

Not just a babbling brook, although those could be fun. 

Not a nearly dried up creek bed full of rocks that crack and turn to powder in the heat of everyday. 

And not just things. Not just weather, and birds, and description of static objects.

My words were persons, and lives, and with voices and thoughts of their own. With in-jokes and griefs and crying-until-laughing, and laughing-until-crying. 

These persons wanted needed me to tell their stories so that they did not dissolve unnoticed into the midsts of mists. 

But I could only share moments of them, if even that much.

Somewhere I lost them.

My words had gone, and with them gone, so was I. I was no longer the Voice, or the Participating Narrator, or however my role could be defined. 

I was not them and they were not me, and so I was no longer I, and their very existence was at risk. 

Sometime in the autumn of this past year, they came back. A whole gang of them started shouting at me, even waking me every three or four hours in the night. 

Mostly they were saying, "Look at Me! Here is My Story!" That was okay. I could watch and listen and wander off into dreamland, often a mixture of their presence and my lack of presence. I need do nothing but be aware, and I needed only to be aware of their existence. 

Soon, they compelled me to creating them for others, and I did. Not always easily, not often quickly, but the more I did it, the more I felt myself again becoming.

I am me! I am Here! I am me!

I finished that story and did a second draft, and sent it out to a few chosen readers that I thought would offer good commentary. So far the reviews have brought up good points, but I've not heard from one section of my chosen readers. I don't know yet what does or doesn't work for that class (for lack of a more precise word.)

As I waited to hear from my readers -- I am seriously considering this as a venture into self-publishing, or print-on-demand, or whatever it's called these days -- I began another story with my fingers and there was a third story stirring into existence in my mind. 

These last two were abruptly and rudely shoved out of place by a compulsive need to write a fan fiction piece about a young child trying to make sense of the death of a parent. 

It wrote itself in ten days, wringing me out from the inside out. That's why it took so long to write it. It left me too exhausted to communicate. 

I slept. 

I slept, I wrote, I ate, with occasional trips to the doctors (5 or 6 of them) because I am old. But mostly I stayed home, with two sets of people pushed to the back of my mind, squabbling for my attention, while this child was trying to make his world make sense again. 

That exact type of compulsion to write is a rare event. It was really almost like what psychic scribes (I forgot the correct term) describe. As if someone else was melding with me, using my mind and body to do what theirs could not.

And I am concerned, my friends, for surely a compulsion of that strength and with that urgency was MEANT to be heard/seen by someone, perhaps to make sense of their topsy-turvy world. 

I just hope that somehow I am getting the word out to the right person. 

Fan fiction seems a strange platform for delivering such a message. 

I don't do fan fiction. The people in my own head tell me this or that is wrong with the other peoples characters and turn them into who they are. I have a sincere respect for any writer who can make someone else's character breathe, and can do it right, but that is a skill I have never ~quite ~ had.

I can only hope that the same energy that produced it reaches across or through the void and finds its target.

Whoever you are, I hear you. I feel you. I even love you. 

Because I, too, have been there.

You are not alone. 

"George has passed."

 "George has passed."

Word began circulating early Sunday in our small town. The hushed tones, shaded with loss and awe, and the meandering wandering of "Is this true?" ans "How did you hear?", because it was somehow as unbelievable as it was believably inevitable.

George. 

The old fisherman.

The old farmer

The old friend.

Our man about town.

Our story teller.

Our history.

Most small towns have or have had a "George." The person who knows everyone, goes everywhere. The one who talks with everyone, and listens in return. The one who just is his marvelous self.

This is a loss, as it always is, when a piece of history drops into the infinity of the past. How strange the streets will seem, when the weather warms and human hibernations come to an end. 

Someday, sometime, a former resident will ask about him, and someone will have to share the news.

The news will be as striking as it was Sunday morning, when it was a word of mouth shout. 

This news will never be old, until all of us at the end of his story have followed him. 

Until then, let us keep his memory alive.

More importantly, let us keep his meaning alive, to share and care.

Services will be private, as is fitting. In the end, the public man 'belongs' with those he's chosen. The public man, everyone's friend, belongs firstly to himself. 

Let us give him the dignity of true respect.

Let us Remember him.

https://www.ecnurre.com/obituaries/George--R--Rooks?obId=24092725#/obituaryInfo

Strange New World

 I think everyone can agree, at least here in the US, that this year has changed the world. Changed the norms. "They" keep talking about the "New Normal" -- which is a long way from normal, and isn't even all the new. It's just never affected so much population at the same time, largely because there has never been so much population at the same time before. 

The big thing for us all -- the world -- has been the pandemic; the covid; the coronavirus; the new plague; the new SARS. Whatever you want to call it. 

But it wasn't the only thing. The year started off wrong before then. Schools were already closing because people were getting sick, but this sickness in these great numbers has absolutely noithing to do with the one that came along later.

Australia was on fire. 

There have been eclipses and earthquakes. There have been floods and even more fires. (Last I knew, Colorado was still burning.) There have been killer hornets and hurricanes. There have been Supermoons and Micromoons and blue moons. Wearing -- or not wearing -- a face mask became a civil right, while people are still being denied housing or help or work and being waited on. 

I'm forgetting a lot. 

No doubt come the end of the year, everyone will have lists and stories and who-knows-what. 

The scary thing is there's still seven weeks for even more fun to be had. 

This week alone we've had elections and reactions and Boston was shaken.  Who knows what the future still has for us?

Many people have died.

Some have been born, yes. 

Births and Deaths, the most universal of human experiences were, for a while, legislated to be done alone, with no family near; with no loved ones attending. 

Imagine having ONLY strangers to share your most intimate, most human moments with no one of your own. You may not even know their names, and because of masks, you definitely don't know their faces.

Too many of these deaths were NOT caused by Covid. 

Too many of these had nothing to do with the Great Illness.

They were dying of normla things. Flu, and emphysema, and liver failure, and kidney failure. Aneurysms and strokes and hemorrhages murders and suicides. 

Accidents and terminal diseases. 

My oldest daughter died of a cancer of unknown origin. 

In approximately six weeks, she went from having achy legs to be dead. 

And I couldn't be there for her, in person. In myself. 

I couldn't talk with her -- she lost her voice. 

I couldn't hold her hand.

I couldn't say good-bye, let alone sit with her as she left us all forever.

This is unforgettable.

This is unforgiveable.

But I knew That...

Life sucks.

People suck.
Even the ones we rely on. Haha. They are the first to tell you you deserve the shit and throw in abot of name calling too.

Technology sucks.
It changes too fast and it keeps getting more automated and there are no checks and balances for the inhuman.


I am seeing a lot of memes and posts (*inspirational* haha) about what would you tell your self from ten years ago, or your 15 year old self, or reflective issues like that.

Sadly, grievingly, I have the same answer for them all.

End it Now.

Don't Wait.

It does NOT get better.

While there are moments -- good wonderful moments that should be cherished -- that are cherished -- the truth is that those moments are the biggest brightest lies. Like the brightest stars in the sky are the shooting stars.
Tis their death that brings the brilliance.

If you want to shine, die.


As a parent, I have failed. I did not give them a better life. I did not give them tools for making a better life. I failed them. I did not teach them how to have and sustain a loving relationship. How and why that didn't work, I don't know, but it (didn't) happen.

As a worker, I worked until I couldn't anymore, and am now useless.

As a writer -- ah, there you may think I did okay. I did better than many. I wrote.
and wrote.
and wrote.

I even saved a lot of it.

On floppy disks.
You know, like no computer still existing anywhere is ever able to read.

I saved some stuff on the cloud.
The cloud blew away.
I should say the cloudSSS blew away, because I've had to do a new cloud account with every computer crash.
And with every computer replacement, there is no way (that I can find) to access former computer cloud accounts.

so, I will wait, as I have been waiting all my life.
waiting to no longer have to wait.

What WILL I do with my time?

goodbye 2018; the Year of Bad

2018.
What can I say about you?
What GOOD can I say about you?

2017 was a year of deaths.
Big loud famous deaths, with quiet more personal ones tucked in here and there.
I miss my friend.

People were still dying in 2018.
The personal touch deaths did outweigh the famous ones.
Horrible, horrible deaths of Those Who Should Have Stayed.
They could have been the Shining Examples in a rotting world.
In fact, some WERE that Shining Example.
Why were they taken?
Just why?

Then there were older people dying, some foreseen, some not.
Rex's brothers have all crossed from this life to that, and leave behind families and friends and love.
Love remains.

Love always remains.
After a while it can even be a comfort instead of a black hole of emptiness.

Things die, too.
Appliances.
Cars.
Lifestyles.

All these losses happened in 2018. To me, to my loved ones, to others, to strangers.
They happened, as they always have and always will.
Together we get through it. Not always well, not always happily, but somehow. Bubble gum and chicken wire. Rubber bands and paper clips. A MacGyvered life.

All that noted, the most lasting impression I have of 2018 is that it has been the year of BAD CANDY.
Who knew there was such a thing?


And yet, from the time of crisis at the Necco plant, the year 2018 has been about BAD CANDY.

Much of the media, covering said Necco factory, proclaimed it to be a not-a-story, because people didn't care. Neccos are a BAD CANDY, generally unpopular with the public.
They did NOT explain why they were so assiduously covering this non-story

The year continued with "worst candy" lists.
Worst Valentines -- conversation hearts. The staple; the standard, after chocolate. (Everything comes after chocolate, right?)
Worst Easter -- Peeps. Another standard. I will say, though, that in trying to stay viable throughput the year, the Peeps people flooded the market and destroyed the exclusiveness of their little pink and purple chicks.

Summer came and they had to make do with produce and meat recalls, and fall back on Necco stories.

Worst Halloween -- candy corn.

Then there was a whole list of Christmas candies. A Top Ten Bad Candies for Christmas.
Eight of those were standard standbys for the season.

Who knew there were so many bad candies?

Who had even heard of such a thing?

Now, there are some candies that I have wondered how they are even considered candies. Licorice. Horehound.
But to peoples eating bland boring (winter) diets, I can see that the bite -- the burst of flavor and the tang -- would make thise things treats, if not what we consider candy.

So

Goodbye 2018.
Take with you the idea of Bad Candy.
There is no such thing.

Time -- to Move On

My (rented) trailer is falling apart.
My furniture is falling apart.
My finances are falling apart.

Yes, my life is falling apart.

I don't know why.
I don't know how.
The how is kind of fuzzy, all wrapped in mystery and enigma.

But my life is falling apart.

Death seems a stalker.
Granted, I was not close to some of these people, but I knew they were there; that they were an added value in this crazy spiderweb of life, love, and relatives.

I won't mention names, because those who were close(r) may prefer privacy to mourn or even resent (perhaps rightfully)  my claim of a loss.
A dear friend before the end of the year.
Various acquaintances, because I and my peers are getting older.

Until summer hit and the family became involved.
An uncle on my dad's side.
A brother in law on my side.
A friend's beautiful young daughter. My heart breaks for this whole loving, living, and now broken family.
Another 16 year old in another car accident, driving her grandparents.  My heart breaks for them.
Another of my husband's brothers. There's one left.
Whoops, not anymore. They are all together now, these brothers. It's a strange place for them to be.
It's still so very strange, at times, that Rex just isn't.
And now they all just aren't.

Aren't in the other room.
Aren't down the hall.
Aren't down the street.
Are not just a phone call away.
Or a phone call to mutual kin.

Anyway, my life is falling apart in so many ways.
That means something needs to be changed, and the only things I can change are my own circumstances.

So, it is time to move on, however physically and financially impossible that seems to be.

I have already been added to waiting lists of 10, 6, 5, and 2 years.
I have left my name and number on many answering machines. (Only to have my phone go out of service due to the financial mishaps)
I circle ads in the papers and call.

And wait here and wait for Death's next strike at my already stricken heart.

No Rhyme, but a Faint Persistent Rhythm

No reason.
No Rhyme.
No sense.

But, through it all, a rhythm persists. The emotional equivalent of a heartbeat. It may be slow and troubled. It may be clamorous. It may be nothing more than there, but it persists.

I watched my husband die. He couldn't breathe anymore, not effectively. But that big ol' strong loving heart of his kept on beating, in spite of everything else in him shutting down.

What a waste that was, once death was inevitable, and of his choosing. (He could have been kept alive, by a machine breathing for him. But being alive and living are two different (too different) things, and if he couldn't live, why remain artificially alive?)

But his heart didn't get that message, and it continued on.

That is where I am, emotionally.
I am worn out,
I am tired.
The joy is gone.
The curiosity us gone.
The drive is gone.

What remains is a beating heart, prolonging the torture of a nonexistent existence.

There is no life support machine for my dying parts (although grandchildren come close) and I'm not so certain I would choose a tethered artificial life anyway. Probably not.

Perhaps there is hope for a cure, or a remission. Some part must think so.
Too bad it isn't a part that knows anything.
Perhaps it is just a reluctance to leave the known for the unknown. Or just wanting to remain where we know love.

Whatever it is, the beat goes on.
Even when there is no hope.

Snowy Days

Well, the Cincinnati area has set and/or broken a snow record. We have had 40 days of accumulating snow, according to official records. There's something Biblical in that, isn't there?

In many ways, it's been an apocalyptic winter. Definitely, it's been a record setter, in many ways and in many places. In Washington state, it has ended with a massive mudslide that has wiped out most of a community. They are still looking for the people, combing through homes and digging through slop, and the rain will mingle with the tears as too many are lost or left. I hope the winter is over for them, and I hope they get a miracle or two or twenty.
People have died of cold while inside their homes.
Whiteouts have taken lives on the highways.
Cabin fever has led to murders, assaults, and other insanity.

I hate this long cold winter. This is not the kind of historical time anyone (except maybe meteorologists) wants to live in.

But -- March is ending, and we have the proverbial wisdom of coming in like a lion going out like a lamb. I'm ready for some lamb, how about you?
Little lambs, and green grass, and blue skies with puffy white clouds, and fruit blossoms shedding a different kind of white on the ground.

I'm ready to put the cold and snowy days behind me, and look forward to the warm and colorful days ahead.

If it's really stopped snowing, and there is an end to the killing power of winter 2013-2014.
Too many have died.

"You Cannot Be Turned Down"

You can, however, be refused the payment you think you are investing in.

It's a gamble.

Of course, all insurance is a gamble. That more people will buy and pay in than will (whatever) and need to be paid. This is how insurance companies make money. 

Let us suppose that you need life insurance and can't get it through the usual agencies. Maybe you have a chronic condition which will (sooner rather than later) become terminal. You can't get life insurance, but you know that you -- or your family -- really need for you to have it.

So, you look into this "cannot be turned down" policy.

The commercials sound so good. "Only 9.97 per unit per month. About 35 cents a day."

BUT: a unit is $1,000.00 . 

Even a cremation setup costs around 2500--3000. So, even for an inexpensive service, you need three units per month. (A traditional funeral, done cheaply, runs between 5000 and 7000 .)

The price of your insurance has just trebled. At a minimum.

That leaves little if anything to help your family survive. You may have put yourself more at risk because you are trading in one of your medicines to be able to provide for your family after you have passed. 

The next phase has to do with your life expectancy.

If you die within the first year, your family gets nothing.

If you die before the second year ends, the insurance company, after having used your money for investment and interest profits, will generously payout to your loved ones every penny that you actually paid them. 

Not the number of units you purchased; not the coverage you were buying. Just what you paid for it. 24 months at $30 is $720. 

There are different companies with different time constraints -- one is six months/one year -- but they all do have these limits. Even your more standard policies have terms and restrictions as to what they will pay out, and when and why.

Add in all the paperwork and problems your family will have to deal with, as well. 

Ask yourself if this is truly the best choice you can make for your family.

Ask yourself if you think you will live long enough for them to profit from your investment.

It's a terrible burden to be dying and know you haven't left your family any resource for your final needs. I understand that -- you don't know how well I understand that. 

I just ask that, if you choose to go this route, please understand what you are doing. Please understand what your family will or will not collect. 

The odds are not in your (their) favor.

 

March is Roaring In. (We Hope.)

March comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb.
March comes in like a lamb, goes out like a lion.
Or so the saying goes.

As folk wisdom, it's pretty accurate. Especially if you don't insist on March's entry being 12:00m on March 1 of any given year.
The theory is the same as the groundhog seeing his shadow, just a month later.

Summer seems to come sooner and in a more orderly manner when Spring is a series of thaws and refreezes. When Springtime is a Battle for Supremacy against the forces of Old Man Winter.

So, we await one more winter storm, hoping it will be the last one. This one is possibly going to be the Worst of the Winter. A Last Blast.

I, for one, certainly, hope so.

The winter started early for me, with a death.
And there have been deaths all winter long. Few if any have been winter related, but that really doesn't matter. The winter of 2013-2014 has been the Deadly Winter to me. Even now I'm praying that it doesn't end with a (specific) death. I am afraid for my friend. (Any prayers or the equivalent that you offer I thank you for in friend's name.)

I hate this winter.
Hate it, hate it, hate it.

When March roars in, I will be standing on my porch (the one with the last storm's tree limb still thrown on  it) and I will be roaring right back.
"Good bye, good riddance you sorry old killer, you." I may even throw in a few bad words, if it won't shock anyone  too much. Or maybe even if it does.

Afterward, we can celebrate my daughter's birthday with no tornadoes and no blizzards, the way it usually happens.

Happy Birthday, Tammy.

Too Many Good-byes

There are too many people dying.

Do more people die in January (or January and February)  than other months, or does it just seem that way because we don't have fair-weather distractions?

Phyllis Walls was killed in a head-on collision on what I think was a familiar road. New Year's Day. What a great start to the New Year for her family, and fore her friends, even the long-ago-and-far-away ones. How horrible it is to have someone just not be there anymore. How horrible and how hard,

There has been another death, too, in my husband's family. Kevin Mullins. The husband of Rex's niece Eva, has passed away, and the whole family mourns yet again. They brought in the New Year in the hospital, with this horrific outcome. There have been too many deaths in this family in the last three to six months, and there are always too many deaths in the world.

A writer friend is sitting in a hospital waiting for her father to die. He went for one thing, developed another, and it has gone downhill from there. 

People should at least die from what's wrong with them, if they must die. (As we all must.)

It always seems to be wrong people who are dying, too. 

I don't mean the drug addicts, or even mass murderers, because I can understand that they may need extra chances to get it right,

I mean people with horrid diseases, slowly dying from the inside out.

I mean people who will never have independent lives again, and if they were in their right minds, would they want to live the dependent lives they are being forced to?

I even include people who are quietly soul starving, who live futile, desperate lives. Who perhaps want to "go home" or maybe they would only like to rest, for a really really long time.

Why can't these people be taken with such suddenness? Why is it the people with busy full lives who just disappear from the day-to-day of their families, their friends, their loved ones?

Well, life and love are mysteries, or so they say. 

Unsolved Mysteries.

Unfair Mysteries.

And it is only the 9th of January. 

Hopeless; Helpless; this cannot be me

I have been making my way through the world for a very long time. Sometimes successfully, sometimes not so much. But every day led me into a tomorrow and any time there were changes, I was there, doing my best to make the changes be the ones I wanted.
Or at least to go in a direction that somehow resembled something I wanted or could hope t turn into what I wanted.

It didn't bother me too much when I didn't find work right away when I first lost my job, three years ago this month. Oh, I still put in applications on a regular basis, even had a couple of interviews. No job.

No job, but I had plenty of work to do at home. Rex was getting sicker, and needed me there. The truth of this was borne out when he ended up in the hospital in February. When he came out, Tammy had moved out, Tracy was gone, and it was just the two of us, and we began the journey of returning him to reasonable health, and we had enough for the two of us.

With his medicines and all the changes, it was not enough for a while, and then I got a handle on it again.
And we were good.

Time and more changes, and Rex would get a little more sick and recover to a point of a little less well.
But he was here for me and I for him.

My computer crashed, was replaced, the newer one crashed. And was replaced. We lost Internet service and re-established a connection.

Tracy came back , left again, returned again. Tammy did well, had troubles, recovered and slipped again, but maintained her home. Tammy had another baby.

And the baby was born, and Tracy was here, and once every couple of weeks I would fill out job applications, and no one was interested in hiring me. That was okay, because we were getting by and spending time together.
It was all we could do and we did it.

And then he died, and the whole world stopped.
The income stopped, but the bills did not.
The presence stopped, but life didn't.

I have filled out job applications  at least twice a week. Most places do not take paper in person applications anymore, which works out well when you can't afford to buy gas to go from place to place.

I've never had so much trouble trying to get a job.

And I don't know what else to do.
I just don't.
What else is there? If you have any ideas, please let me know.

I am not helpless. I CAN work; I WILL work.
But someone needs to hire me.

I'm not helpless, but hope is dwindling fast.
Nothing in my life is as it should be.
Nothing.

And I don't know what to do.
Or how to do more.

This cannot be me.
I do not give in to circumstance.
I learn to work with it.

I CAN learn to work with it; I WILL learn to work with it.

Hopeless; helpless; This cannot be me. This will not be me.

I don't know...

It's ten days now since he died.

image found on Google search.

Ten days of things to do and things to take care of, and all the life goes on stuff.
Still much to do, a lot to figure out, and everything is hinging (hingeing?)on everything  else. Tried to call Social Security, but no one on the phone would talk to me. Couldn't give me any information related to Rex because of not having his permission. Never mind that he has deceased, died, is unavailable. They can't talk to me without his current consent.

Good luck with that.

Will have to go to office, which has to wait until I have the death certificate. I'm going to have to go in person, so I can go to Batavia. If  try to make an appointment from home, they will send me to the Portsmouth office. I barely know where Portsmouth is (on SR 125 East). I sure don't know where to find anywhere in Portsmouth.
I do know where Batavia is and the places in Batavia.
If we still lived in Mt Orab, or even Decatur, we would automatically go to Batavia. Seems the Social Security Administration does NOT consider Adams County as part of the Greater Cincinnati area, while Brown County is. This has made it interesting before. I just truck myself and my paperwork to Batavia at my convenience. If I get in early enough, I don't have to wait too long.

But first, I got notice from Adams County Jobs & Family Services. I am to report Monday to their jobs program (which has no jobs, but they are required by law to do the sign-ups, etc.) Didn't take them long to remove me from being a care-giver, although they have yet to acknowledge the prospective change in income.

Also got a medical card for Rex in the mail. We've never had one of those for him before. I kind of thought a little late, but as I have yet to be billed for anything, it's probably not too late. I think it's one of the changes for the disabled that has come with the Affordable Care Act.
At least I will have something to send when the bills come.
The brief letter with the card (sheet of paper) said nothing about the spendown, so I wonder if that's still in play or not.

I guess I'll find that out, too.

I do wonder what I will do when all this busyness is done. When there is nothing more to hurry up and wait for.

Something else to be found out.

Dying to Live, or Living to Die

I wonder if anyone of you realize how fast the end of this disease (COPD) can come upon you.
My husband went to hospital with pneumonia and an exacerbation because of it. He got worse, got better, got worse, got better. Then he tried to sit up unassisted in the bed and the doctor is saying, "This is end stage. Do you want kept alive by machine and stuck in a nursing facility, or not?" And, before we could even take that in, he crashed again and the goal was to keep him alive until his daughters came.
Of course, he lingered after that, even so still reluctant to leave us.

The point is, it all happened too quickly. We knew it would come, someday, and some day soon, and had discussed things in general -- health care directives and funeral 'plans' and such.
I urge you to get specific.
Do not make your loved one have to make the decision in the space of a few minutes or a couple hours.
Talk to your doctor about how it ends.
Talk to your family about how you want to end, and where.
Write it down somewhere.

Then go back to your business of living every day and enjoying every breath you take while you are taking it.

We all know that death is waiting for us. Those with chronic illnesses such as this know it more than the general population does. We know that we can have choices to make and there are choices our loved ones will have to make.
But do we want to put the burden of our decisions on their shoulders?

Know what you want, exactly, precisely.
Tell them what you want.
And now that this business of dying has been settled, go back to living.
.
Thoughtfully.
Gratefully.
Fully.

Fading Out

Rex is down to 84 pounds. He is better but not doing as well as the doctor thinks he should be, and has given him a prescription for prednisone. He told Rex about all the drawbacks with the daily prednisone. the most concerning is that it can cause osteoporosis. Rex already has severe osteoporosis. Oh, yay, Rex gets to choose between working bones or working lungs, when neither is working as it is, and never will work correctly ever again. At least the prednisone gives him a little bit of an appetite.

And Tracy tells him to "Get well." Like that is ever going to happen.
And she starts yelling at me when I tell her so.
Why?
Because she doesn't want to think about it.
I guess I do. It's my favorite reflection, I guess. How much more miserable he will get, how much frailer he will become, etc.
I'm already watching him disappear, one pound at a time. If he stays at a pound a month, that's 85 months before he disappears completely. @ 8 years. Of course he will be gone long before 0 pounds.
I wish I could go first, but then no one would take care of him.
Why not?
Because they don't want to think about it.

Sui-sides: My side

When I decide to die, it's not your fault. You are in no way responsible for my decision. It's MY decision.

When I choose to die, it won't be about you. I acknowledge that there will be a feeling that I didn't love you enough to live, and there will be a lot of wondering how could I do that to you. I say again, I can't say  often enough -- it's not about you.

I didn't love you enough?

First off, it is my great, great, overwhelming love for each and every one of you that has kept me going this long. Because I have loved you, I got up from my bed and cooked, and advised,  and even drove all over the countryside  because YOU NEEDED ME.
It is my love for you that keeps me trying.

My love for you has kept me going beyond all reason, beyond all sanity.

Sometimes, in the bad times, I resent that. I don't want held. I want free. Free to live my life  -- or NOT!

How could I do what, exactly, to you? End my life? Lay myself down to  a sleep where I won't have to go to the bathroom, or answer  the telephone, or do any of the many, many things that rob me of my rest, that steal peace from me?
How is that doing something to you? What makes you the star of my death?

I'm tired.
I'm sick.
I'm sick and tired.

I am also in pain. Mental, physical, emotional. Doesn't matter. I hurt.
I hurt, and you can't make that better, although  I know you want to.
I hurt, and healing is too hard. Another chore, another job, another effort.

It's not that you aren't worth  the effort -- you ARE.
It's just too hard, and it hurts too badly.

Finally.
I can't.
I just can't.

Not even you can make it worthwhile.

Give me rest.
Let me rest.

Tumbling Trees.

The latest reports are out on the USDA (United States Department of Agriculture) eradication of the Asian longhorn beetle. The numbers are staggering, and those of you living in neighboring counties to those mentioned -- or neighboring states -- might want to take a long hard look at the numbers before you decide that it's not really anything you need to worry about.

New York, 1st detection in August 1996. They found 6,275 infested trees. They have removed 18,467 trees. That is roughly three times the amount that were 'sick'.

New Jersey. Since October 2002. 729 infested, 21,981 trees removed. This is 30 -- yes, 30 times the number of injured trees.

Massachusetts, August 2008. 22,264 infested, 31,925 removed.

Ohio June 2011. 9091 infested trees, 8809 removed.

The good people in Bethel, the most affected area in Ohio, are fighting to save their trees. They acknowledge the need for infested trees to be removed, but are objecting to the destruction of the healthy. For most tree owners, they would porefer to have the trees vaccinated.
Yes, that can be done.
It is even less expensive than tree cutters, and chippers, and mulchers, and cherry pickers and earth movers and fuel for machinery (checked the prices on the fuel lately? -- bet you have.)

I want you, wherever you are, to go out in your backyard, or to your closest, favorite public park.
Look around.
Pick a tree, any tree, since this is an exercise in imagination.
The tree you have selected is sick. It has a bug. This bug is not airborne (as they say about viruses). But the tree is sick.
Say "Good-bye, favorite tree."

Now look around and see the other trees.
See the three closest trees.
Say "good bye" to them.
They must be assassinated because their neighbor was sick.

But wait, the neighboring trees have neighbors too. Pick any number, 3 or 30 or any other number, of the neighboring trees' neighbors.
Say "good bye" to them, too. They are neighbors of the neighbors of the sick tree, so they, too, must die.

Now, look around your back yard, or your park.
Are there any trees left?
Is there any shade left in your yard?
Are there any windbreaks left around your house?
What will hold the soil in your yard when the snow melts or the rains pound down?


My friends, this can happen to you. Yes, you may live far away -- but with the likes of Superstorm Sandy, (and the USDA wasted no time laying down the law in New Jersey afterwards,) is anywhere far enough away? Yes, you may not have the specific species of bugs that are eating these species of trees.

But you DO have a government agency that says it can come in and remove and confiscate your personal property (trees) because they can.

Infested trees need to be removed. No one is arguing with that. And the government has every right to take those down at its expense for the public good.

But they are claiming the right to take down all the trees that might become bug-sick. Not just likely, but "maybe perhaps someday might."

If they are allowed to do that here, in the heart of Ohio, in the nation's scenic heart, why do you think they will stop when they get to your back yard? They will be able to point to New York, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and Ohio as having established "THE" precedent.

Goodbye backyard.
Goodbye parks.
Goodbye trees.

Help the Bethel ALB group stop this trampling of property rights.
Before it becomes your rights that are lost.

http://us4.campaign-archive1.com/?u=d9ab319101533a13ab1c45685&id=587ea78b12

Fear of Phobia

I'm becoming, I'm afraid, a borderline agoraphobic.
No, I have become a borderline agoraphobic.
The becoming I'm worried about is the full blown phobia.

I don't think that will ever happen. I have too many chores and a granddaughter. That should be enough to keep me getting out on a fairly regular basis. And there are doctor's visits for my husband, and going to the pharmacy, and grocery shopping.

Those things should all keep me going, keep me out and about. I'm not so sure they will. Even if they do, I'm not sure that some of those things count. I don't enjoy them. I don't relish going to Walmart after prescriptions. I don't stop at this store or that and peek and poke and just enjoy myself, just enjoy getting out, even though God knows I rarely get alone time except in the car. Maybe alone time isn't really that important, anyway. I can always be alone inside myself. Inside my computer, or lost in a book. (That's not really alone, though. There are people in those books, and some of them are stupider than the ones in real life. Who'd've ever thought that was possible?)

In some ways, I feel I've been heading that way -- this way -- for all my life. I've never been able to easily or naturally speak to other people, sometimes not even those I know well. I have had my electricity and my water shut off because I was unable to make the telephone calls to make arrangements to pay. (Many years ago; not recently.)

But now I leave reluctantly. Not even my writers group holds the same interest for me, because my life has so changed. For a year I had limited contact with the real world.
I had no telephone and no internet. Because of Rex's hospitalization, and his doctor's and medicines, and having to pay other people gas money, the bills got way behind. So there was little talking with anyone, except when I needed something. That doesn't encourage socializing from either party involved. At least I didn't feel that it did. .

No car -- I had to get rides, or arrange rides, everywhere and anywhere. Few trips were worth the trouble. My writer friends were the ones with the most available help, but my sisters were always there also. The writers happen to live and work closer.
But even with their help, I was isolated and alone, and there's too much to handle alone, but I did it.



I did it all, from the safety net of my home.

I'm afraid, often. I'm afraid to leave because I worry about Rex getting sick or falling when I'm gone. Some nights I can't sleep, because I'm afraid I'll wake up and he won't be breathing. I'm afraid to drive anywhere, because what if I'm involved in an accident and get hurt? What will happen to Rex when someone else brings him that kind of news? Who will take care of him while I can't?
My God, what if I get crippled?
What will happen to Rex if I get killed?

Rex, bless his heart, encourages me to go to my group, and to go to family events, if he knows about them. I usually don't tell him, because he won't /can't go. And I don't want to leave him alone for hours at a time. All the what-ifs come alive when that happens.

I can't let this progress. It must not be allowed to get any worse. Even I cannot live that self-contained. There are chores that must be done, errands that must be run. And what kind of example am I setting for Hailey if I turn myself into the Hermit Grandmother? It's bad enough that Pappaw is already that way.

Thank goodness for summer, for the season of picnics and reunions and weddings. Thank God for sisters and friends and other family who will coax me or bully me out of my little blue hole. They, more than anything I can do, are what keeps me straight, keeps me trying. Keeps me on the sane side of the line,

I can thank none of them enough. Ever.

I am my Appliances.

I have to say, there seems to be something to the idea that household appliances last ten years before they need replaced. I've finally owned major appliances, purchased new, that have lasted ten years. And, true to statistics, they have started to break down.

My dryer makes a horrible noise. I don't know if it works at all or not (the drum will turn sometimes), because that very strange, very loud noise makes me afraid to find out. I don't want the thing to explode, after all. Or catch on fire. Or put out power for the whole town. Anyway, that's the dryer.

Then the heating element in my oven went out. This has happened before, and isn't really a big deal, except that it happened. It's frustrating. Last night, one of my burners caught on fire. It's a burner I've used infrequently but regularly, and there was no reason for it to ignite. It was not on high heat. Scorched and burned one of my brand new beautiful red pans, too.

That leaves the refrigerator and the washer. The washer has had problems for a long time. Nothing major, nothing unexplainable, nothing impossible. It cleans my clothes, as long as the necessary adjustments are made.
Haven't had too many problems with the fridge. It wants to freeze everything on the top shelf, or nor quite freeze things in the freezer, and there's a shelf in the freezer that is at the wrong level and it wont come out. But other than that, it cools on. (I hope I'm not jinxing it by talking about it.)

This all reminds me, strongly, of what happened to my body once I turned forty. I started having accidents like stepping in a hole and falling up stairs and smacking the back of my hand into bread racks. After the accidents, the remnants -- the places that I had injured -- just started aching, often for no reason.

But, like my appliances, I'm still here.
I'm still doing my job(s).
There have to be adjustments, there has to be timing, and things may be done differently. But the jobs can be done or got around.

We'll all  work on until completely dead, and even that may not be "The End".

We (me and my appliances) can be harvested for parts when our usefulness as ourselves is over.
That's a nice thought.