The Tale of Woe

August: Joma brings home the flu to Bernie and me, possibly from some germy little hog on the soccer team. My dog Kermit starts rubbing his eyes and muzzle -- lots of wildfire smoke in the air, so probably a reaction to that.

September: Recovering, lots of coughing for us, more rubbing by Kermit, still so much smoke.

October: Alex's health is getting bad enough she has to quit working.  Kermit is losing weight and his coat feels dry and dirty.

November: Kermit takes an extreme turn for the worse, stops eating, loses 20 pounds and looks like a fur-covered skeleton. Alex has surgery to correct her health problems. By November 10th, I quit NaNoWriMo because I fear my dog is dying.

December: Kermit appears to be on the mend after we nearly had him put down -- he couldn't walk without crying with pain, wouldn't eat. Bernie has surgery scheduled to correct a scar tissue problem from an operation 44 years ago, but halfway through the surgery, the doctors see something in his monitors that makes them fear a heart attack, and he is admitted to the hospital (it was supposed to be a 3-hour in-and-out thing) for three days for test upon test on his heart.

Christmas: Bernie has a clean bill of health for his heart, his surgery was quite successful, and I know from the medical tests that he doesn't have the same heart condition that killed his two brothers in the last three years. Kermit looks good again, putting on weight, his coat soft and glossy.

Goodbye, 2019.

In

Today is the last Wednesday of Lent. Tomorrow is Holy Thursday, and the beginning of the Triduum. I began Lent with a fever, and am trying not to be annoyed that I'm ending Lent with another one, after years of not getting sick. 2014: The Fever Lent.

I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. It's making me remember this Lent, which could be good; the last Lent I actually remember was one during which I walked every day, praying the Rosary as I strode along with Howie on his leash. Before that, I don't really remember Lents, except for 2001, when I slept on the floor and kept a dream journal -- which proved fruitful for me. But I will remember this Fever Lent.

Focusing on the Ignatian Examen as much as my fevered brain can, I've tried to let myself get away from thinking that this world is the reality of mankind. It isn't. It's a construct, much like the world of The Matrix. (At least the first one in the trilogy -- the other two were just stupid.) We move through it, but it isn't what's real.

Or better said, it isn't what is ultimately real.

Anyway, the Examen begins with this sentence: "Recall you are in the presence of God." Now somehow, that calls to mind being in the presence of the King, or maybe being called before the presence of the judge, as though we stand before God. God over there, us over here. We are in front of God. We are in God's room. God sits on his throne and smacks his head over the idiot standing with hat in hand bawling, "Please, Massa, don' beat on this poor old sinner!"

Phraseology can be tricky. What if the word in that sentence -- "in" -- was the focus?

God is not over there or apart from us. God is All in All. There is no "place" that God goes away to when he's tired of hearing us whine; indeed, God doesn't get tired.

The presence of God is what is real. I need to recall daily that I am in that presence. Embedded, carried, held, -- inside, not apart. Not standing in front of, not down on Earth looking up at clouds wondering if God is reclining up there, not on the other side of some impenetrable wall. This creation is God, held in being by God, and I am in that.

For me, this is a good thought to carry away from this Lent. 2014, the Lent of Fever and In.

Mid-Leap

You have to have health insurance.

You have to have health insurance.

You have to have health insurance!

Well, I'm screwed, in that case. Because I take medication for high cholesterol, have been taking a tiny dose of medication for high blood pressure, and have a herniated disc in my spine, I am considered "high risk," and health insurance companies want nothing to do with me. This is in spite of the fact that I haven't been sick at all for several years.

When I got the notice, I was very depressed by the news. The proud little striving straight-A teenager inside me felt I'd been given a failing grade. And the paranoid Type A control freak who lives in there, too, was running around flipping switches in the laboratory, ordering flunkies to find a solution, "Now! Now! NOW!" all the while running possible scenarios of disaster over and over again. But then the shaman, who drifts around looking at bugs and dirt muttered, "You know, you're going to get yourself so worked up over this you'll make yourself sick and it will serve you right. There's nothing you can do today, just chill. Pet your dog. Trim your fingernails, they look like you're trying out for the Mandarin Squad."

The next day I dragged them all to Mass, and went into church a bit early to go over this disaster with God. Yes, I do that. In fact, when I open my heart to God, and the realm of the Unseen, things seem to make a lot more sense.

Why do you want health insurance? Because if I become catastrophically ill, I'll need hospitalization, and we all know how expensive that is -- we'd be on the street in about six months with nothing at all. (At this point, I am glad that I can't hear God laugh, because I KNOW, God doesn't deal in coinage.) All right, fine, Lord, I shouldn't worry about that. And what happens to people with no money who get catastrophically ill? THEY DIE! OR THEY BECOME INCAPACITATED! BED-RIDDEN! AND THEN DIE! Hmm. But if they have health insurance, then what happens? They go to the hospital, of course, and are treated for their illness...

How? Visions of IV's, catheters, stomach tubes, medications upon medications, hospital rooms flashed through my head. You ... want that? Yikes!

I thought about my Dad's last months. Yes, x-ray treatment and chemotherapy did slow the progression of the cancer in his body, but his doctors had to know that the disease had gone too far for a cure. Realistically, I mean. Pill after pill, side effect after side effect, finally being tied down in a hospital bed so that he couldn't pull out the feeding tube that prolonged his failing life in misery. What would Dad have wanted instead? I know that answer: total honesty, and his own bed at home, with cigarettes and the occasional beer to pass the last hours.

And my mom ... yes, hospitalization and massive treatments gave her a chance for some more years of life ... so that she could die alone, in the dark cut-off corners of her brain, with Alzheimer's. What would she have wanted if she knew what her end would be? I think know the answer to that, too.

What it boiled down to, and I know I've said this before, is that I had succumbed to advertising hype on a most basic level. When was the last time I was hospitalized? When I gave birth. The last time I had to visit an emergency room was for a sprained ankle, which they x-rayed and then sent me home to recover for six weeks, with no further medical treatment. Technically, I didn't need the hospital then, either.

Howie is aging, too, but he doesn't give a damn. He leaps into the pool over and over for the sheer joy of fulfilling a basic drive to chase the ball. He doesn't worry about his form in the leap, or if he'll unexpectedly forget how to swim when he hits the water. He is disgusted when we make him slow down and rest; he doesn't complain later when he stiffens up and limps. The next day he is ready to make the leap again. I think I can understand that a little better now.

And you know, there's not a thing I can do about the herniated disc -- it doesn't bother me a lot at all. As to the other "pre-existing conditions"... well, if I'm really worried about my health, I could lose weight and exercise more, now couldn't I?

The skinny hedge-shaman in my head thinks that realization is really, really funny.

Gathering Clouds

The other morning, we woke to an unusual August sight: clouds!

Well, that many clouds, anyway, and that kind of clouds -- the ones that run in herds across the sky.

To me it seemed like a whisper, a reminder, a warning that the perfect weather we've been having is going to change greatly in the not too distant future.

In two weeks, we probably won't want to get in the swimming pool; it will be too chilly. Seems ludicrous today, when the temperature outside is 103 degrees outside, but the fact is, by the weekend, the low temps at night will make that pool feel like an ice bath.

So the clouds are an omen of cooler weather to come.

I got a phone call a few days ago that was a omen of changes, of clouds on the horizon of my life: my mother's nurse called from the nursing home to tell me that over night, Mom had inexplicably "bruised" an ankle badly. They took an x-ray, which showed no break, but then a couple days later, the nurse called again.

My mother's foot was still swollen, but turning red, with streaks going up her leg. I didn't need the nurse to explain to me why they had begun treating her for a possible infection; they were supposed to do some kind of tests to see if there was a blood clot involved.

No blood clot; so they tested for gout. No gout, no breaks, no clots.

I know this because they woke me up at 6:50 this morning to tell me that although the tests were clear of what they were testing for, her foot is still swollen, and because she can't remember from one minute to the next what her condition is, she tried to get up from her wheelchair to take herself to the bathroom, and fell. The nursing home always calls if there is a fall.

Mom wasn't hurt in the fall -- at least not this time.

I asked the nurse if there was a possibility of an insect bite that would cause my mother's foot to swell ... like me, my mother used to be very susceptible to "fly bites" -- gnats, in her case -- that would make her swell up with allergic reaction. (I got one off some bug on the surface of the pool about two weeks ago that made my left side swell and discolor like a bruise and systemic poisoning. That'll teach me to skinny dip at night and then not shower after!)

But the fact is, Mom isn't going to get all better, and the breakdown of bodily functions will continue to escalate. I'm not looking forward to how things will get more iffy, but I suspect that the breakdown events, knowing as I do that they must come, will be less traumatic than the onset of full-blown Alzheimer's was.

Day Eight: The River Will Keep Moving Along

The first business on Monday was to drive to Mifflintown to take sign some papers associated with my mother's trust fund. I was looking forward to this part of the day -- the people at the bank are really incredibly good at what they do, and I've emailed them, talked on the phone with them -- but never met them.

Before he let me do that, however, Bernie took a side trip off the road to a new Juniata River access point, built since the last time I was back East.

It was beautiful! If I lived back East, I'd be just about living at that access area. There's a nice boat launch, the parking lot is big, there are loads of areas that a rabid river fisherwoman could stand and fish and fish and fish. For one brief second, I wished we'd move back there.

A very brief second, to be sure.

The bank business went quickly, and then I gathered my fears and we drove to The Hearthside nursing home to see my mother.

The morning in-charge nurse had recommended to me a couple weeks ago that we take some soft ice cream for Mom -- something she would like, and we approached a common room, caramel sundae in hand.

Now, the last time I saw my mother, she was skeletally thin (and that is NOT AT ALL an exaggeration), a jittering, viciously angry talking skull, eyes bulging in emaciated sockets. I looked for her among the residents in the room, and didn't at first recognize her.

She weighs about 40 pounds more now, her gray hair has gone straight, and she was dozing quietly in her chair. When we called to her, "Tere! Hi! We brought you some ice cream," she responded, "For free?"

She took Bernie's arm when he offered it to her (declining me taking her hand) and we moved to a peaceful little lounge that has big windows. We asked her how she felt, and told her we were glad to see her looking so well. She told us that she had been born in Mexico, and that she had four brothers, and that the day they all became citizens of the United States was the best day they ever had. She really loved the ice cream.

Tere was bright enough in demeanor for me to be assured she wasn't drugged; her clothes and hair, hands and face were clean. The sagging wrinkles that had hung from her emaciated face three years ago were gone. She's being well-cared for. In her dementia, she's creating her memories as she goes along; she remembers very little of her life. I thought it was strange and sweet when she told us how very much she had admired her mother, and how, as a child, she wanted to be just like her. That's news to me, I thought as I watched her. She must have fibbed to me for nearly half a century. Again, it was sweet to think she's remembering nice things rather than bad and bitter things.

She didn't know who we were, and didn't ask.

After about 45 minutes of visiting, we took our leave of her. I hugged her, and told her I loved her. Goodbye.

I made it about 15 feet down the hall before my tears spilled over; the nurse put her arms around me and held me between her and Bernie. And then it was time to return to the world.

The visit was far less stressful than I thought it would be; it hurt so much more than I expected that she didn't know me. Still, what I needed to do, both for her (to see her cared for properly) and for me (to say farewell) was accomplished.

There was more, though. The past four years of my mother's decline have been hard. The outpouring of bitterness and meanness that presaged the loss of her memory and judgment, her refusal to admit to her illness, her pig-headed imposition of isolation on my sister, her uncooperative belligerence to her caregivers while she had 24/7 care in her home -- although I knew what Alzheimer's does to the people who have it, I carried, in some hidden talisman in my soul, a wad of anger for what her illness did to the people around her. In meeting her on Monday, seeing how very little of her life is left, I was able to put the anger down and leave it behind. Let it drift on down the river, so to speak. I have no need of it now; I can see that I only kept it to hide my fear and sadness.

I've looked at my mother's illness as a kind of purgation for her; a purification of soul on the spiritual journey. All the things that she clutched uncompromisingly to herself have been taken away. All the things that she grasped with unholy selfishness, now all gone. Her property, her possessions, her vindictiveness, her independence, her very memories ... with nothing left, she's calm and pleasant; as she told Bernie and me, "I'm very content." Her purgation and mine are connected at this time. In her inability to refuse my love now, and my leaving behind my anger -- together, we achieved a kind of reconciliation.

Drifting in the Clouds

The skies of this area are never as richly blue in the summer as they are in the winter. That dark blue reminds me of the color of Alex's eyes a few hours after she was born; her eyes were already open wide, seeking the source of the light beside my bed.

How easily I'm distracted! I was going to make this post about writing, not about how it felt like I was holding my very heart in my arms as a new mother.

In spite of having tried to cement in a new habit of getting up and writing in the mornings -- that was why I finally decided to do the National Novel Writing Month challenge -- the habit crumbled with the first cloudy daybreaks and a strange sleep/dream cycle that hits me around 7am, causing a very sound sleep and some VERY interesting dreams, so that I sleep in past 9:30 a.m. most mornings and am left bemused and unmotivated.

So much for that new habit.

However, what I have of a new story (minus the stupid word count efforts) is pretty solid. I love the story, in fact, and have had a lot of fun with the main character so far. She's feisty and furious, inventive, and mischievous. Her name is Roj, and bullets won't stop her.

God alone knows when I'll get a chance to finish the story, with the holidays coming up, the onset of a shitty cold last night, and the lovely prospect of coming down with the stomach flu that hit John last week, and Lillian this morning.

Back to the old evening habit now, of taking my place in the comfy chair in the bedroom with pillows to prop me up, my laptop glowing, my faithful dog Howie staring accusingly at me from the bed because I'm in his favorite spot, perhaps to write, perhaps to re-read what has been written, and to thank God that for this hour, at least, I'm not plagued by that stomach flu.