but ciriously

For now ...

2010-06-25T17:28:00.000-07:00

I'm mostly posting in another blog of mine called "Things You Can't Read".

When I have something to say that's fit for public consumption, you'll be the first to know.
-csc

Mastering The Syringe – It’s Not Just for Drugs Anymore

2009-08-29T09:12:00.001-07:00

With an expression that recalled Nurse Ratchet, Tes Shea began the demonstration of Art Clay™ Syringe at the August 6 meeting of the Metal Clay Alchemists Society of San Diego.

“The first thing you have to do, is hold it like you’re really, really angry,” she said, thrusting her syringe-filled fist forward to show us.

No kidding; I wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley with that thing in her hand. However, here, she seemed far less threatening – inviting, even, as she encouraged me to come to the front of the group that had gathered around her, and try to work the syringe myself.

“It’s not like cake decorating,” someone in back of me cautioned, reading my mind. I had hoped it was, since I had long ago mastered a metal-tipped bag filled with frosting, as is evidenced by my thighs. There was no licking the leavings on this thing, but I was able to manipulate it using her method.

I took the syringe from Tes’ hand and drew some curly lines with relative ease. She explained that one could draw, texture or embellish with the syringe on another formed clay piece or just alone on a non-stick surface -- even your name. “You let it dry, and then fire it as any other silver clay.”

Just as I was considering changing my first initial to a big “L”, I heard another admonition:

“You’ll never be able to do it that easily with PMC™.”.

My neighbor and I were clueless PMC refugees (read: guests) at an Art Clay-loyal meeting, but since nobody screamed, “UNCLEAN!” when we entered the meeting room, we figured it would be OK. We were a bit disappointed that there was no secret handshake, given the name of the organization, but we hadn’t made the brand connection when planning to come. Upon arrival, however, we were told that PMC users were welcome. We really have no particular allegiance to the PMC brand, but it’s all we’ve ever tried.

Marissa had already used some PMC3 Syringe on some of her projects, but mine was … well, stashed away in my closet, like any other self-respecting junkie would keep theirs. I had yet to unwrap mine, let alone use it – that would be too much like facing the dependency.

Oh, sure, we all stood around and joked about how much we resembled drug addicts – Tes related about how at one particular gathering where she brought and distributed the clay, attendees were calling out how many grams they wanted to buy from her. Grams and syringes are just the cliché – the real habit comes in direct conflict with our unemployment checks, the shredding of receipts, the closet that, if opened, identifies us -- but we cannot stop.

Tes held up a little cellophane package containing a fine silver ring form and told us how easy it is to make original clay rings by using the syringe on them, and then firing. I asked, “Isn’t that cheating?” but was reminded that the PMC ring I wore had an imperfect lining itself. This indeed had possibilities worth exploring; although later I was only able to find them in whole sizes online.

Back home, another neighbor had special-ordered a ring with some skulls on it, and so I decided to adorn it with the syringe. It was time to face the possibility that I would never reach the ease of use with my PMC3 syringe that I had with the Art Clay version, but the silvery, bony texture I wanted came out just right. And, I was now much braver, having tried it in the meeting.

And so, thank you, Tes and Society. You have made it easier to become comfortable with our newest accouterments to the obsession while leaning over our cluttered work surfaces. Marissa and I now share not only the used tips, but the glazed-over look of well-sated clay junkies.

Multi-talented woman seeks to recover pride

2009-03-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

I am a woman of many talents. I can wiggle my ears and sing. I can make a tube-like shape with my tongue while I write. My vacation-taking abilities are out of this world. However, none of these skills makes me necessarily employable.

So, I guess I shouldn't feel bad that tomorrow will be my first day of training of a job with the U.S. Census. It's not that the job is beneath me; I have enormous capacity to irritate people, and am completely qualified. It's just that it wasn't something I envisioned for myself. It doesn't feed my ego one little bit to have this little, temporary position as an "enumerator", even if it does pay more than my unemployment benefits.

I'm not even sure what my job will entail, since the census isn't really happening until next year. I suspect I will be seeing if there are families really living in the addresses from which the census will be expecting information. I can do that. I can walk up and down the streets and count. It will be the realization of yet another talent, and all this time I thought I hated math.

When I was laid off last year, I told myself that I didn't have to be defined by what I do for a living. It was a way I could feel better about job hunting in areas of maintenance or delivery services, I suppose. I believe that there are other areas of my life where I can express the real "me" that don't necessarily have to bring in the bucks. Employment would sustain me financially, writing and things like thumb-twiddling could sustain everything else. I decided that I would rather have (what I would have earlier considered) a menial job than to make an insulting amount at something I love to do, such as writing.

If only I was qualified to get a maintenance job! It was a rude awakening, this jobless period of mine. A completely humbling experience to see that I never acquired the experience now necessary to get a job mopping floors or emptying the trash.

Okay, the condition of my home would explain all that, but I can usually lay the blame for that on my dog and get away with it.

Friends send me scads of writing ads, where sometimes, they're paying upwards of 35-cents per word, if you become a member of their site, enter contests and mostly write "sample" pieces for which which they'll claim the rights and then not pay. Publishers know that many people will write for free these days, as is evidenced in this very blog. Nobody would pay me to write this kind of tripe now, although I have gotten a pretty penny for it in the past. Actually, upwards of 150 pennies per word for some articles. Those days might be over, unless I can re-convince Wine Enthusiast Magazine that they still need a columnist who barely can purchase a bottle at Big Lots for $4.

Oooh, and there we have it -- another good idea for a column. I'd better get to pitching the editor. If only I could remember his name. I do remember that he used to be the editor of Chocolatier Magazine, and I asked him if he got to wear a perky hat and eat sweets all day. What a job that would be! It's difficult to imagine why he left.

But meanwhile, I will drag myself in the required business casual (if they only knew what that really means to me) replete with sack lunch to the census training tomorrow and learn new skills for some pretty decent nose-counting money.

Pride or paycheck. If only it were easier to decide ...

Key Lime Pie and other concerns

2009-03-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

Through the years since I graduated high school, I've considered and subsequently rejected the idea of attending any of the reunions with my graduating class. It's not because I've become a much older version of my former self in all the ways we dread being seen at reunions. It's because I don't remember anyone!

I've looked at the yearbooks. There are such heartfelt little messages written and signed by I-haven't-got-a-clue. "Will always remember how much fun we had in typing class together" has me completely stymied, and well, ashamed of myself. There's someone out there who will always remember while I was probably working on frying some brain cells during typing class itself -- that much, I do remember.

It's really not so difficult to skip the reunions. After all, I live across the country from where I went to high school and college, safe from all the potential blackmail those events could bring. But now, the reunions have come to me.

I was lured into using Facebook by a friend who proposed a game of Scrabble. He'd even made the first move and it was my turn. Now, I had a responsibility to start a facebook page and get into the game, in more ways than one.

Employers are now requiring a passable knowledge of "social networking" sites such as Facebook, MySpace and Twitter. I figured that I may as well dive in and see what all the fuss is about, and learn something in the process.

I set up my page and played the word games with my friend. Facebook encouraged me at every turn to see which of the people I know were already on Facebook, or would like to be. In no time at all, I was in touch with family on the East Coast, old friends with whom I'd lost touch for eons, and yes, my graduating class from high school.

It's amazing how many people have been able to post at all times of the day and night. I'm not sure if it's because they're staying tuned in via their cell phones, or if it's because nobody is working.

"So-and-so wants to add you as a friend", my email message read.

So Who? Uh-Oh. I dragged out the yearbook. There was only the most vague impression that I'd seen her face before. She obviously remembered me, and what was I going to do, refuse her offer of friendship? Are Facebookers even supposed to take the term literally?

Seems to me, that anything less than an acceptance would be an insult, so I complied. However, since I was drawing a blank, I asked her what she remembered about me.

"You were always so crazy and fun," she wrote. It's generic enough to make me wonder if she really does recall me. Maybe she was there with me in typing class. Maybe she's just trolling the yearbook, trying to add to her collection, my posted photo indistinguishable from her family or (real) friends.

"What's on your mind?" is the question atop every page on that site. I think it's a very dangerous place to go.

Today, it's a toss-up between Key Lime Pie and pseudo friendships.

The Land of In Between

2009-03-04T12:21:00.000-08:00

There are some serious value differences between me and some of my friends. Whenever they come up, I am faced with questioning the worth of the friendship itself, which usually gives way to doing nothing at all -- I mean, c'mon, it's easier.

"Can you have friends whom you don't respect?" I used to ask my students. The responses were always strong, one way or another -- never anything in between. Lucky for me, my role was simply to evoke discussions, not to offer my own opinions. I live in the Land of In Between.

Old boyfriends who cheated may still tell great jokes; a completely fun and supportive friend who happens to be in prison (for something completely unrelated) thinks it is fine to cheat an insurance company. My best male friend is a racist, which has to be a difficult path, given that he has to work and interact with all different kinds of people every day.

Once, he told me I looked like a Jew. I got huffy with him; what the hell does a Jew look like, anyway? Judaism is a religion, not a race, I said.

"Well, all I know is, if they lined you up with 25 other women and someone said, "Pick out the Jew girl -- face it, Honey: You'd be picked."

Who can argue with that kind of logic?

I have friends who drink and smoke themselves senseless, and though I used to do the same things, there came a point in my life when I shed all that. They continue and then want to make long, slurring phone calls to me and rant angrily about politics. I have a few who are "half-friends", who never seem to be able to be there for me, even though I'm always around when they need someone.

These cronies stunt me creatively. I can't write about them without hurting their feelings. I've often said that if I wrote a book with characters who exhibited these idiosyncrasies, I'd have very few friends at all. What does that say about me?

"So, you don't like your friends," said one of them to me yesterday.

"No kidding"?, I asked. She nodded in the affirmative, which made me wonder what the hell I was thinking when I did her a favor minutes earlier by picking her up at the garage where her car was being repaired. As I drove, she took a call and talked to someone about how her mom's "filter" was gone, and would say just about anything.

This was especially interesting to me, because she'd just gotten through saying that she would really like to put her mother in a home and take away all of her medications. I suggested that maybe she should just get a gun, but that's a whole different tangent.

Regardless, her statement shook me up a little. Of course, I don't want to think of myself as a bad (or worse, insincere) friend.

As I dropped her at her destination, my friend flashed me the most amazingly-artificial smile.

"See ya. I look forward to reading about myself in your book."

I knew in that instant that there was nothing more I could do; this was indeed goodbye.

But, part of what she's saying is true. I don't like some of the things my friends do; their actions really bother the hell out of me sometimes. (I'm sure some of them don't like mine, either.) It's completely hypocritical to keep friendships with some of them at all. The rub is, I still have my filter. Weak as it may be at times, it's one that (for the most part) keeps me from writing things that will hurt people's feelings. Some would debate that, I'm sure.

"Fuck 'em," said another friend of mine, an avid blogger who says he won't leave anything out even if it offends someone. What freedom that is, to be able to say that! Especially if you can pull it off and not miss anyone who leaves because of it. I'm not entirely convinced that even he wouldn't hesitate; he's a very sweet person.

So, instead of following his example, here I am writing about writing about people. Some of the most published authors do, you know.

I won't promise that you won't be in my book, but if you shoot your Jewish insurance agent, I might have to 86 the friendship first.

The Trouble with Eunuchs

2009-03-02T10:16:00.000-08:00

I was laid off while on vacation.

"That's terrible!" said my friends. However, I'd planned it that way: it was going to be a lot better to be on vacation in Colorado, than to be stuck in San Diego, watching the whole place circle the drain.

The first couple of months, I decided to take it easy. After all, the holidays were going to be on us any moment, and we were going to be gone again for much of that time, anyway. I decided that after the first of the year, I'd really try in earnest to find something, and in the meanwhile, cherry-pick the jobs that would be ideal for me.

What a joke.

By the time we got back from a couple of trips, almost everyone else was unemployed, also, and those who weren't, were getting a crook in their necks from looking over their shoulders at work. For some reason, there's no glut of jobs available for group facilitators with ample freelance journalism and bus-spy experience. Go figure.

So, I began applying for just about anything.

"Think they'll notice if I don't have any actual piloting experience?" I ask a friend who was loitering on Facebook in the middle of the day, like me. They agree that it can't hurt to try.

I actually got a call last week from an ad agency where I really wanted to work; where I thought creativity could really count. A real interview -- a rarity these days where almost every ad is accompanied by a plea not to contact in person or by phone.

"Don't say anything about eunuchs," said my boyfriend, reminding me of my last interview fiasco. Last fall, when the handwriting was still being written on the wall about my job, I thought I'd begin some early trolling for a new job. I snagged a face-to-face in a local computer college about a job in curriculum development.

I immediately liked the director; she was about my age, and had a casual style all-around. She was very interested in my journalism stuff, and we had a great rapport, since she spent the entire time talking about herself. The whole thing was going swimmingly, especially if you count the fact that an entire water bottle leaked into my purse and onto the interview table. Not a paper towel in sight, so I kept casually swiping at the pool of water and pretended that I was able to concentrate on her questions. I shook out a hopelessly soaked letter of reference and decided to stuff it back into my bag. She didn't seem to care or even notice that my eye was twitching while she escorted me through the labyrinth of halls. We passed a classroom that was full of computers.

"This is where we teach UNIX," She said as she waved her arm, very Vanna-like, into the open doorway.

"You didn't really just say eunuchs, did you?" my mouth said, completely independent of my brain.

"Oh! You know UNIX? Fantastic!" The rest of her sentence went unheard, because I was trying to think of a way out of this mess. There simply wasn't one I could muster in time.

"Uh, no ... nevermind. It was just a joke. A very bad joke."

Wait for it, wait for it, I thought.

Talk about stink eye. I couldn't get out of there fast enough for either of us. By the time I hurled myself into my car, I was laughing hysterically. I reached for my phone, but it was dead, drowned in the morass. Insult to injury.

So, anyway, I didn't get the job. Damned eunuch-hater!

This time, I was determined to behave myself. I promised Robert I would try to keep my mouth under control, but since it's almost been a week without hearing back from the new interview, I'm chock-full of second guesses. Did I speak too frankly? Was I a smart-ass? Did I show too much of myself? Probably.

In any case, the thing I came away with, is that the owner basically asked if I had written anything lately. What was I going to do, have him read my blogs about my dad's death? Or, the one that's titled, "Things You Can't Read", that's full of my dark thoughts about a dead-beat client? Hardly. Almost as toxic as eunuchs, I'd say.

So, if nothing else, I realized that it's going to be a "What have you done lately?" kind of world, and I'll have to sink or swim on the demands for a smart-assed writer/facilitator/bus-spy.

I'm going to need a raft; it's going to be a very interesting year.

Basket of Grief

2008-01-19T19:55:00.000-08:00

Patty lumbered into the office hauling a huge, yellow plastic bag. She was a little late, but how the hell could she have had time to go shopping beforehand, I wondered.

"This is for you," she gestured toward the package.

For me? What on Earth for? I walked over to the knee-high bag. It read "Harry and David". Ahhh, the fruit people. Fruit?

It was a giant basket, beautifully wrapped in cellophane -- the really crinkly kind that I've always loved to hear unfurl itself in a wastebasket as if it had a life of its own. A white satin bow topped the production, which contained bags of mixed nuts, dried fruit, and yes, four very large, perfect pears.

But why? What are we celebrating? And, then, it hit me, like a slug to my stomach.

My dad's dead. This basket held their condolences. I'd won the Grand Prize for Grief, a beautiful, all expense-paid fruit basket.

I'm a terrible person for thinking that; I know. They mean well; they really do. But I didn't know what I was supposed to do. What's the protocol here? I didn't think that I should wear the white ribbon as a sash, but the absurdity of the situation made me feel like it.

People at the nursing home look at me differently now; they know my loss. They keep asking me how I'm doing. I function like a normal person in front of everyone. I continue to see Pam every day at the nursing home, and ignore the fact that there's a woman in the bed formerly occupied by my dad.

"I want to know what happened," Pam said.
"To what?"
"To that man who used to be in the room with me. I think I slept with him at night."

Just how many times does she have to grieve for the first time? If I tell her that Dad died, it's as though she never heard it before, because she doesn't remember. It's not fair to her. I change the subject, and she gets annoyed. She'll forget why she's annoyed, but not that she is. Still, it's better than the initial grief repeated and repeated. We sit close together and try to get through the moment. We'll do it again tomorrow.

So, anyway, I have a fruit basket. And a lot of sympathy cards are rolling in. I went to Hallmark and asked if there was such a thing as a death announcement card, as there would be lots of his friends across the country who would not know he died, and would never see the obituary.

They looked at me like I was crazy. There is no such thing, they said. So, I bought some note cards, and figure I'll respond to people as they write letters to Dad and Pam. What a lousy way to find out you've lost a friend.

On the up side, I guess I really am alright. I show up for work and do my job; I can still laugh and plan future vacations with Robert. Lots of times, when I am finally home and alone, I fall apart, really hard. But I suppose that's to be expected. I miss my dad terribly, but I can still function the next morning and go on, knowing he had his time and mine is still in progress.

And, I ate the pears.

Big, bulky thing

2008-01-10T04:53:00.001-08:00

"There used to be a very large, bulky thing over there, but I can't for the life of me remember what it was," said Pam, pointing at the stark, empty bed across the room from her. "Now, I know my grandmother died, but I don't think that was it."

That, mercifully, is what she remembers of my father's death at that given moment. Later, in a few minutes, she would remember it was Dad, and weep softly, saying she must have done something terribly wrong, because it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I try to comfort her, but I'm not much help at all. I'm usually dry-eyed around her, but I am also horrified at the sight across the room. No photos on the wall. The drape around his bed open, baring the emptiness that's in both of us left behind. My arm's around her, and I say something about her hair, and thankfully, that gets her off into another direction of conversation entirely.

I'd stayed at his side pretty late Friday night, but finally went home to try to get a couple of hours sleep. Sure enough, I got the call around 3:45 a.m. on Saturday. Mechanically, I jumped out of bed and headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth. That's when the shaking started. Aim; aim, dammit! I could hardly keep the brush in my mouth. I remember that the first thing I wanted to do, was to call my dad to tell him. Tell him something tragic had happened, but then, he already knew.

So, instead, I called Bruce. He said he'd be down there later. I left the house in the pouring rain and about halfway to the nursing home, it was raining inside the car, too, but not for long. I had to face the music.

They'd already called the mortuary. There was something slightly resembling my dad, a very large bulky thing, on the bed. I knew they expected me to look at him, to do something like pray over him -- something out of character for both of us.

"Look, he's still warm," Nurse Debbie said, trying to be comforting. I looked across the room, and Pam was sleeping soundly, partially because she'd had a painkiller earlier.

I touched his shoulder and said, "Goodbye, Dad," but he wasn't there at all, and we both knew it. This was just what was expected of me. She asked about his wedding ring and told me I should take it and his watch.

Great; now I'm taking jewelry off a dead man. I very gently tugged at the ring, which has been getting so loose over the past months, we've had to put a pound of tape around it. Now, his finger is swollen, and it doesn't want to come off. I had to tell myself it wouldn't hurt him; I could pull harder, and it would be alright. Feeling like a grave robber, I looked at the inscription: "Bill and Pam forever." No wonder, I thought as I shoved it into my pocket with his watch.

Grabbing my fifteenth cup of coffee since the previous evening, I sat in a chair next to Pam and waited for them to come and get Dad. It was supposed to be within the hour, but it was closer to two. Pam snored, and I was glad. I clicked the mute button on the TV and operated the remote like a professional; I don't have cable, so whenever I get around it, I can't settle on anything. Flip, flip, flip. All I could do, was wait and hope Pam didn't wake up. I marched back and forth from the coffee station.

This will be over; it won't last forever; I can get through this.

Finally, a guy just past his teens showed up at the front, wearing a black suit and looking solemn. He said a few words to the nurse, and then headed towards me, hand outstretched. Mr. Death comes in a younger package than I'd suspected, I thought.

They wrestled behind the closed curtain around Dad's bed like fighting puppets, and finally I heard the zip of a body bag. So did Pam, and she woke up.

I held her while they finished and wheeled him out. She knew what had happened, and cried quietly. I asked Debbie to give her "something for her arthritis," and thankfully, she did. Pam soon fell asleep and I went home, stunned. I couldn't even tell my best friend, because he's gone now.

So, this is it. This is what happens: Your loved one gets zipped up and carried out, and then you stare at an empty bed for days until they put someone else in there to distract you.

I hope for Pam's sake, it's very, very soon.

Disciplining from afar

2008-01-02T19:08:00.001-08:00

It's hard not to think of the stupidest things when you're at the bedside of of someone who is dying. I suppose it's nothing new; probably some sort of protective mode my brain goes into as it shrinks in the face of disaster.

My dad's death is imminent; there's no escape. He's now on morphine and some other pain killer I can't remember, and he's on an electric bed to help with some bedsores. The head nurse told me today that she suspects his lung cancer has metastasized to his bones, because his pain seems so deep. She said she's got no basis to know this for sure, but I tend to agree with her. The cancer center stopped doing scans long ago. What would they do if they found out the cancer had spread, anyway? Operate? Take out his bones? Filet him?

He didn't wake up while I was there after work today. Not really, anyway. Just long enough to say "I love you" to each other. I was surprised he was able to even say that much. And then, Boof! Right back asleep.

If he could die that way, it'd be perfect.

"Your dad is going to have a good death," said Nurse Shawn.
"Interesting combination of words," I said. "Like an oxymoron."
"Not really. Not if you've seen a really bad death," she said.

Oh, yeah. I've seen one of those.

In any case, I stood there alongside his bed, trying to picture his face from when he was a healthy dad, not this dying version. I was studying his nose for quite a long time, thinking about how different it looked now, his nostrils much more pronounced. Or, was it that his nose had gotten so much thinner, along with his whole body? I felt his forehead. His skin seemed taut, stretched over his skull with no padding underneath. My eyes drifted back down to his nose. His head was tilted back, so there was quite a good view of the insides of his nostrils. His lips had a tiny crumb of something in the corner, and I brushed it off.

This is what happens. You lie in your deathbed and people stare up your nose. For Cryin' Out Loud, I told myself. Get a grip!

I can only imagine the Karma that will come with that kind of behavior. Forget about wondering about an afterlife. Maybe a more important question is: Can you get grounded from Heaven?

I can just hear him now.
"Just what the hell were you looking at there?"
"... I dunno. Your nose?"
"But why?"
"I dunno. It was really interesting?"
"Two weeks with no phone. That ought to make you think about your next nasal investigation."

I'm going to make a sign to be hung over my bed when my time comes. "No pointing and laughing. You can do either of them separately, but not together."

Damn good rule. I should try to follow it sometime.

Cruisin' for a bruisin

2008-01-01T19:05:00.001-08:00

"Excuse me, Ma'am. Ma'am!"

I turned from my grocery cart toward the clomping of determined shoes coming my way.

"Ma'am. Could I please have one dollar? Just one stinking dollar, please?"

She was practically three inches from my face, which was turning back and forth in a "no" signal. Her heavily-frosted hair was haphazardly tied in a knot on top of her head. She was dressed in what appeared to be early '80s Madonna cast-offs, complete with leg-warmers. To my dismay I noticed some on sale at Walmart recently. This means that the resurrected bell-bottom styles I used to wear in my teens are already out of style again, but I digress. In her left hand was a grocery bag full of (what I assumed was already-purchased) food. In her right, was a jug of milk, its propriety uncertain.

Anyway, as I retreated, she followed, now practically shouting at me. No, not practically, she was definitely shouting.

"Just one dollar! Would that kill you?"
"Absolutely not," I replied. "but I'm not going to give you one."
"Oh, just fine!" she said, "I'm butt nekkid. Completely butt nekkid and the president of the United States."
"I can see that," I lied. "And, I'm sure you are, but I'm still not giving you any money."

Madame President was pissed off, alright, and began winding her way around the produce section, muttering the whole way about being butt nekkid. If that was true, it would probably have gotten her kicked out of the store; I'm pretty sure they don't allow you to shop without clothing at Vons. However, shy of that, nobody seemed inclined to ask her to leave. The produce guy was standing a few yards from this exchange with his eyes downcast, busily stacking the bananas that he had just arranged a minute ago.

"She's pretty aggressive," I said to the banana fiddler. Sometimes, I like to demonstrate my talent for stating the obvious. He nodded in agreement but wasn't going to move a muscle if he didn't have to. Leave it to management; that's their department.

What does this woman know about me, I wondered angrily. She didn't care one bit about my own situation. I could be as broke as her -- broker, even! After all, she was the one with the purchases in the bag. I only had prospective purchases. Where does she get off yelling at me; being so self-righteous while begging?

Evidently, I forgot that she said she was a politician.

I could hear her pounce upon some other innocent shoppers, and heard one of them comment that she must have been smoking something. And, there's another thing: How do beggars afford to smoke? I could get on a real rant here. Readying myself for another confrontation as I rounded each isle, I resolved to kick her ass if she started anything with me. I wasn't in the mood; I've got problems, too, for chrissake.

Okay, I've never kicked anyone's ass, even a naked president. But I was looking for an excuse to get really mad at someone, and there's always a first time. If Hillary Goddamn Clinton showed up right then, she'd be in big trouble.

And, I wouldn't give her any money, either.

Can you smell that smell?

2008-01-01T09:01:00.000-08:00

There's a scent of shit in the house, but I can't find the source. Maybe I just don't want to look hard enough. I awoke to my dog's whining and let him out, but not before pleading with him through my closed bedroom door to please let me sleep. Let me sleep through this entire day.

It's not just New Year's Day. It's The Bad Anniversary; the day my 48 year-old brother died in 1997 from cancer. A friend suggested that perhaps I took it so hard because I was pissed off at him for getting sick and leaving me. It's an interesting theory, but it's only partially correct.

I was pissed off at the insidious disease that stole my brother from us at an age that's just insanely young to go. Angry that my parents had to lose their child; incensed that a supposedly merciful God could let something like this happen -- to a guy who had everything going for him. I was amazed and horrified at the way his wife treated us during his last moments and immediately after he died.

I have almost come to a tiny (I can't be too generous here) understanding of her now. She probably hated these interlopers who came from the West Coast to be with Steve while he took his last, labored breaths. After all, it was she who had to deal with him on a day-to-day basis. We were only there to witness the final part. Not the months of surgeries and treatments, not the refusal to eat, the weight and hair loss, the ability to take care of his own bodily functions. That might have had something to do with the way she acted; I dunno. It was unforgivable at the time: We weren't distant cousins; we were his immediate family and we all loved each other very much. But, we weren't there. She was, every day. I still don't think it was reason enough to treat us like hell, but she apparently did. I was definitely pissed off at that. She married almost immediately after Steve died. I can't even fathom what was really going on in that house before he passed away, but I wasn't thrilled with her behaviors in any case.

The God problem ... well, it did do one thing for me: It made me realize that, as much as it irked me, I still believed in God. Enough to hate him, anyway. I was completely comfortable as the atheist I'd believed I was until then. However, you can't be pissed off at God if you don't believe he exists. I'm still dealing with this one, and nothing can irk me more than when someone tells me that these types of things are "part of God's plan". If they truly are, then I want him to leave me the hell out of it.

The disease, well, of course, I was pissed off about that, but it certainly wasn't Steve's fault he left us. He'd have stayed if he could -- God knows he tried every way possible to stick around, even though the methods themselves were as cruel to the human body as could be.

I am a little bit perturbed about having to be the oldest child now. Well, there's John, my step-brother, but mostly, he's absent. It's hard for him to deal with everything that's going on; I understand that part. If you weren't raised by my dad, and able to forgive his shortcomings, it'd be hard to take as a step-anything, especially one who had to help pick up the financial pieces after my dad fell apart. I can understand that.

Anyway, I'm not happy about being the oldest now; it wasn't supposed to be my yob -- it was supposed to be Steve's. But, that's not his fault, either. Although there were probably parts of the gig he disliked, he did the responsible older brother thing with aplomb. I stumble through, like someone shoved into the job would do. I try to handle it like matter of management; it's the only way I can do it. Thank goodness, I handle it like it's someone else paying the wages; if I handled it like my house, we'd all be in deep Kim Chi.

So, anyway, there's this smell of shit in the house, and there's no escaping that kind of thing. I'm going to have to try to find it. As for the other crap in my life, I'll have to deal with all that, too. Either by stepping in it, or hauling it out to the trash, it'll get done somehow.

Never ready

2007-12-30T22:18:00.001-08:00

"Waiting for something good takes forever, but bad happens (snap) that quick!" my dad always says. That's why, when my cell phone rang just now, I panicked.

I was in the kitchen, having just gotten into my sad excuse for pajamas, one hand retrieving a mug of hot chocolate from the microwave. No, not now! It'll take time to get dressed again; I'm not ready -- I'm not ready at all! Where's the stupid phone?

It was in the other room, and in the time it took for me to figure out its location, an eternity passed; civilizations built and collapsed; a lifetime before I could make my feet cross the house to answer.

Just before the last ring was through sounding, I answered with a feeble "hello."

"Cheereele, it is Josephine to tell you about your fadder," the nurse began. "Ders an area of skin near da anus opening which is a leedle sore ..."

Holyshit, at 10 p.m., she's telling me he has a bed sore. A bed sore! My heart was pounding so loud, I could barely make out anything else she said. It was the end of her shift, and Josephine is very fastidious, calling me just as requested, with any changes in my father's condition.

One of these times, it won't be a bed sore. One of these times very soon, I still won't be ready, and it'll happen anyway. He'll be gone, and I won't be dressed. It'll happen right in the middle of everything, of my life, and I won't be prepared. I won't be done being his daughter. I'll never be ready.

Cohen's Nuthorse

2007-12-29T22:02:00.000-08:00

I've been wrestling with bringing myself to have the most difficult conversation of my life -- with my dad. I think I should probably ask him if he knows what's happening (that he's dying) and then ask him if there's anything he wants to tell me, and to assure him that I'll take care of Pam.

I'm not sure there's ever a good time to bring something like this up, let alone guess how this will be with Pam in the room. But, it seems like he's in the same position. He can't bring himself to tell me that he's dying. Not only is he scared for himself, I think he's very worried about how I'll take the news. That is, in the back of his mind, I think that's what's there. What's in the forefront is very vague; he can't really sort through the clouds. Seems he knows he's uneasy, but he can't really express the source of the problem.

Language is the first thing my dad lost in this whole, long last leg of his lifetime. It's one of the signs of Dementia, and has been very frustrating. When he first started losing words, I'd chide him. "Dad! You can't remember the name of (insert any subject here)?" He'd say, "Well, how the hell do you think I feel?"

When his health really started declining, the language began leaving him in leaps and bounds. He'd answer the phone with the most bizarre greetings. "Cohen's Nuthouse" became "Cohen's Nuthorse", or just "Cohen's Nut." He once wrote a note for me to pick up some "Glander Will".

"Dad, I don't know what a glander will is."
"Sure you do!"
"Uh, no ... no, I'm pretty sure I don't."
That's about when the shoulder shrugging started. Sometimes, during one of these inventions, he'd start laughing and try to pass it off as something he just thought would be funny. But I could see the fear behind the laugh. He could hear the words coming out wrong, and by the time they did, he didn't even remember what he was trying to say in the first place. Another shrug.

One time recently, it became apparent that he didn't remember my name, and I was determined to drag it out from wherever it was buried.
"Dad, what's my name?"
"Sweetheart."
"No, really. What's my name?"
"Sweet Sue."
Sue's my middle name, but that's not what was he was going for here; he simply couldn't remember.
"What's Bruce's sister's name?"
(shrug.)
"What's Cheryl's name?"
"Cheryl! See; I told you I knew it!"
I laughed with him and Pam (who hasn't known my name for some time now) but I cried all the way home. I know it was very tough for him, too, even though he was trying once again to pass it off as a joke.

This becomes doubly-crazy, as Pam's Dementia has a completely different form; she has not lost language at all. Hers is usually in the form of wild stories and a completely altered reality. For example, she often talks about being carried on the back of the activities director to the fourth floor of the single-story facility.

I have a giant dog, a Great Pyrenees. One day, while chatting about several different things that I was doing to prepare for a trip, Dad asked me, "How are you going to get all those animals in there?" I could only guess that he meant how was I going to get my dog into the car.

"On their feet, Stupid!" Pam yelled at him from across the room.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm at a tennis game, sitting in the middle of the court, following the crazy banter from bed to bed.

I've spent the last year and a half protecting my dad from bad news, bills, legal problems and medical decisions. Do I now bludgeon him with a conversation about his death, or just let it lie still, until the conversation is moot? If he had something important to impart to me, could he express it anyway, or would he just shrug it off like everything else that's too hard to think about?

I guess I won't ever know the answer to my questions for sure, but I guess I can fill in the blanks if he gets stuck. Maybe we don't need to express the words at all, since we seem to muddle through without them most of the time, anyway.

(shrug.)

What's good

2007-12-29T07:43:00.000-08:00

Last night, I received a call from the Cathedral City Citizens on Patrol (COPS) program coordinator, who wanted to tell me that they're ready to bring a caravan down to Lemon Grove to honor my dad with a plaque for his service in their city. I first heard about this about a year ago, when someone told my step-brother, John, that they intended to do this. They contacted me last October. I suppose it takes awhile to get five busy people together to make a road trip like this.

He asked how Dad and Pam are doing, and I had to tell them that Dad is dying. I don't know how I did it without crying, but I was able to fill him in on his condition and give directions, collect his email address in order to send him a map -- no sniffling; no sobbing. Just the facts, ma'am.

Last night, Dad seemed stressed and uneasy. He can't express what's wrong, but I can tell by his restlessness and his frowns. He asked if he had an appointment coming up, and I told him as he has no pain, I didn't see the point in taking him to see a doctor. He shrugged his shoulders, just like he always does when he doesn't know what to say.

Now, he doesn't really ask me questions in entire sentences. I have to use all my psychic powers to flesh out his sentences. I can tell if I got it right or not; he'll let me know right away. Fortunately, we're strongly connected, and I'm usually able to get it right.

This blogging about the folks is exhausting, and probably boring. So, about this time, if I were listening to someone else sing the blues over and over again like this, I'd ask them, "What's good?"

What's good, is Robert. He's tireless -- at least he is for me, when I call him sobbing about my family's plight. Everything's so drawn out and taking so long, yet he's steady and always there for me.

What's good, is that even though my friend Susan is in prison, she's able to send me emails about funny stuff she's been reading. If she can find humor in her situation, then certainly I should be able to do the same.

What's good is my dog, Plenty, who shoves his face through the crook in my elbow as I write, trying to remind me that the sun is coming out and it's time to get out of here and take a walk.

I think we will.

Pimping through Christmas

2007-12-28T09:08:00.000-08:00

The holidays have been mostly about eating. This has probably always been the case, but now, my heart isn't in it as much as usual. Maybe it's because I now, at 5'2", probably outweigh my 6'5" dad.

I have always hated the holidays, altogether. Too much money for gifts I can't afford, receiving gifts that I know the givers can't afford, and always dreading the New Year's Day stuff. That day is forever welded with the date of my brother's death.

It was with great relief and excitement that I embraced the thought of leaving every year for a vacation with Robert this time of year. This year, the escape was short-lived, but at least we got out of here for a week.

I just canceled Dad's oncologist appoint on the 4th. They'd have to bring him in on a gurney, and I don't think I've ever seen anyone there in that condition. Too much stress on Dad. I also put the kibosh on the weekly weighings -- can you imagine how that must be for a man who can hardly even bear to have the head of his bed raised?

They told me yesterday that in his condition, he could last a long time. I sure hope not. He's been telling the nurses he's dying, but not me. He only tells me he loves me and that I'm a good daughter.

Pam asked me last night "where's the woman who was over there in that bed?" gesturing towards Dad's bed. "That's Dad's bed, Pam." "Ohhh, yeaahhh. Dad's bed," she repeated, not believing a word of what she was saying. I don't think she knows who her husband is most of the time, but she seems to accept with a shrug that whomever he is, it's okay with her.

In normal times, I'd ask to borrow the pimp hat that Pam received from Tommy, a great nurse that we all love to joke with. It's a fuzzy red fedora, trimmed with white fake fur. Put that together with set of gold grilz for my teeth, and I'd have a wonderful holiday laugh here in da hood.

I wonder how my neighbors would take that?

Chicken Little

2007-12-22T22:59:00.000-08:00

I should have known. Actually, I did, I think. When Robert and I left for this winter's trip to hike in Oregon, I gave him the perennial speech about how we may have to come back suddenly if something happens. Something, of course, is if my dad or step-mom dies, or I get wind that they're about to leave the premises.

I know they're dying. Logic dictates that in their condition, it could be any moment for either of them. However, every time I think that moment is close at hand, I'm proved wrong. it could be tomorrow, or it could be in years. Everyone urges me to get some respite, to get the hell outta Dodge while the gettin's good.

So, I decided to ignore my impulses and go on our usual winter excursion to hike to waterfalls in the Pacific Northwest. But right off the bat, I didn't like the way Dad sounded when I called from the hotel room at night after we'd get back from the trail. He sounded more frail, nonsensical. I began having serious regrets for leaving. But, then, I always do.

I'm no doctor, but since I'm the one who sees them daily, I am also the one who sniffs out the pneumonia or the urinary tract infections, or the fevers, or whatever it is -- before the nurses and doctors do. And, since I can sense the slightest change in their behaviors, it's often before anything will show up in a test. By the time they're diagnosed (they take turns at this, you see,) they're near death, the nursing home is asking me if I want them to get hospice involved and I'm calling my brothers and telling them to come right now if they want to see them while they're still alive. The medical treatment comes and the parents immediately rally. By the time Bruce and John arrive, the folks are upright, conscious and chatting away. Not necessarily making any sense, but very animated. And again, I've declared that the sky is falling when it's clearly still firmly in place where it's always been. Maybe a bit cloudy, but certainly not the storm I'd predicted. It's come to the point where even I think I'm a charlatan.

So, one week into the two week trip, I talked to the nurses, who told me he's lost another eight pounds (in a week!). I asked them to check on him because he's not making any sense at all now when I talk to him. They called the doctor earlier that day and he ordered some tests, but he said I shouldn't come home early; Dad's going to wait for me to come home before he dies. Even though it'd gone through my mind more than once, I found it a bit shocking that I wasn't the only one thinking it. I also wondered about the logic of why I would have him wait for me; I want to see him alive, not dead. I don't want him to have to hang around any longer than he needs to, but ...

I called Dad and the only lucid thing he said is that he felt like hell and asked me to bring a knife to help him "cut his throat because he wants to die." I told him I wasn't inclined to do that, and asked him to hang in there. How does one respond to that? I'm no expert in this stuff.

Devastated, I hung up the phone. One look was all it took; Robert asked me to decide if I wanted to go home or not. I didn't see any options; Dad needed me. Robert immediately began packing the car while I made cancellations for the rest of the lodging for the trip, and we left within minutes. What a prince Robert is; he didn't hesitate for one second, and promised he would not be upset if I said we needed to go home. I believe him.

While driving through a mountain pass, I got a call from the nursing home, but was disconnected. The voice mail message said Dad was severely dehydrated and needed an IV, but they needed my okay before they'd proceed. Dad's health was being held captive to a cell phone connection. Luckily, I was able to get through at the next freeway exit, and give my authorization. The nurse assured me when I called later that Dad should begin feeling better shortly.

By the time I got back last night, it was pretty late, but I went to the nursing home, anyway. Dad and Pam were both sleeping, but I woke them. Dad was incoherent, but stroked my face with his hand. Within a few minutes, he was able to verbalize a little. He understood I was back, and that I had come home to see him. I could tell he was glad I was there.

He's not going to die today. I'm still Chicken Little, but I don't care; I made the right decision to come home.

December 1, 2007

2007-12-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

This morning, I brushed the dog hair off a box labeled "Parents' Christmas Decorations" and threw it into the trunk I'd just emptied out. The night before, I'd filled it at the nursing home with boxes of endless old newspapers and magazines, mixed with packages of hot chocolate mix, pepper packets and several wooden airplane model kits in clear plastic bags. My dad doesn't build anything anymore. In his day, actually since the early '40s, he'd built the most intricate model planes imaginable, from scratch. In fact, he'd been featured within the pages of earlier editions of the same magazines I was throwing into my trash bin. Ever since the "Great Fall", when he injured himself and was diagnosed with multiple health issues, the model building was reduced to little toys. Soon after moving him to the nursing home, he began having trouble fitting the simplest parts together. He used to be one of the most organized people I've ever known, but those days weren't exactly reflected in this mess of Nestle's Hot Cocoa envelopes and old mail. It's been a harder fall than anyone expected, least of all, him.

Pam has been suffering from Dementia for some time. One of the ways she has demonstrated it at the nursing home, is to refuse showers. She points her little bony finger and scolds in the most authoritative tone, that she's already taken one at 5 a.m. just like she always does. Of course, the truth is, that nobody at that facility would be giving showers at that hour. They're probably hoping that the residents are fast asleep, so that they can finish out their shifts with as little effort as possible. One way that the staff has finagled the showering, is to appeal to her vanity. They promise to put her hair in rollers and then, they style it for her. Most of the time, this has worked very well. But for the past few weeks, she's been unusually compliant, and takes showers upon the first request.

Upon arriving with the Christmas decorations today, I was told that Dad refused to bathe, saying he'd just had a shower the day before. He had not, of course. In fact, it had been three days ago. What were they going to do, I wondered, bribe him by offering to curl his hair?

I sidled up to him on the bed, looked him in the eye and lied. I said that if he started refusing care, that Medi-Cal would no longer cover them and that I could not pay. He wasn't happy, but decided to take a shower.

He complained about pain in his leg, so I asked the nurse to give him some Tylenol. She told me she'd have to crush it and put it into some applesauce, because someone (I think she said Bruce) caught him spitting his pills back into the little cup instead of swallowing them.

He didn't touch his lunch. After he was bathed and back in his bed, he apologized to me for being "so much trouble." I told him I love him, and that he's no trouble at all.

Oh, there's going to be so much more trouble...

November 30, 2007

2007-11-30T14:51:00.001-08:00

Never a dull moment.

This morning, I got a call from the nursing home, saying my dad refused to get ready for his appointment at the cancer center, because he "just went yesterday." (He didn't go yesterday, but he'd seen a different doctor last Monday.) I had to call and tell him that yes, we had an appointment (we've been talking about it all month, 'cuz he keeps asking when it is) and that I'd meet him there. The wheelchair transport takes him. He then cooperated and let them get him dressed to go to the doctor.

So, anyway, Dad told me at the cancer center while we were waiting for his doctor, that Pam kept taking out her teeth. This was a huge news flash.

"What teeth? Did her teeth finally come in?" I asked. He said yes, but she keeps taking them out. (She likes to hide things in used kleenex boxes, which get thrown away. She's been toothless since July when she lost her last ones and has had to have pureed food since then while I fought with Medicare who said she didn't qualify because of her medical condition!) After he told me that, he took out his own teeth, right in the cancer center waiting room.

"Dad, please put your teeth in."
He started licking them, turning them over in his hand, giving them a really good inspection. People were beginning to stare.
"Why?"
"Just .. just please, put them back in, Dad." He gave me a look, inserted them in his mouth and then muttered something about how "Cheryl has her own rules,, and everyone else has theirs."
Funny how he remembered my name when he was bitching about me, but talked to me about Cheryl from then on as though I were someone else listening to him.

"What kind of hat do you call that?" he laughed loudly, pointing to a balding chemo patient wearing a hat.
"I call that a pink hat, Dad."
"Glad I don't have one of those," he said.

This dentist who comes to the nursing home is like a phantom. He comes late in the evening, and never tells anyone he's been there. I'm sure he must then write that he's visited the resident in their chart, but if nobody knows to look for something that's already happened, they don't. She could have been eating real foods for days if he'd let someone know her teeth were done.

Anyway, when I got back to the nursing home after Dad's appointment, I noticed that sure enough, Pam had her new dentures. I complimented her on her choppers. She said, "These aren't my teeth. They came in a package on the floor." I asked, "so, then, what's in your mouth?" She told me, "Oh, I've always had these. They're the ones that I came with." I was able to talk with the nutrition specialist and she's taken Pam off the pureed food.

Dad keeps pointing to his pants and telling me there's something wrong with them. They're falling off of him. He's now down to 202 pounds, and since he's lost more than 40 pounds it's no wonder that his clothes fall off. I keep buying them new pants with elastic waists and drawstrings, and clearly mark them with their name and room number. They always seem to be wearing their old clothes. I look in their closets, and their new clothes are nowhere to be found. They're in the laundry, I hope. Everything new seems ethereal. They and the staff always resort to the old and comfortable.

The solution to his decreasing waistline, I tell him, is to eat some food. I'm working with his doctors to see if we can stimulate his appetite. The cancer meds, the pharmacist says, may be messing with his appetite. They're also keeping him from having symptoms from the lung cancer. It's a delicate balance, but they're trying to figure it out, trying and removing the prescriptions for anti-depressants and steroids and you name it. Sometimes, I feel like Dad is one big drug experiment. When we came back, they warmed up the breakfast he missed. He ate exactly one bite of scrambled eggs.

Alone, I am somewhere between emotional catastrophe and denial, but mostly in a robotic state when I'm there at the nursing home and at the doctor appointments. I have become the parent, the role that I never wanted, nor pictured for myself. My older brother, Steve, would have been so much better at this than me.

Nothing's fair, is it.