Morning's Not For Me

I wake up like a person who needs to know how to do everything again for the first time. Like walk. I stagger and weave in the morning as I make my way to the crapper. My brain doesn't work and usually actually hurts. My eyes won't focus. I've tried to write a brief answer to a comment on the blog before I've been up at least an hour and my fingers just do not work. Like little clubs with no memory of the keyboard. I hate mornings. I always have.

My mother claimed I was born a night person. She was always a morning person, so this was just one more way in which I was defective. But her assertion that fresh out of the womb I wanted to sleep in and stay up all night rings very true. I've had jobs that required 5 AM call times. The best thing for me to do was sleep most of the prior day, then just wake up in the late evening and then my call time would be at a reasonable hour, still part of the night.

I was an assistant to the fashion coordinator at Nordstrom in Salt Lake and Nordstrom likes to have very early morning meetings for management. I can remember driving down Emigration canyon road at 6 AM and not gaining consciousness until pulling into the parking garage. I call this sleep driving. I was completely on autopilot during all those early morning drives down that narrow, steep, winding canyon road. I know I drove the road asleep and speeding.

Now some jackass is calling me every morning at 8:01. This would be great if I really needed a wake-up call, but it's torture since I stayed up till 3 Am the night before. That is my normal bedtime. I know it's wrong to the rest of you that I have the luxury of living my life according to my own biorhythms, but that's the only good thing about being disabled--that and Medicare coverage.

So today I plan to make some phone calls. I will reregister with the Do Not Call Registry. That won't stop this asshole, but it's a start. I'm getting too many solicitations everyday and it isn't all that much fun fucking with the poor schmucks who need that work. The Diabetes Association has stopped calling me, but the person who is calling me is, I'm pretty sure the person who first called me for the Diabetes Association and got the angry bear that is me in the morning and decided it was fun to wake me up. Now I'll start disconnecting my phone at night.

A Poem For JoJo and Scarlet

We are sisters under the skin
We are not just invisible women
We are members of a tribe of knife wielding women
Fierce in our understanding of trust and what it doesn't mean
Betrayal becomes the thing we do to keep from ever being left again
Or vulnerable or lost or used again and tossed away like a used condom
Like the scalpel, like the stirrups, like the old man looking who says
"Mind if I give it a go?"

Responding to a Tisking

Darkblack darling, I didn't buy rum at the Utah State Liquor store today because I'm well stocked in rum. I also have odd things like a fifth of Pernod, a couple of inches left in a bottle of Wild Turkey Liqueur regifted to me by a man who obviously didn't think much of me because he obviously hated it. I offered him a glass every time I saw him. (I had a girlfriend in my modeling group of friends who was an alcoholic. She is probably the one who consumed the better part of this vile concoction when I ran out of everything else.) The only use I've ever found for it is in a barbeque sauce. I have things like vermouth for Martinis and Schnapps for hot chocolate. I have Sweet n Sour for Whiskey Sours. I have cocktail onions for Gibsons. I have olives for Martinis. I make a great Dirty Martini or a great Dry Martini. I can make a very fine Old Fashioned. I even have the right glasses for most things. But in the olden days when I drank, I liked my George Dickle neat. I liked my Laphroaig neat. I liked my Bombay Saphire Martinis straight up with two olives. And the best Old Fashioned I ever had was served to me in the bar of the Miramir hotel on the ocean side as you're driving into Santa Barbara from LA just before you get to Montecito.

I was trained by a mixologist named Bill Bailey. I was replacing him. He was retiring as head bartender at a little French restaurant and great piano bar in, of all places, Springfield, Mo. He was an exacting teacher. I could free pour a jigger of anything without measuring it. And I memorized his recipes. I still have my jigger, though I still don't need to use it. I have a shaker, a pourer, a waiter's pal, I can open a bottle of wine the old fashioned way. So when you come to visit me, know that I'll mix you a very nice cocktail or share a very good smoke. One could say I'm an enabler. I like to think of myself as hospitable. So when are you coming?

My Girlfriend Knows How To Do Lunch My Way

First we got the little dogs together for some exhausting sex. I keep trying to take pictures of this fun, but they are so athletic in their amore that all I get is a brown and black blur. They are now developing a new language of love--songs that are increasingly multi-tonal. I need to find out how to use the video camera part of my big fancy digital camera. One of the very funny things they do is whirl in a circle attached to one another's ears. Then Marley grabs one of her many bedraggled Mr Doodies and cuddles him as Segundo humps her from behind. Their special threesome. Then Marley chases him around the yard at breakneck speed until he gives up and hides in the vinca for a minute. When he reappears she runs at him full speed and tackles him. You can actually hear it when she knocks the wind out of him. If he seems to be slowing down, she throws herself down, spreads her legs and rolls her eyes at him. This never fails to work. I'm taking notes.

My friend T. brings the hubby's really good weed and we get very blasted before we leave on our appointed rounds. She tosses back a couple of beers and we're on our way. First stop is The Grove Market where we are looking for Roland's Pineapple chili sauce. No luck, but they're willing to order it for us. Then we hit the Utah State Liquor Store where I buy bourbon, gin and vodka. I don't drink, but I am a very good hostess. Then we head for the Utah State Wine Store where I buy a bottle of Rainwater Madeira, and a bottle of Sandman medium dry sherry. I am now stocked for the rest of the year. Probably several years in the Sherry department. I keep beer in my fridge for her, as her husband is a controlling prick (my words not hers) and counts her empties. I tell her to start counting the pipes he sucks away of the real expensive smoke, but she thinks it's all so petty, she won't tell him to go fuck himself with the beer counting. She may drink a lot of beer, but she always looks and sounds quite sober, but exceptionally fun and funny. So I keep beer here for her, and she brings Segundo over for sex with Marley. Works for me.

Our last stop before the restaurant was the smoke shop by the American Legion Hall. I buy the occasional carton of Carlton Menthol 100s there. Only good smoke shops carry them. They are expensive but very satisfying. While she sits in the car and has another beer, I stand in front of the smoke shop and smoke. Then we're off to La Macarena Cafe in Ivy Place shopping mall. It's the only Mexican restaurant I ever want to go to. The food is great and inexpensive. There is never another gringo in the place. Everyone in the place is speaking Spanish. The TV is on a Mexican soap opera. I feel like I'm on vacation. Oh there are some very well reviewed Mexican restaurants in town, but they're full of white people eating very expensive Americanized Mexican food. Fuck that! I want the food Mexicans love. So it's always La Macarena for us. So far we have kept La Macarena a secret, but if I have Salt Lake readers I've blown that now. We eat a leisurely late lunch. I always have the combo with two Chiles Riellenos, beans, rice, and guacamole. We pound back their chips and salsa. The chips are made there and taste like no other. The salsa is fresh and hot. Ummm. T. drinks a beer, I drink ice cold water. We eat until we're about to bust and then we come home about 5:00, and I plop down on my bed for some serious news watching. I taped CSpan's coverage of the Sotomayor hearings. First Pat, then Keith, then Rachel, then a peaceful evening of CSpan and the remote in my hand. I think I'm turning into a guy. Oh, I forgot. I'd be watching porno this evening if I were a guy living alone, doing what I rally want to do.

Sorry, no photos. I forgot to take my camera. Next time. I promise.

I'm Going Out for a Fun Time

I have a lunch date with a girlfriend. I'm thrilled to be leaving my house for an afternoon of fun. I'm taking my camera so there will be photos later. I get to choose the restaurant. We're also hitting the smoke shop and the liquor store. No, Randal, not a stick up. Just shopping. I'll be back later and I'll fill you in on what I consider a real good time.

Z Is Feeling Better

Z had her first chemo treatment Monday. I was scheduled to pick her up at 2:30 but she called at 2:00 to tell me to pick her up at 4:30. Just as I was looking for my keys, she called again to tell me she wouldn't be finished until 5:30 and her youngest son would be off work and able to pick her up. She sounded very tired and very impatient.

This morning I called her when I got up to find out if there was a schedule for today that I needed to be ready for. She sounded strong and bright. She said she was feeling much better today. I am amazed and ask her a couple of questions about the chemo. She says, she loves her assigned nurse. Aside from being boring, it wasn't that bad. She says their old family friend J will take her to all her radiation treatments. And all she'll need me for is to pick her up from chemo, one day a week. I'm amazed and relieved and so happy to hear her feeling alive again.

Now I have a crashing stress release headache. I know, it doesn't sound fair, but I'm so relieved I've been giddy all day. I tweeted throughout the Sotomayer testimony today on CSpan. I have eaten sensibly so far, but there is still a bit of cake and plenty ice cream.

Dear Diabetes Association

You are now trying to raise money for your very fine association by calling people on the phone. I'm sure the Diabetes Association does great things with the money you raise, but you have some stupid little pissant who, after waking me up at 8:01 AM on last Thrusday morning, much to my displeasure, has decided to wake me up every morning at 8:01 AM. The number this immature cretin is calling from is 703-398-0004. I'm sure this kind of behavior from your telephone solicitors is not what you encourage nor condone. But since you've had the poor judgement to hire someone who is stupid enough to engage in this behavior, I will cease to contribute to the National Diabetes Association.

I have called the number back to have my number removed from your call list but have been informed that it may take up to a 30 days for my number to actually be removed from your call list. So every morning I get another wake-up call will be one more year I stop giving my $25 contribution to your organization. If it takes 30 days that's $750 you will not receive from me. If this childish asshole is doing this to anyone else besides me, you may be losing a great deal more than my $750.

I'm on the National Do Not Call Registry. I have never responded well to telephone solicitations. I respond especially poorly to ones that wake me up when I could sleep in just 30 minutes more. So stop calling me. I don't know the cost benefit ratio on phone calls versus mailings. But if a respected and worthy cause such as finding a cure for diabetes sends me a mailing with an envelope in which to send back my contribution, I am far more likely to respond with a contribution than I am if I'm awakened by some immature crank like the one calling me first thing every morning. I'm sure it's gratifying to know your call staff is getting to work right on time, but not everyone is thrilled to get an early call. And though I do not reach thousands of people every day, twitter does. I will be tweeting this message. It has not been a pleasure doing business with you. I will now start searching for a better charity to send my $750 to. Have a nice day.

Fuck You Very Much, Republicans

Thanks Ghost! I needed this! I've been taping news shows and rewatching them. Twittering and watching CSpan. My rage is mounting as my diet deteriorates. It's a stress thing. I've missed you. I guess when I start wallowing in the very personal as I distract myself with obsessive news watching, you chose to take a vacation. Well, I'm still keeping an eye on Congress and it's making me crazy. That and other things. But I missed this song in my little messy world. I'm glad you're back. I haven't been getting out much.

The Miracle Stress Diet

I'm experiencing an amazing amount of stress for reasons you probably know better than you'd ever want to know and for that I apologize. But for some reason unknown to me my usual good eating habits have gone the way of my once good figure. But now, when I'm forgetting to eat anything before 4 PM, when I'm on my way home from Z's or am running errands, desperately trying to get them done and return home as fast as possible, I crave cake and ice cream. Yes, Doctor Zaius, I'm on the cake and ice cream diet and losing weight. Last night I made carrot cake and when I woke up this morning discovered that I had not just dreamed I ate half a quart of vanilla ice cream and half a warm carrot cake. Now I'll take a vitamin pill, a couple of fish oil capsules and finish off that cake while it's still fresh. The ice cream layered between slices of carrot cake makes the whole thing a healthy treat and not just debauchery. I've lost five pounds in three weeks on this diet. I do vary the type of cake and the flavor of ice cream. I highly recommend this diet. When I fall asleep it's like slipping into a nice warm coma on a cool night.

Watching The Sotomayor Hearings

I will be glued to CSpan today and for the next few days watching the Sotomayor confirmation hearings. I can remember all the past hearings of my adult life. There is very little is more compelling than these hearings. If you doubt this, find a way to go back in time to the hearings dominated by Anita Rice's testemony. I always have a hard time remembering Clarence Thomas's name because he was so over shadowed by Rice's testimony. I hated Arlin Spector . He was the chairman of that hearing. My hatred of Spector has cooled a bit over the years but not enough to forget how dismissive he was of Anita Rice, a woman who would have been a much better nominee than Thomas.

These hearings will be punctuated by my trips to Z's to take and pick her up from chemo. Yes, she has agreed to chemo. I would not have put money on the bet that she would go with the advise of Dr Ackerly. She hates him and thinks he's an arrogant asshole who doesn't care about her, the very individual, special, delicate her. No he cares about curing her cancer. That's what matters to me. I'm very happy that she has finally realized her life is on the line, and she is willing to really fight for it.

Annie Lennox

I can't embed this clip so I'll just have to give you this link, precious.

TheMom Gives Prizes Again

I hardly think of myself as a real blogger right now. I've been terrible about visiting other bloggers since I've been a bit preoccupied. I apologize to all of you. I hope things will get better for my friend soon, but I'm afraid it may be awhile yet. So please bear with me while I provide transportation and fattening food and other little things to the woman who got me through my last psychosis. It's the least I can do.

When I started blogging I wrote mostly about politics. I'd still like to be writing about politics but my friend's battle with cancer is consuming all my attention and energy. I have been paying attention to the one issue that matters most to me, and that's the healthcare debate. If you haven't called your elected representatives, please do. If we'd had a public option for health care my friends cancer would have been caught much earlier giving her a must better chance at survival. Her doctor kept ordering tests several years ago when the doctor first suspected cancer, but the tests were so expensive, and my friend didn't have insurance. She worked for a small law firm that provided no health insurance and she didn't make enough money to buy private insurance, so now it may be too late. Please sign the petition that you see posted on my sideboard. And thank you for keeping me on your radar while I'm absent from your place. One of these days I'll be back to pestering you in your comments thread. Till then, put a little white light around my friend Z.

Thank you TheMom, also know as the Attentive Aphorist. You're a great friend yourself.

Candide, The Overture

A Little Something To Think About Sunday Morning

And I've always loved Liv Ullmann.

Whistling While We Work To The Old Folks Boogie

Cleaning at Z's

I'm off to carry my lovely little French canister vacuum cleaner to Z's to do some sprucing up of her small room. We'll clean the last closet, and reorganize her desk beside her bed. Children with children of their own can't seem get to these personal tasks.

I'll be back later and will either collapse onto my bed and drift into a dreamless sleep or write something or come visiting at your place. I will not be bringing my French vacuum cleaner to your place, so don't ask.

Because Sarah Silverman Told Me To

Sarah Silverman is one of the tweeters I follow on twitter. She just said this is the most beautiful song ever. Well, I can't let something like that go uninvestigated. You be the judge

Stones

These are the stones throughout my garden and yard. Every one of them was moved and placed by me. This is how I gave myself sciatica that lasted a year. This is why any work that requires using my back now hurts. Take vacuuming for instance. Raking leaves too. But these stones are reminders that I was once very strong and very determined. Like these stones, I'll be here for a long time.

This Is My Clean and Peaceful Street Any Day of the Week

This fire hydrant is directly across the street from my house, much to the delight of my dogs.

A Quick Update

Dogs do talk in their way. There is a difference in their vocalizations. Happy is indeed different than a warning. And so much more. Yes, Darkblack is right. You heard it here.

Therapy was much needed and mostly spent sobbing, wailing, and cursing. It was cathartic. And the conclusions we came to about my reaction to what is happening to my friend is completely normal. I am neither manic nor depressed. I am sad, terrified and very very pissed off.

Z may be running out of options for treatment. She has refused chemo so far. When she first saw Dr. Ackerly after he'd seen her medical records, he told her she had a 30% chance for a good outcome with immediate and aggressive treatment. She didn't like him and was thinking over her options. Now the latest estimate is a 10% chance for a good outcome. I think she's going to take her chances with a course of radiation and then trust her own instincts. How do I feel about this? See paragraph 2.

Ms M is on vacation and Roscoe sleeps at the foot of my bed for a few days. He is a comfort.

New Use for That One Lone Sock

We all have at least one. You do the laundry and when you empty the dryer find that somewhere along the way you have ended up with one lone sock. In the past I used them as dust rags. I would apply the oil or Pledge to the oak surface of my bookcase and that one lone sock with my hand inside it would become a very useful tool for awhile. When it was too dirty to use again, it was too dirty to wash. And since I would, in the past, have tossed it, it's loss didn't matter much. Well socks have gone up in price over the past couple of years, as my income has shrunk. But I now have a new use for that one lone sock.

I have never had a dog before who had anything but disdain for squeak toys. If they showed any interest at all it was to rip them to shreds in 2 or 3 seconds flat always seeming to be going for some big-dog gland-slam hall-of-fame demolition in the name of distain. Every big dog I've ever had loved to defuzz a tennis ball and then tear the remaining ball into 5 or 6 pieces just as fast. They destroyed Kongs, they destroyed any toy claiming to be indestructible. Sadly these toys do not come with a guarantee since they are very expensive. But Marley loves her squeak toys. Yes, she too loves the act of killing her Mr. Doody, but it takes her a couple of days. But once killed and gutted or missing his brain, emptied of his squeaker, he's no longer any fun and I have a mess of toy stuffing to clean up. So I am always on the look out for very inexpensive squeak toys. Today I hit the mother load. The All A Dollar store was stocked. I brought five of them home and then before throwing out the old useless well mauled discards, stuffed the remains in that one lonely sock and now it's Marley's favorite squeak toy. Ask her which is better: the stolen knot of a rawhide bone that Cyrus wasn't guarding well, or that old squeak toy stuffed in a knotted sock.

Why I love Dogs

Dogs listen, but the don't talk back. Dogs pay close attention and learn quickly to attune themselves to you. Any kindness shown a dog will be returned a thousand fold. Dogs take pleasure in the simplest things and express their joy in every gesture. Dogs love unconditionally. I've never had a dog whose love I lost or forgot. My days and nights with dogs have been peaceful and a comfort, fun and a joy. Dogs may not talk but they sure can express themselves.

I live with three dogs. Roscoe is Ms M's dog, but I'm the person he spends most days with. I'm his babysitter, nanna, the bossy old woman who lets him in at 7 AM when Ms. M goes to work. He takes his place across the foot of the bed (he is careful not to bother my feet) and we all go back to sleep. I sleep best when Roscoe is at the foot of the bed. He's a weighty, muscular presence. He snores gently.

When Ms M first got Roscoe he was a puppy. In the first two years of his life she had to move five times. Always because of Roscoe. He chewed up and spat out every single thing she owned including her mattress and DVD remote control. He never stopped barking when left alone, greatly annoying anyone within a block of his loud and pained voice. He was an escape artist. When he started chewing on her round oak table she came to see me again. I said yes again, and she and Roscoe moved in. The only reason it worked was that Roscoe was not alone anymore. Roscoe had finally become a member of a pack. And then there's the big fenced yard. Roscoe had never had a big fenced yard. Here with us, Roscoe had Geeky, wise old dog, attuned to my habits, the limits of my temper, the precise amount of foolishness I would tolerate. Geeky knew the ropes. I've always known that cats and dogs are amazingly psychic little mind readers, attune to subtle shifts and waverings. Geeky was a very good judge of character and I trusted his hunches about strangers. So I turned Roscoe over to Geeky to train in the world of this little universe, this roomy forest. They patrolled the fences. They shit in the vinca, not on the lawn and far from either house or the gazebo. They didn't bark at women pushing strollers, but they did bark at the mailman, the UPS truck, the dog walker, walking a dog luckier than they. I can tell that bark. It is like no other. Envy is in it's tone.

When Geeky died, Roscoe was five years old. He took over all Geeky's old odd jobs. And every other animal who's been introduced to the friends and family of pets here since Geeky's death has been protected and warned, gently bullied into good sense, taught the ropes by the newly promoted leader of the pack.

Roscoe's bigger than Geeky was and his power, when giving a warning to a strange man, is hard to ignore. So, even though I know Roscoe will not attack a man who listens to me (and follows my instructions to ignore Roscoe, look at me, not Roscoe, don't reach out your hand or try to pet him) it isn't always possible for a man to know that I really mean what I'm saying and know what I'm talking about, and so they look back at the barking overlarge male yellow lab giving the strange man the skunk eye while barking now and then as we cross the backyard to the little house. And as long as the man doesn't recognize that I am the real leader of the pack, Roscoe will always give him shit. But if a man is willing to follow my instructions, Roscoe settles down pretty quickly. I feel safe with Roscoe and he feels safe with me.

Cyrus the Elder joined our pack almost two years ago. We're giving him the best hospice care love can buy. He's now exceeding lifespan. And the past seems to be leaving him. He grows more glossy and confident by the day. His is a sweet old soul. And all the dogs respect him. And anyone who comes to my door unexpected by me is alerted by first the sound of his loud authoritative bark and then the sight of him rising up and leaning forward. He weighs roughly 170 pounds. It is my voice he responds to; he takes his cues from me. He has the hip dysplasia and arthritis an old Rottie is prone to, but his presence as he rises is impressive. I watch the intensity of his discomfort and adjust his pain medication. Half the time I forget to lock the door at night. If the "Beware of Dogs" sign and the locked gate hasn't stopped an intruder Cyrus will. And if anyone's ever cased this joint they've seen Roscoe on the job.

I feel secure with dogs. I feel loved and appreciated by the dogs I live with. There gentle presence is a comfort to me even on the very worst of days.

Now we have little Marley who is the comedian in this group. She is going through the adolescent phase of checking the boundaries of ranking in this pack. This is her first experience of a pack, taken from her family young and kept for almost a year in a kennel, taught nothing, kept for future breeding. Now she has been spayed, and now she is learning what all our expectations are. First off we won't be dominated by a charming little clown. We will play, we will indulge up to a point. We all have our own set of expectations. But Marley's smart. She's learning English and body language very fast.

Death Is An Inconsiderate Lover

It all results in tears
One kind word, one instance of incompetence
That receptionist, anyones disappointment
Spoken, written, imagined, remembered
I can't make my friend
Do the things I think
Will save her life

I must not show my complete disappointment
I'm not sure I can live without her
Last night the tree removal guy called

Words make me cry, like the word deadline
The tree guys were an hour late today and I was
Screaming by the time they got here
Only one hour late for tradesmen
That's not bad, yet I feel responsible
I could not take her
Feed her what she what wanted
She wants so little in the larger scheme of things

She wants the food she wants from the store she wants
Is that so hard? The tree guys were only an hour late
They worked fast and efficiently without damaging my roof
Or fence and their competence makes me cry
My sense of guilt makes me cry.
Why must I always be guilty?
Never quite good enough. Is it like my mother said?

I offered them fresh cold watermelon cut in bite sized pieces
Cold cokes and water and their thirst made me cry
In seconds the watermelon was gone and I feel so sorry
That they don't get better treatment from women like me
And why do I assume that?

This is disappointment mixed with a dash of terror
It should be me. I'd decline all but hospice care
Not because of cost or debt or obligation or estate
Is it because I've chased you death like a needy lover?
So now you strike my innocent friend. Is that how we play
This final game of longing and regret? Does it all end in disappointment?

Now This is A' Cappella

Thanks for sending this to me Scott. The first few seconds and tears start flowing. The opening is is a very moving sound. It makes me feel human again.

I'm starting to unravel. But I have an emergency therapy appointment tomorrow morning with my very generous therapist Fred who has given me his cell phone number in case I really need to talk and there is no one who can understand this pain, this fear, this rage. Thank you Fred.

Thanks to all of you who have looked in on me and left a kind word.

Anita, I'm sorry I disappointed you. You may have thought I was actually a better person than I am. I wish I had lived up to your expectation of me. But I'm just one very imperfect and frightened old woman. Please forgive me.

The Time of Illness

I had two days off. No schedule for radiation, but
The tests for clotting factor went on as usual
Without me. I rested like a long distance runner
My drug fueled system humming along as if I ran
On chemicals alone. Did you know that Warfarin is
Rat poison? This is proof to Z that all medicine is poison
To me it means that someone found a really good use for
Rat poison. I take twice as much Warfarin as Z to keep me
From blowing a gasket, to keep my heart humming along
Like a clock that runs a bit too fast, but steady as she goes.
The bruises that cover my arms and legs don't bother me at all.

Z hemorrhaged again last night but refused to go to the hospital.
She determines that she just needs to cut back on the Warfarin
I ask her why and she says, "What can they do? All they can do is
Give me a transfusion." I wonder why that is such a bad idea. I want
Oxygen. I want oxygen rich blood. I think they might give her Oxygen
But keep my mouth shut. I took her fresh peach cobbler hot from the oven
Vanilla ice cream. She eats it as if she were a starving child and I choke back
The truth that the peaches were purchased at the grocery store and were only
99 cents a pound. I make up a perfectly plausible story about my neighbors friend
Drew who grows peaches in Southern Utah for peach brandy. He always has too many
Brings a bushel basket for the neighbor who passes plenty to me for fresh peach cobbler
Thankfully she doesn't ask about the ice cream. It is Bryer's All Natural, Natural vanilla
She eats it like a starving child. I took certified organic red potato soup, organic milk,
Watermelon cut into bite sized pieces and chilled. I know from having spent a lot of time
With Z that she does not get enough fluids to stay well hydrated. I liked the idea that when
She was in the hospital they pumped fluids into her veins. She says it made her swell. Well,
Yes, when the tissue is hydrated it plumps with pulsing life.

I'm a woman who takes a handful of pills every morning with her first mug of latte.
I don't do a lot of research on the drugs I take or study inserts for dire
Side effects.
Life has some nasty side effects. Life can kill you.
Don't we start dying from the moment we're born?
I took so many risks, still do, daring death to take me
Like a lover, who sees an opportunity when I sleep
I should be so lucky

So, the schedule is set for this week. Radiation every day
Clotting factor and food are on Z's agenda and mine
If all her radiation treatments are in the afternoon
I can take her, park the car and wait with a book
Patiently. I hope I live up to her expectations
I hope I don't disappoint her. Today it was peach
Cobbler and vanilla ice cream, tomorrow begins
The hard part, now that the tumor is bleeding
She's no longer just getting rid of the blood clots
In her lungs. Now the tumor is bleeding. Isn't that
A bad thing? I try not to show my extreme distress
I come home and take a handful of pills with my
Evening cup of Earl Grey Tea and smoke half a dozen
cigarettes. I resolve to keep on doing what I'm doing
As if it will protect me from her loss. What are the odds?

The Morning After the Party

Cyrus and Marly have a little conversation under the picnic table. Everything is cleaned and cleared and we survived the Fourth of July. Oh the joy of a peaceful Sunday in the back yard.




Marley tackles her boyfriend Segundo. She likes rough sex. Humm. Wonder how it is I end up with a little dog who plays rough with the boyfriend? She chases him, throws him down and has her way with him. Atta girl Marley.
My friend T who lives three houses away brings her Chihuahua, Seggie over to play with Marley and then he goes home and sleeps it off. Not Marley, she goes off to dog park with Ms M and Roscoe.

Oh to be a dog and live with me.

Party Prep

Ms M is having a Fourth of July party. I like this part of the party plans. The yard is picked up, the yard furniture arranged, the dogs snoozing in the late afternoon sun or investigating a spider. It's peaceful and pretty. I like the quiet before the fireworks or the crowds of festive drinkers. Cyrus needs to go out one last time before I give him his tranquilizer. The loud noises distress him terribly.

I will post a Do Not Disturb sign on my door and watch the Margaret Cho comedy special I taped on Showtime. That's what independence day means to me. Let the party begin!

Jazz on Saturday

Atmospherics

Atmospheric pressure is the force per unit area that is applied perpendicularly to a surface by the surrounding gas.


Yesterday when I was getting dressed to go get Z for her first radiation treatment we had a downpour. It was the kind of thunderstorm with great crashing thunder that pours buckets of cold rain. It rained so hard when I walked to the car my sleeveless top and khaki skirt got soaked and I was wading in ankle deep water. As I went through the gate I realized that the basement was probably flooding just then.

Every intersection on the way to Z's neighborhood was a lake, and oncoming cars didn't slow down enough to keep from creating a wave of spray. I remember once in my distant past going through an intersection in a sports car and then hitting the breaks to slow for a car in front of me and my breaks didn't grab. I know wet roads are slick. Now standing water in an intersection makes me remember that experience and adds a bit of terror to my ride to pick up Z. As if there were not terror enough in this day. Yet oddly when I get a few blocks from her house the rain stops and there is no standing water in the intersections.

I left home early since it was the deluge. So, despite the heavy rain most of the way, I arrive at her house early. She's not thrilled that I'm there before she's dressed. And it is in the couple of moments of watching her slip into her pants and don her long sleeved T shirt that I notice how terribly thin she really is. She has always worn oversized clothes. Part of that is the length of her incredible legs--it's hard to find pants that fit her hips that are long enough. But most of it is body dysmorphia. Oh she knows she's thin, she's just never been quite comfortable with her body.

I'm apologetic about arriving early. It hasn't rained hard at her house, so she cannot fathom what I mean when I speak of the deluge downtown. Her house is just outside Salt Lake County. It's possible to drive through quickly moving storms and have them stay just over head, so as we head back to town and it starts pouring again, it's as if the storm has found its home and is staying put. But now we are on the upper East bench of Salt Lake heading toward the U of Utah where Huntsman Cancer Institute is located on the side of a small mountain. This rain is running in little streams toward my house down below. Again I think about my basement and my ears pop.

Atmospherics: effects intended to create a particular atmosphere or mood.

She wants me to wait in the little circle where patients are dropped off and picked up, but we're fifteen minutes early for her appointment. I'm jonesing for a cigarette and think its a bad idea to sit in my mommy mobile smoking a cigarette while the cancer patient's family members are waiting for their loved ones to come out after radiation or chemo. So I drive down the hill to the University Hospital and pull in the lower level of the parking lot. It's huge so I can find an uninhabited corner to park in for a couple of stolen moments. I stand outside my old Dodge Caravan watching scrub jays shit from the rafters where it splats on the concrete ramp below. I watch like a criminal afraid of getting caught. I hear children's voices and drop my cigarette and stamp it out. Half a cigarette and my nicotine level is now high enough that I can drive back to Huntsman and park in their lot. Once inside radiation is one level up.

Huntsman is a gorgeous facility. No expense has been spared on its marble floors, it's three soaring stories of pale blue glass so every interior space has a stunning view of the Salt Lake Valley. On a clear day you can see Antelope Island in the Great Salt Lake and the Ocher Mountains behind the lake. But today, not so much. It's a steady rain up here. And every drop is headed for my basement which has no drain and a furnace with it's essential parts about half an inch above the damp concrete. Even with the furnace turned off for the summer if that control panel gets wet it has to be replaced. Once the washing machine overflowed it's drain and killed the furnace below. It cost several hundred dollars to replace the control panel.

I am the only person in the huge and luxurious waiting room in radiation. I walk to the reception desk and ask the attractive, middle aged brunette with an unidentifiable accent to please let Z know I'm waiting in the waiting room and not in my car out front. She smiles and says "Off Corze" and disappears for a couple of minutes. When she comes back I'm seated across the room in one of the tasteful chairs, thumbing through a Harper's Bazaar. She smiles at me when we make eye contact, so I figure all's well. An hour goes by. Z was scheduled for a half hour of radiation. And then another woman joins the brunette and they start closing the security gate at the reception desk. This alarms me. I put down the Harper's Bazaar and walk across the big open room. When I get to the desk, I say, "Is my friend Z still back there?" She says, "Yez, Zer ah schtill zeveral Pashunz boc dair," with a reassuring smile on her face. Somehow this does not feel right. I turn around to scan the rotunda and see Z leaning against the marble terrarium. I cannot see her face but it is impossible to miss that lean, old dancer's body and long light brown hair. Oh christ! I rush over apologizing. She is scowling ferociously and says, "What happened to you! I thought you were in a car wreck." I begin my explanation, and she waves my words away in a dismissive gesture with her arm. I keep trying to explain and then realize that nothing I can say will change the fact that she's been waiting where she said she'd be and I was not there. I hate myself.

When I start the car in the parking garage my windshield wipers are swiping like crazy on dry glass making an annoying scraping sound. She says in her newly breathy high pitched voice "For god's sake, shut those damn things off!" And I feel just like a stupid and irresponsible teenager. I have a moment's empathy for her youngest son. It only lasts a second. And then the rain is pouring and I have to turn the windshield wiper on again.

How Sane Do You Think I Am Twittascope?

My Twittascope: Gemini
Things slowly begin to come back into focus today, but it may take another day or two before you fully return to earth. But as the volume is lowered, you are tempted to turn it back up. When that doesn't work, a wave of fear or even desperation could provoke you to express feelings that might be better kept to yourself. There's no need to shock someone with your unconventional desires just so you can experience another adrenaline rush. Thursday, July 2, 2009

Jesus twittascope I'm a gemini, born in the year of the monkey. Cap that off with the fact that I'm bipolar and you have six of me living in here. What do you expect, balance? Get a grip! This is real life! I move from disaster to disaster throughout the day. So really, is this a reasonable request? I was raised to shock. Why do you think my mother taught me to smoke and mix cocktails at five years old? Snap out of it will you?

To Whom It May Concern

If I have made radiation treatments seem terrifying to any of you I am sorry. I have been telling you about my friend's discovery that she has cancer and her reactions to the reality that she cannot treat this with "alternative modalities." She is a life long proponent and practitioner of naturopathy and homeopathy and Chinese herbal medicine and acupuncture and magic water, and I have grown impatient, afraid, furious, and terrified that she would not act soon enough to avert her own premature death. It took coughing up a lot of blood to get her in the hospital. It frightened her youngest son who was the one to call the ambulance. My fear has never been that the medical professionals at Huntsman Cancer Institute would be unable to treat her cancer, but my fear was that she would fight them so hard that there would be no radiation, no chemo, no time to save her life. I did not doubt for a second that she could be saved. I feared she would refuse to be saved or wait too long. I feared she had more "faith" in the "alternative modalities" and no faith at all in western medicine. She has hated all but one of the doctor's she's seen so far. The only doctor she's liked was the doctor from India who treated her at St Marks Hospital where they took her when her lungs started hemorrhaging. I am grateful to that one doctor for earning her trust, for making her entertain the notion that western medicine might just work. It is not western medicine, nor radiation or chemotherapy that scares me. It is my friend's belief in "alternative modalities" and her revulsion toward western medicine that scares me. It is like "faith healing" at the expense of medical care, this acceptance of one approach at the expense of the more traditional that scares me. I have no faith "alternative modalities". I believe in science. I am sitting here typing because of science. I'm taking bipolar drugs, drugs to treat my heart arrhythmia, blood thinners to keep me from having to face the future that claimed every member of my mother's family--the slow crawl toward dementia and a nursing home. There is no one to take care of me. And with any luck there will be no need.

My therapist called me while I was gone this afternoon. I need help. I know that. I am on shaky ground, but I keep doing the things that keep me semi-sane. I have not skipped my meds yet. I'm not the one with cancer, but the one with cancer's reaction to her treatment is cause for worry for me. And worry isn't going away real soon. I'm venting on the blog. I've been a recluse for years and now I'm going out every day on one errand or another. It's probably good for me, but I'm hating driving in traffic and having to be nice where ever I go. However the biting my tongue is starting to take its toll on my personality. And apparently my running blog about this situation is starting to piss people off. Let me make this clear. This is me writing about the things that I care about or that interest or concern me. So in that sense, it is all about me. I'm sorry if that's offensive. I am many things, but saintly I am not! I can be a right vicious asshole as we all know. Ask Cal.

Email From An Old Friend

Peggy

I know that with all the caring you already are giving in so many ways to Z the following may not be worth much to you. But I offer it anyway.

I remember the terror I felt, inside, when I first saw this huge machine that would soon be bombarding my body with killer radiation beams. It made a most unwelcome whirring sound as it rotated and zeroed in on the little red targets that had been painted on both sides of my throat.

It bothered (and frightened) me even more when I had to return years later for another bout with the
"terror rays."

I then read in some periodical that an individual should make make friends with the killer machine that can also heal. So I did. I went in to the room before a treatment and just sat on the bench that places you inside the maws of the monster. And I communicated with it.

Following treatments because easier as I let my mind wander n healing ways.

It worked for me.

Scott

Miles Davis, Blue in Green

Sublimation's a Bitch

I have held my tongue so long it's strangling me. I know that the area in my throat and chest that is effected by this tongue holding is the exact area that is strangling my friend. But today, while I waited for the phone call to go pick her up from her first day of prep for Radiation at Huntsman Cancer Institute, I have tried to put my house in order and this house keeping has seriously inconvenienced all the dogs. So I have shouted at dogs to move, go outside, shut up, stay! all day long. I finally took to using a water sprayer to surprise Marley in mid-bark at the kids playing in the yard across the alley.

I have stripped all dog beds or their coverings and washed them. I submerged Marley's bed in the bathtub and scrubbed it. It's been drying in the sun all day and is now a lot sweeter smelling than Marley herself. Tomorrow morning Marley gets another bath. I stripped my bed and washed sheets. And I did all this cleaning because I couldn't leave my phone for fear of missing Z's phone call.

When she called I had my clothes laid out to hop into so I would look respectable when I pulled up at Huntsman to pick her up. I wore a sleeveless white cotton blouse and a black cotton skirt. I wore earrings and a bracelet. I wore my good summer hat--it goes with everything. She was waiting in the circle at the entrance, and as I drove up the hill I saw her standing there dressed in a long sleeved brown top with matching brown pants. She is reed slender and this willowy frame from a distance has the look of the girl I first met at the U forty eight years ago in a room full of boys. I do not look like the girl I was. My hair is shorter and I weigh at least forty pounds more than I did as a reed thin girl. I look my age. But at a distance Z looks just like that willowy girl, that ballet dancing girl. And a lump forms in my chest as I think about the journey we both have taken to end up here now.

Tonight her sister-in-law is cooking for her. Tomorrow I pick her up at 3:30 to take her to Huntsman again for a half hour of treatment. She is feeling better all ready.

Marley on the other hand has her very long nose very seriously out of joint. At least I didn't kick her.

Shopping, Cooking, Feeding

Tuesday has been spent shopping for an all organic and very tasty meal for Z. I found eggplant, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, shaved parmigiana, and organic olive oil. I'm growing basil and oregano and it's organic, so I have the ingredients for eggplant parmigiana. The marinara sauce took longer than anything. I cooked for most of the day. Thank god I have a swamp cooler. It was hot today. I had two burners on for an hour, then the oven for 45 minutes. I wore nice clothes while I shopped and cooked. I say that because I wanted to respect the errands I was on. I wore my favorite white linen sleeveless blouse and a nice cotton skirt. I wore a bit of jewelry. I never do that. I even wore my favorite summer hat.

I made a salad of torn fresh organic leaves of romaine lettuce with a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, and a bit of soy sauce. I fixed garlic bread using a coarse Italian bread, unsalted butter and fresh garlic, wrapped it in foil and baked it.

I found a very nice small watermelon and cut it into bite-sized pieces of cool juicy sweet fresh from the heart of the melon and then chilled it while the marinara sauce and eggplant were cooking.

I bought organic raisins and bananas. I bought raisin, nut, cinnamon bread for tomorrow's breakfast toast. I took organic cream of tomato soup, a small container of sour cream for the requisite dollop for a start on tomorrows lunch. I bought ten containers for serving sized portions. And then I bought a rum cake.

As soon as the eggplant parmigiana was out of the oven, still bubbling around the browned cheese, I packed two servings and loaded all of this nice healthy clean tasty food into my good shopping bags. I included two shallow bowls, a fork, and two napkins. When I got to Z's it was almost 5:00 PM. I just walked in, went down the stairs and into her bedroom. I told her what I had with me, and she chose to start with the watermelon. We reminisced about all the times I cooked eggplant parmigiana for her: the most recent time was when Tom and I were together, the first time was in LA when she and V owned a chic little Indian clothing store. I was the cook for all the vegetarians who worked there. It took all day to shop and cook and plan for the next days meal. I was also a private cook for a wealthy widow in Santa Barbara in my spare time. Occasionally I forget what a good cook I am.

Z ate with relish. She ate everything I served her. I sat and talked while she ate. She didn't have room for the slice of rum cake but promised me she'd eat it later tonight. When she was finished eating she said she felt like a nap. I packed up the dirty dishes, kissed her on her cheek and let myself out.

Tomorrow, Wednesday, I pick her up after her first radiation treatment.

The Elements of Work

This is the chair, this
brown one
An antique office chair from my best Santa Barbara therapist's office when she remodeled.
No, it is not ergonomic.
It's magic and far better than merely
Ergonomic space age functionally
Modern and with no leather, no wood, no
Witness to my own disintegration and like a puzzle
She put me back together again with no king's horses, no king's men. On this chair I could take flight...

Can your chair do this?

Cancelled Dinner Plans

Z just called to tell me she just wants to be alone. She's so tired. I have no doubt. What I wanted to do, and will still do if given permission, is to take food to her. I would prepare well balanced, organic, vegetarian meals for her and deliver them. I could cook a couple of days meals and deliver them every other day. But she says she has cottage cheese and an avocado. That's a snack to me, not a meal. She ate her well balanced and hearty vegetarian three square meals a day at the hospital with relish. How am I going to get her to eat? I have gone over her dietary restrictions and don't find anything in the food plan the hospital sent home with her that would be a problem for me. I make myself hungry just planning imaginary meals for her. Will she let me feed her? She's always loved my cooking or so she says, and so it seems, when she's here eating. I will have to figure this out and fast.

Z Leaves the Hospital Today

Monday AM
I'm leaving shortly to go pick up Z from the hospital. She was going to stay with a friend who lives alone in a two bedroom condo near the hospital, but her friend is fussy about noise and traffic. Z's worried that her coughing will be a problem. Her fussy friend seems to have reservations about sharing her space with someone who might need something. I have never liked this woman, so this just caps it. Now Z goes back to her house where her youngest son, his paramour and her toddler and their baby are living. Z will reside in a basement room. I worry that this will not be a terribly peaceful place for her to go through radiation and chemotherapy. The toddler will want max attention, and any attention Z gets will seem to the boy to be attention he's not getting.

Monday 1:00 PM
I'm now home from picking her up. I took her to her home and was appalled that all the cloths we pulled from her closets are now bagged and pilled up in front of the washer and dryer. Her room is tiny and is packed with things that are stored down there. There is barely room for her bed, and there were no pillows on her bed. She keeps making excuses for the kids for not getting things ready for her. I want to strangle someone.

We talk about her diet. I told her Ms M and I had discussed cooking for her and putting pre-made meals in bags or containers and freezing them. But Z wants to come to my house for dinner. That's fine with me, but I worry about her driving by herself. She insists this is no problem. I have promised myself that I will not argue with her. So, I say "fine, whatever you're comfortable with." I'll fix organic tomato soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and salad for her. I have some poppy seed cake--it's a couple of days old, but is great heated in the microwave and topped with vanilla ice cream. I have both cantaloupe and watermelon sliced and in separate containers in the fridge. I can feed her this evening without going to the grocery store, but tomorrow I'll shop for things my vegetarian friend can eat. I am determined to fatten her up.

She starts her radiation treatments Wednesday. I begged to take her, but she wants to drive herself. I will work on her about this issue. Her blood pressure is very low. She's on Coumadin. She hates all real medications but it willing and happy to take all manor of bizarre supplements which have been prohibited by the doctor who will be overseeing her radiation therapy. I bite my tongue. I'm on Warfarin which is another name for Coumadin. I love Warfarin. Yes I bruise, but I'm not likely to end up with my mother's vascular dementia while I'm on blood thinners. Yes, I have to work on eating a healthy diet too, but since I have no problem getting enough protein, I don't have the dietary problems she has.

Fran and I In Conversation

Fran said:

I have a very close friend who has been near & dear to my heart since the first grade.
She is from a large family of 12 kids. The extended family has had a series of deaths.
She said to me, you try to pick the best Doctors, hospitals, make the right choices, but in the end, a greater power makes the choices of how things end up.
You do your best to be supportive & help make good choices. Who's to know if this would have happened even if she had rested quietly that day?

At some point, you have to give it up to whatever powers of life that are greater than us.

Your plan was probably wiser, but we don't know if the joy she got from watching that toddler full of life and toddler chaos was something she embraced.

Somehow you have to find peace with the way things are.
Even if they suck, and the pain & suffering are more than you can bear.

I hope this makes sense.
It is meant to help you heal and wrap your head around the way things are right now.

Sometimes we have to breathe deep & get through it. Kind thoughts to you.

I attended a World Beat Festival yesterday.
Celebrating worldwide cultures.....
So many cultures celebrate death, as a part of one's life.

I heard a great song that said death set the soul free. "Don't worry about me, I am free"
If you think of it in this way, passing is a kind of sweet relief from whatever pain & suffering a person was burdened with.

I say this in a very respectful way.
Trying to give you another perspective to see all this in.

Namaste

June 28, 2009 11:58 AM

Utah Savage said...

Fran, thank you for that wisdom. Intellectually I know all this. I would make the choice to go, to let death take me, but I am outraged that death would take my best friend first. Why her and not me? I have lived my whole life as if death were my very best lover, I have courted death in every way. I have tried in a very active way to die, only to wake up with a headache and a sour stomach.

Z has lived her life as if life were sacred and everything that she eats and drinks is holy and sacred and meant to keep her body the temple of her soul.

I have thought my soul was killed off fifty years ago and only the rotting carcass left walking, talking, hiding out like a criminal.

My Twittascope: How Apt Is This

My Twittascope: Gemini

It's important for you to set aside your preconceived agenda because unexpected events today can quickly turn your home life upside down. If you attempt to prevent things from falling apart, you'll probably just speed up their demise. Don't try to hold on to a lifestyle that is no longer working for you. Instead, use your common sense and focus all of your attention on facilitating change. Sunday, June 28, 2009

Ephemera

We may be but ephemera
floating through these waters for an instant
where death drifts common as the dragonfly
no more frightening than life my dear he says smiling
Death winks and he is a handsome lad who carries us in his arms
For just a lovely moment and then off he goes on to other business

I Am Not a Bullshit Artist, But I'm Learning to Play One In Real Life

Shortly after I left her yesterday Z began coughing up blood. Not the smattering of blood that finally got her to see a surgeon in the first place, but lots of blood. Her youngest son called an ambulance. She was admitted last night to the nearest hospital. She has pulmonary emboli. She was dehydrated, was getting very little oxygen to her brain. She sounds so much better today than she did yesterday when she was lifting the baby, and I kept saying, "Don't do that," and she kept saying, "Oh I'm fine." She asked me to get the half empty glass of water from her bedside. We sat on the porch for awhile then went inside. I had to go back out to get the half empty glass of tepid water left untouched on the porch. She never drank even a sip of water in the three hours we worked on closets. The toddler wanted to be in my path to her, blocking the attention flow from our task to him. I know that's what toddlers do. It is the natural order that a toddler would be right in the middle of everything, but he should have been with his other grandmother yesterday. It isn't his fault, any of it, but still... Z probably encouraged his young mother to bring the babies. That would be what she would want even if it isn't the best thing for her. She needs rest and being cared for. She needs a calm, quiet, clean house with someone near to wait on her. She needs a strong female hand. But the only strong female hand she'd accept to run things for her is in the Pacific Northwest about to get married and who has two daughters of her own out of school for the summer.

I have never been much of one to let bullshit go uncalled. So I am not always the easiest of people to be around when you're busy rewriting recent history. I am trying very hard to learn to shut the fuck up and just nod my head.

Emptying Closets

We sit on her back porch for a half an hour or so talking about her recent medical history, and now she admits that Ackerly and Hitchcock are probably better at what they do than the doctors in San Diego she hasn't yet met who will fill Ackerly's prescription for the radiation she was refusing to believe she needed here. She says Ackerly wasted three weeks he could have been treating her. I remember it well and start to remind her and then realize that there is no point now in going over the recent past. She was barefoot the whole time I was there. I thought she looked good, her hair freshly brushed, a bit of color in her face. But she insists she looks half dead. Truth is, in the past several years I have seen her look much worse. Grey and bone thin, hair in a tangle, knotted, skin hanging from her bones. But there is no point looking back. I am here to empty closets. We will go through all her upstairs closets so her son and his girlfriend can move in and put their stuff away. They will put their furniture in storage. She is leaving everything behind but doesn't talk much about returning, though she has said she will come back. This is good that she has stated her intention to come back.

Out of two packed closets she has a small pile of things she will take with her to San Diego, a larger pile she will store in the basement and a huge pile that goes to the Junior League. She has made a pile she believes her new granddaughter's mother can sell. I have a feeling the young woman will just take the whole gigantic pile of once nice clothes to the Junior League drop up the street and be done with it. While we did the sorting I noticed how many things were once mine or my mothers. Z has several once lovely pieces that belonged to her long dead mother. Only two of her mother's beautiful things survived the moths: A perfect little black dress and a good winter coat. We both love the little black dress, too small for me or her or her son's beloved. And so off it goes to the Junior League. The good winter coat is in very good shape and actually fits me quite well. I am now about the same age her mother was when she bought the coat. Or so I guess. It will be warm and dressy enough that if I do go out and wear the new dressy brown dress, the coat will find a warm body inside it once again. It's a long shot. But without the clothes to wear there is very little chance I'll ever venture out again, after dark, dressed for an occasion, so long as I live. Anythings possible I guess.

When I left I turned to see Z drift out to the back porch. We blew kisses to one another. And the two grandchildren, and the young woman were alone in the mess of Z's drifting life, the house undusted since her only daughter left almost a month ago. I have offered to do such things as dust, but we both know it's not high on my list of priorities in my own house, so why would it be a priority of mine for her? Well, it just is. But she has put me off and I have let her. I feel guilty that she has been so reluctant to let me do those kinds of things for her, but she has had her middle son taking care of her for at least a couple of weeks, and it's just not something he would notice or do. I wonder who dusts for him?

Z leaves alone Sunday to fly to San Diego. Nothing will ever be the same again. This is the first time I have ever thought that, though I know things change moment by moment never to be the same again ever. You can see the shape of the mass under her skin, strangling her. They will start Radiation Tuesday.

Now I am cleaning my own closet as if my life depended on it.

June 25th, 2009 The Day of Punctuating Deaths

I set my alarm this morning. I know. Shocking! It was to me too when that sucker went off at 8:06. I hardly ever set the alarm, so when it goes off, there is no snoozing. I get that adrenaline rush that only an emergency sets off. It pretty much poisons me. But I'm out of bed like a shot.

The reason for the ungodly wake-up hour is an 11:00 dental appointment. I've been fighting a recurring toothache in my lower right back teeth. I know from past experience that it involves more than one of those giant molars and there is a bridge between those affected teeth. So all in all, losing those two teeth will leave three spaces that are my main chewing surface. Go ahead, laugh. Remember you may be young now, but you are growing older by the day. One day your teeth will fail too.

I took my shower at 9:30. Well, that was uneventful. Maybe it's a good omen. Clean and shampooed in under ten minutes! Maybe a new record for me. The moisturizing and deodorizing and hair drying takes longer than the shower. Finally I am newly dressed and clean all over. I have forty five minutes before I have to leave the house. More coffee and another couple of smokes.

My dentist's office is in my neighborhood. This is one of the reasons I go to Harold. That and the fact that he's both good looking and an accomplished musician. He, like Tom, my ex, can play anything. I have never heard him play, but know that Tom doesn't exaggerate anyone else's talent. And until my teeth started failing, I thought Harold was one hell of a dentist. But now all he wants to do is get rid of the old dying teeth and put implants in their place. I will not do my "implant rant" now, but I'm sure you can imagine how a poor old woman with no dental insurance feels about implants. I sometimes contemplate having them all pulled and getting myself a set of loverly choppers just to get it over with.

I put my hand on the doorknob of Harold's office at exactly 11:00. It's locked. I look in the almost shuttered windows and see that the place is empty. What the Fuck! This is wrong. I go to the dentist's office next door and ask them if they know where Harold went. They have his number and call his office. Marilyn, Harold's receptionist answers the phone and tells me they moved a year and a half ago. "Well, Marilyn, that doesn't explain why you didn't inform me that you'd moved! Did you send cards to patients?" She tells me the new address and I am not amused. It might as well be in Bum Fuck! She says,"It'll only take you five minutes." It actually takes fifteen. But as I'm driving there I hear on NPR that Farah Fawcett died. I always thought she was a bit to whispy and flaky, but men seemed to like her. Tom used to force me to watch Charlie's Angles. But then I saw her in Extremities and The Burning Bed, I thought she was stunningly good. I saw her documentary about her fight with cancer and it was moving. By the time I get to the dentist's new place, I've mellowed a bit thinking about Farah.

By the time I get home, it's close to 1:30. Ms M is having her latte and smoking a cigarette at my kitchen table watching the news when I walk in. I just get inside when the phone rings. My neighbor T wants to bring her dog over for a romp with Marley and to help me trim Marley's nails.

Marley is a strong and vociferous opponent to the nail trimming procedure but is no real match for the two of us. On my own she'd be a handful. She may look sweet and small, but she's one strong and squirrelly little actress screaming before a single nail is trimmed. Oh the eye rolling hysteria of it all.

The next phone call is the tree guy my neighbor recommended to finish cutting and removing the Navaho Willow the Power Company topped earlier in June. He says he's a few minutes away. I put Roscoe in the big house and grab my clippers. When I was walking T out front I noticed a few over hanging limbs that needed trimming so they didn't smack people in the face as they walked on the sidewalk in front of my place. That's how seldom I go out front and look around.

The tree removal guy seems nice and the estimate's reasonable. We walked the property looking for tree problems and he seems impressed with my forest. He knows his trees. He came here from South Carolina but grew up in St. Louis. I like his accent. We schedule for next week and shake on it. I have a copy of the estimate in my hand.

I go inside and call Z. She answers on the second ring and sounds better than she has in weeks. Then she asks me if I can come over tomorrow and help Rachel, her youngest son's mate, go through Z's closets and clear them out. This is something that I can do, but after I hang up I get a very strange and creepy feeling. It's is as if we are to clean out the deceased's closets. She wants us to decide who gets what and then cart the rest to the thrift store. I wonder if she'll live to regret this plundering of her clothing. But then this evening I remove my closet doors so I can clean it. I too will lighten my load. Take the burden off the living. Make better use of space. I know we are just place holders in this moment.

I was distressed all evening listening to the wall-to-wall coverage of Michael Jackson's death. I am appalled at the wretched excess of it all. As if there were no other news story worth covering today. It reminds me of the Anna Nicole insanity. I know Michael was a monster talent. I get it. He was talented and famous and terribly fucked up. And god help his children and all the other children he fucked-up. I know he was a talented victim and I know he victimized other children. I know I will offend some of you, but I had no doubt about the fact that MJ was a pedophile. It was a shame the prosecution was so bad. There were other cases to chose from. Picking the one they did to prosecute was a stupid mistake. I know someone is tearing his hair and screaming "Leave Michael alone!!!!"

F-22 War Planes Are Not Wanted By Military, Yet House Passes Defense Bill That Includes The F 22. Please sign yet another petition.

Dear Peggy,
Tell the Senate - If you don't stop the F-22, Obama will!

Email your Senators now and tell them to cut these wasteful warplanes so Obama doesn't have to!

The other night the House Rules Committee denied Barney Frank's amendment to strip out unnecessary F-22s from the Defense Authorization bill.1 We were really angry when we got the news, and we weren't the only ones: President Obama has announced that he might veto the entire authorization bill if the planes aren't taken out.2

But there's another chance for our leaders to do the right thing - the Senate is taking up their version of the bill right now, and if they leave the planes out, we can avoid an ugly confrontation.

Email your Senator right now and demand that they keep these wasteful warplanes out of the bill - so the President doesn't have to.

http://www.truemajority.org/nof22

Why the added F-22's were allowed to remain in the House version of the bill is a mystery. But the weapons-builders are a powerful lobby in DC, and sometimes have influence regular citizens don't know about. Fortunately, we've got some powerful allies in our corner too: including President Obama and his Secretary of Defense who called these planes 'a big problem' for the Pentagon.3

Now the fight moves to the Senate where we've got plans to work with the president's team and the Pentagon to make sure that the Senate version of the bill does not include these unneeded planes. You can help by sending an email your Senator right now and asking him or her to get on board.

-Matt
Matt Holland
Online Director
TrueMajority / USAction

A CONVERSATION...

Sitenoise was kind enough to give me the only great laugh in days, and I only read the first character's first few lines.

I was a big fan of Deadwood.

Fuuny man, funny women

“Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women?” inquired Christopher Hitchens in “Why Women Aren’t Funny,” Vanity Fair, January 2007.

That’s a good question. And by that I mean, fuck you.

~Elissa Bassist collects a bunch of writing by women from McSweeneys.net.

I wonder if McSweeney's thinks it's funny to publish in such a small font. You decide.

For Governor Mark Sanford

One more lying, philandering, hypocritical republican scum-bag bites the dust. So who's your blue eyed boy now GOP? Who is your next best and brightest? Who can live up to your high standards?(sic)

Z

There is so much I'd like to say about this incredible friend, and perhaps at some point I'll be able to do that. But now I can barely say her name. She can barely say her name. The tumor is growing, spreading rapidly, and the second look at the biopsy results are inconclusive. There seems to be a lack of clarity about what kind of cancer she has. Squamous? Small cell, non small cell? Lung cancer or not lung cancer. It is now pressing on her Superior Vena Cava. It appears to be attached to her Mediastinum.

I know nothing about the Vena Cava, nothing about the Mediastinum, but when we hang up I look them up. Now I know too much. This is not good. A rapidly growing tumor on the Mediastinum pressing on the Superior Vena Cava can't be anything but dire. And it is still a mass low in the Major Bronchi, growing. This cancer, whatever kind it is, is growing rapidly. Today the pulmonary oncologists at Huntsman meet to discuss Z's case. This is to her a farce. Why can't the best and brightest make a diagnosis and tell her her prognosis and treatment options? For some reason this tumor is mysterious. And her frailty is an issue. She has no weight to lose. No spare pounds on her spare frame. She has elegant bones, but can't lose any weight and survive. If you are proud of your slim frame and your vegetarian diet, take this story as a cautionary tale. I now carry my extra forty pounds proudly, knowing that they might give me a fighting chance in a battle with cancer and other horrors.

There was good news a couple of days ago. The PET scan did not pick-up any other cancer sites. We were jubilant. But now this just pisses her off. The ENT Radiologist was sure this cancer in her upper chest was not the primary tumor. Z's brain MRI was clean. So now it is all a mystery, and she has absolutely no faith in any of the doctors with whom she has consulted so far. Even the oncologist in Petaluma. And faith is the operative word. They so far have given her no definitive answers that offer hope without taking her down an invasive, painful, prolonged process of surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. She has seen the patients shuffling in and out of radiation. They are the walking dead. Their skin hangs from their flesh. They are the sexless, neutered near dead. She does not want to be one of them. I understand this. I would chose to forgo treatment too. But I have no children, no grandchildren. I don't have the same incentives to keep living. And I have a genetic predisposition to vascular dementia, the illness that killed my mother. I was the caregiver for my mother. I know how horrible that long march toward a total loss of self while the body chugs along is, since I spent years watching her meanness remain while all other aspects of "personality" dropped away. Savage is that end. The drooling, shitting, pissing, eating goes on as all the rest fades away day by day. So yes, I would chose to go quickly rather than the alternative of a long slow slog toward idiocy. And since I have no dutiful daughter to care for me, change my diapers, feed me like a baby, keep me safe from my own crazy wants...

Today Z's oncologist meets with a group of oncologists to consult with each other on her case. This is a sign to her that they don't know their asses from their hats. And they offer no "alternative modalities." Even the doctor in Petaluma is now on her shit list. No one tells her what she wants to hear. So today after her appointment with Dr Ackerly, she will think it over and then make her own decision. But cost is part of the problem. Let's say the cost is $50,000 and Medicare pays $40,000. That leaves someone with that $10,000 debt. She's eligible for Medicaid. If she decides to go that route they will put a lean on her house to recoup the cost of her care. All of this pisses her off. Her house is the estate she will leave her children. She says it's the most important thing she has. She will not give it to Medicaid. She will chose to die rather than know her kids will lose her house. I'm willing to bet not one of her kids gives a rats ass about her house. But she does. I hear her fear. I understand it. I know I'd feel the same fear even without children. I can do nothing for her now but listen, go where she asks, do what she asks. Her children have legal rights to her help her make decisions. I have only the right of friendship. I have known her longer than her children have, but they don't know me, so my opinion counts for nothing. I understand this too.

She just called me and she has decided on her own that it is a cyst. She is prone to cysts. She will just find a doctor who will confirm her own diagnosis and treat it like a cyst. It needs draining. I ask if she'll go to her appointment today with Dr. Ackerly at Huntsman. She says she might. She feels too weak to go. I say, "Let's call for an ambulance." She says absolutely not. They will take her to the ER and then admit her. She does not want to go to the hospital. They will get their hands on her and she will never go home alive. I know this fear. This fear of losing control over your own life. It has happened to me. I have had a major psychosis. I was kept for weeks locked up and treated with drugs that made me feel lobotomized.

Today I can do nothing but wait for news. I can do nothing more than be her friend, the one she can say anything to. I will no longer argue with her. It is her life. It is her life to live or not and the choice will be hers, and I will hope for the best and wait.