I have thank you notes to write, calls to make, people I should hug for 100 years, lovely people who sent wonderful things, beautiful pieces of art, music, prayers, offers of coffee and friendship. I’ll reply soon and acknowledge how much I appreciate you. I’m so sorry and I know some of you are worried and maybe even hurt. Please forgive me. I’m trying.
But what is it? I can’t move. I sit on the couch and look outside to watch the wind blow through the trees and I think, “Dad would have loved this garden,” and then I cry. Grief is nothing to trifle with and I’ll hold grief’s hand until he feels like moving on. We sit quietly together for long hours these days.
Mom sent me a small box of photographs and they arrived today. Going through them was wonderful, but now I can barely breathe.
Jim wanted to walk through a park with another couple tonight but I couldn’t do it. Some of it is also because my ankles creak and crack with arthritis and so I’m slow. It’s embarrassing to feel like an old woman. Sorrow and shame. Humiliation. He went without me.
On the other hand in the afternoons I sit in my wicker chair, right in the middle of the lawn, and water the flower beds in the sun. Sometimes I close my eyes and almost fall asleep. Sometimes the breeze brings mist across my face. It feels like a caress. I miss that kind of tenderness. I don’t feel it much myself these days, but I understand this is all temporary and tomorrow I’ll laugh. He’d eventually laugh if he were grieving me.
That’s all I’ve got. Here is a simple but beautiful song from someone hardly anyone knows.
June 10, 2009
Now That He’s Gone
May 19, 2009
Sunday
It was a bright, beautiful, warm and inviting wonderful day! I’m not able to sleep more than four hours a night. I wake up before dawn with a knot in my gut. “Is this a dream?” I wonder. “Is my Dad dying or is this a nightmare?” Every morning, early, I ask these two questions and the answer wakes me right the hell up. He’s dying. He’s dying. He’s really dying. Thoughts swirl through my consciousness. My throat dries up and anxiety grips my chest. It’s better to get out of bed then, so I let the dogs outside, and sit on the couch with the laptop.
It’s quiet in the morning unless our neighbor’s dogs are in his back yard. If they’re outside, we have barking. Lots of barking. In that case, I let the dogs back in. I feed them and settle back into the couch. No matter what I do, I’m aware of my Dad.
He can’t swallow anymore.
I bought pansies today. I bought nasturtiums, and Japanese blood grass too. Lime green leafed salvia. I aim to clean up the patio tomorrow, to pretty it up, make it make me smile. Folly.
My mom is full of grief. “I’ve known him since we were sixteen,” she says. She thinks she might travel some. “Maybe I’ll meet another old lady to travel with,” she says. I offer to travel anywhere with her.
“Really? You’d want to be with me?” she asked. She sounds surprised.
“You’re on!” she replies when I say, “Sure!”
She gave his recliner away today.
Jim and I had breakfast with two dear friends. We ate outdoors underneath Japanese maples, east of the apple tree. It was nice. Then I drove my husband to work, poor man. I came back later that day to bring Chloe. She barked at both of them and pooped on their lawn. Twice.
The doctor says Dad has days, or hours. My sister-in-law prayed with him and he said, “Good night Ralph.” That’s his name.
So I know he knows he’s dying. I wonder if I’ll know when he goes? I hope so.
March 10, 2009
Piles
I had a little relapse and spent yesterday feeling sick and miserable. Slept off and on all day and ate toast and drank a few glasses of protein water. Operative word: Blerg.
Today is a brand new day. Instead of dark and gray and snow flurries, there is sunshine and blue and a very cold breeze. Chloe has already been to the beach with Jim and me (thank you my lovely friend] this morning, but I feel like taking her again. She’s chewing up a barbecue tool while her car blanket spins in the washing machine. The television is on, but the sound is muted. I can’t stand anymore bad news.
When the blanket is clean and dry we’ll head back to the shore. I could stand another quiet day before I dive into a new plan.
Nothing has felt right. Nothing fit. I didn’t feel excited, not a bit of passion, no love, whenever I thought about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I did think about what I didn’t want. No cold calling, sales, high-energy, multi-tasking, rock n roll, get ‘er done and work my ass off because I enjoy making the lazy CEOs rich. I wondered about what was wrong. Was I way too past my prime? Had I become obsolete or at least irrelevant? Why didnt anything fit? Why did I feel apologetic? Embarrassed? Unconvinced and therefore unconvincing?
I don’t want to sell you anything. That’s key. On the other hand, I don’t want to feel like your underling. I don’t mind being helpful. I even think it’s cool to be a servant, but I don’t want to be a modern-day knave to any corporation/kingdom. For a while I wondered if there was something wrong with my attitude, but I understand it now. I come from blue-collar stock, at least partially. I also come from a group of brilliant thinkers, creative artists, and hilarious rascals. We make our own way. We were independent business folks, farmers, factory workers, think tank members, stay-at-home moms and entrepreneurs.
Follow your passion, was the advice. Horticulture! Web design! Writing! Art! But how do any of those become a new career for an already middle-aged woman? That’s my problem. That’s where I run into a thick brick (and ivy covered) wall. That’s where the jokes about mothers and old people on Facebook and riffs about age shut me down, and shut me down completely. Utterly, really. I mean it.
I hate being laughed at. I fear the inevitable snickers, snide comments, and assumptions about who I must be (for instance, I didnt know anything was wrong with Chico’s).
Here’s the thing. So what?
That’s all there is to it. So what? I’ll do what I love, go where I want to go, say what I need to say, love who I want to love, laugh when something’s funny, cry when I’m moved to cry and if that makes someone snicker, so what?
On another note: crocus!
A pile of things: The gigantic fallen branches are gone and the leaf mess is gone from the patio. Ferns are poking out, as are the tulips. Daffodils bloom. We need a bazillion pounds of mulch and pea gravel for the various paths. This year we should split the Hostas.
Clean and organize the office. Organize the art supplies, which is a never-ending clarion call. Make the two-headed doll and create a few more springtime cards. Mop the floor. Pre-cook several pounds of ground beef and freeze it.
These are wishes (like fishes) that may or may not get done this week, but I put them here in the spirit of hopefulness.
Have coffee with one old friend and a new Twitter friend that shares my love of gardening. Take that damned placement test I keep putting off because I’m terrified. Change the air filter. Make our bed.
My stomach is gurgling in protest, still unsure if she wants me to have a good day. Stomach doesn’t have much authority if I don’t fill it, so I won’t. She’ll have to go to the beach with me so Chloe can run with her friends while I watch the sun sent over the water and behind the Olympic mountain range. Thats the plan.
We’re off.
October 26, 2008
Layoff’s Coming
One week left at the office, and then off we go into the unknowable future. Layoff! I’m part of the freefall – a statistic. MSNBC talks about me and so does Fox News. At first I was terrified to be a middle-aged laid-off woman with no great hope for a comparable job. For two weeks I wallowed in self-pity and (mostly justifiable) fear, but not today, baby! Now I’m on a quest. Now it’s an interesting challenge. It’s become a topic: something to focus on. I’ve applied for over two-dozen positions, but I’m not convinced that these are/were viable offers. Most of us Americans are concerned about the economy and might not want to spend an extra dime and that includes employers. I have a job interview and some kind of test this Tuesday. There is a job fair on that day too. I’ll go.
It’s time to crank up the art machine and make a few things. Time (therefore) to organize the secretary – get rid of things I won’t use and organize the things I need. I leave for Wisconsin on November 8th and will work on a body of work while there.
Maybe I can fine a mediocre (income-wise) job near home and supplement my income selling art and since I’m dreaming I’ll begin to write for odd little freelance projects here and there (any ideas?). I will find a solution because I have to. Giving in to fear and hopelessness won’t do anybody any good, and in particular it won’t help me.
Who would hire a hangdog, depressed, worried and hopeless overweight middle-aged woman? Not me.
Instead of buying things, I want to organize what I already have. Instead of searching the shopping centers for Christmas gifts I’ll either make things myself or buy from crafty Etsy friends. I’ll buy from a local dairy. Shop locally every chance I get.
We’ll turn down the heat and wrap ourselves up in blankets. I like the shift in my focus. I want to simplify because it feels right, feels better than consuming things for no needful reason. I want to concentrate on personal responsibility. I want to aim towards peace, towards charity, towards love and reconciliation.
Gardening Notes: Everything is dying or falling asleep. The hostas are yellowing. The maple leaves are on fire. The asters are beautiful and two different shades of purple. The Cosmos have new flowers in white pink and brighter pink, but the impatiens plants have melted. Petunias are gone.
A gardening expert told me to wrap our green tomatoes in newspaper and they’ll magically ripen. That represents the last of the last of our summer, unless you count the fennel that if we let it would take over the world. It’s over. It’s cold. It’s time to sweep the wet leaves off the patio and call it a year.
Politics: Nine more days. I’m voting early by absentee, but I don’t trust the GOP enough to mail it. I’ll turn it in by hand and try to breathe until a week after this Tuesday. Tomorrow. Obama. Word to the wise; turn off your tee vee. Don’t visit political websites. Go for a walk instead. Buy a handful of flowers. Bake a loaf of bread. Make stew. Clean out a closet. Give a bag full of old clothes to charity. Clip coupons. Donate a couple of cans to a food bank.
Everyone I know is tightly wound up and ready to scream.
When I go to work in the morning, I already know my boss will be loaded for bear because something bad happened to him Friday afternoon. He’d like to hold me responsible, but I’m not and not only am I not responsible, I don’t care. By laying me off, when really – seriously – he didn’t have to lay me off but he’s a Republican and that’s what they do, he set me free, just like a divorce.
It will all end up okay eventually. He’ll solve his own problem and that’s fine with me. We all move on.
September 28, 2008
Obama Did Okay
My new little Simpson’s avatar. Close, but not exactly. She’s my Twitter girl.
A chill blows into the living room through the window we left open for the cats, but the breeze feels nice. I’ll leave the window open. Blue sky, painfully blue and brighter than a Sunday morning should be. Jim putters in the kitchen. He’s making Dutch Babies, I think. It’s a popular Seattle breakfast. Think eggy pancakes baked in melted butter in an ancient iron skillet then sprinkled with powdered sugar and juice from a lemon wedge (I used two, sometimes three because lemons are in my acerbic blood).
Have I ever told you, dear diary, that I come from a lemon farming family? It took years, but I finally found a lemon crate label with the old (circa 1930) family logo. Serra. It’s beautiful and a Sunkist lemon is featured on the label, so it’s a rare and valuable label, but the monetary value doesn’t matter. I’d never sell it.
I’m babysitting a seven-week old Shih Tzu puppy named Jackson today. He’s a brave little soul, chasing my two dogs all over the house. They’re afraid of Jackson, or maybe they have an instinctual belief that if they lay a paw on the pup, Jackson’s mother will appear and hurt them with a vengeance. Works for Jackson.
On Politics: I liked Obama during the debate and was glad he agreed with John McCain whenever he honestly agreed. That is called “civil discourse” boys and girls and I hope we will see more of it. McCain was rude and seemed small, washed up and petty. He reminded me of a grouchy grandpa that insists on telling his “when I was a young man” stories during Thanksgiving dinner effectively holding the extended family hostage to his viewpoint. Grandpa needs to get on “the Google” and learn a little more about the 21st century. I’d rather hear about his vision for the future than his oft-repeated 20th century accomplishments, but that’s just me. He repeated his “I wasn’t Miss Congeniality” line twice during the debate. Ha. Grandpa, you already said that. Pay attention.
I’m sick with worry about the $700 billion dollar Fat Cat and Corporate/Wall Street Criminal Bailout. It might not work, and what then? We are like my neighbor Larry who holds (last time we talked about it, anyway) four mortgages, each one intended to bail him out of the credit mess his “fun” purchases got him into. Four times he’s used his equity to rescue him from his own over-spending self. Trouble is, Larry’s house has devalued by at least 20% in the last two years and the value is still dropping. There are no more bail outs for Larry.
What if that happens to our nation? What if fearful and angry countries call their loans back? What if the banks and the insurance companies run out of money? What if Boeing gets sick of the striking union and fires everyone? What if my husband breaks his arm in October?
We stand on the edge of a cliff, the wind is blowing hard against our backs. The protective fence rotted away and there is nothing to keep us from falling anymore. I am in a constant state of worry. Anxiety with enough oomph to effect every aspect of my life.
I’d hide my head in the sand, but we sold it on CraigsList for some extra cash.
Today: More laundry: the bain of my domestic existence. Put summer clothes away. Sweep the messy wood floors. Trim more of the sleepy perennials. Cut an armful of roses for the house. Start the dishwasher. Put the quilt in the guestroom. Take a long and luxurious lavender-scented bath and try to breathe through the “our nation’s in serious trouble” blues. Wash my ever-graying hair.
Post this blog and get on with it.
September 22, 2008
Notes
it’s dark outside and the air is cool. Jim’s taking a bath. I’m watching Heroes, but absent-mindedly (that’s not a word). I started fleshing out some characters yesterday. Katie and (the confused) Jon James. Eric Anderson of course and Cyndi the trailer trashy, bipolar, man-stealing whore disguised as the kids’ beloved aunt. I think I like Storyist. Maybe I’ll buy it.
I read an essay by Jim Wallis that included a “message from God” to Wall Street. It comes from the Old Testament. It seems like prophecy, but probably isn’t. I’m sure greed and avarice has been a mainstay of the human condition for as long as we’ve been on earth. The passage comes from Micah 2:1-4:
Woe to those who plan iniquity, to those who plot evil on their beds! At morning’s light they carry it out because it is in their power to do it. They covet fields and seize them, and houses, and take them. They defraud a man of his home, a fellowman of his inheritance. Therefore, the Lord says: “I am planning disaster against this people, from which you cannot save yourselves. You will no longer walk proudly, for it will be a time of calamity. In that day men will ridicule you; they will taunt you with this mournful song: ‘We are utterly ruined; my people’s possession is divided up. He takes it from me! He assigns our fields to traitors.’”
Mohinder Suresh is hot, I’m just saying…
Tomorrow: Finish the leasing spreadsheet, photograph the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom(s). Place the ads. Blinds? Fire/Safety system? Call the door company about the codes for the openers. Update my calendar. Walk. Refuse to buy a latte. Drink water instead.
Dig up the coneflower. Plant the coneflower into the ground. Compost, then mulch.
September 13, 2008
Morning
The hemlocks, wizened trees and so many, are wrapped in a wisp of fog and the morning feels unusually cool. It’s quiet in the neighborhood. Our next door neighbor is puttering on one of his innumerable cars (I think he has six if you don’t count the two four-runners he revs up every week or so), but he putters quietly, no radio and that’s fine because I’m listening to Radiohead and letting the melancholy wrap itself around me like a wisp of fog.
Our other neighbor’s daughter is having a birthday party today. She’s six and we’ve attended every birthday party since she was born. We’ve been told she loves Hanna Montana, so Hanna Montana stuff we will seek and buy.
I need to fill the pond and turn the waterfall back on – water the thirsty ferns. “Let’s cover the garden with compost this year,” I say to Jim right before he falls back into his luxurious Saturday morning sleep. We are sick of gardening work by this time every year, we neglect to do the important autumn gardening chores and instead let the perennials die their natural death, but we’ve invested blood, sweat, and maybe not tears into this place. Compost can’t hurt.
Maybe we can plant tulip bulbs before we cover the garden with compost. Maybe then we can plant winter pansies and carefully cover the rest. When the weather turns, we won’t go into the backyard much but wouldn’t the squirrels appreciate the color?
I hear laughter coming from another neighbor’s house. It’s a wonderful sound. Someone tosses bottles into a recycling bin. A dog barks, startled by the sound of breaking glass. We’re waking up. The fog begins to lift allowing the first morning sun to pour through the hemlock trees.
What i want to do: Read an article about economics. Put the drycleaned clothes away. Dust.
Coffee!