Must Cancer Patients Be Positive?

When we come into this world we act out as freely as we want to. As time goes by, we get messages from others that to freely express ourselves is not okay. Whoever said one must be a "good" (insert name of disease here), patient? What the hell is that anyways? If we are "good" does that mean we get to stay on this planet longer?

I know that there is a LOT of rhetoric about "keeping a positive attitude" and not "being negative" will help one to have good health and survival. Oh and don't forget organic vegan lifestyle. If you didn't eat it before how is it going to take over and heal you? Maybe you like that style of food. But, wouldn't a hot fudge sundae be nice?

If it's true that not thinking positive, having a negative attitude, not eating certain foods, then I would have been gone a long time ago, because I was a very "bad" cancer patient.

My inner child was pissed off. I went against the rules every chance I got, kicking and screaming and swearing at nurses (well, some of them deserved it) and telling people out loud that I had the forbidden "C" word and I was going to die.

Whoa! But those doctors were wrong. Maybe I was close to dying (had two Near Death Experiences), but no one can predict your future, really. Not even a doctor.

I was obsessed and talked about the "D" word to whoever I could get to listen. Most would get out of it, but some were cornered and I probably scared them to death. That was a time when the C word or D word was not discussed.

I wrote out my will, I don't know how many times. Well, that is, every time I had a recurrence. I really didn't have much to leave, some books, some artwork, some poems, some favorite things. I wrote it out with pencil and paper from a 3 ring notebook; one time leaving my art to my sis, next time to my brother. There was something cathartic in it for me.

Realizing I didn't want a "funeral", just a "wake", a party maybe, where people would play all my favorite music, (wrote that in the will, too) and I went around making people feel uncomfortable when I told them, "Don't buy flowers for me after I am dead, Give them to me now, so I can appreciate them." What a bad girl I was. I can laugh at it now, but I was pretty indignant back then. Why put hundreds, maybe thousands of flowers on a casket that is put into the ground the day they are arranged? It seemed so selfish to me. Love me now, not when I'm dead!

So, when we come into this world and we are cute little babies, we can get pissed off and scream our heads off and let everybody know just how unhappy we are. And we get away with it. We know what we want and when we want it, like, I want that milk, NOW! and yummy that is really good!! and then we are happy for a while, and then later we are miserable again, or sleepy, or giggly, or sad.... yet free to express whatever we feel. And people love you and care for you and for your feelings.

All I am saying is, I hope you will give yourself the right to feel however you want to feel and don't let anyone else pass judgment on you, and most of all, don't pass judgment on yourself for not being a "good" patient. Be whoever you are!

If it is true that your time on this planet is coming to a close, then why not do what you want? Well, maybe, not use that bludgeon you were thinking of. But, maybe take a stick and beat up the sofa. Listen to the music you want, eat popsicles and pizza or cereal for dinner and pudding for breakfast, wear all mismatched clothes or draw tattoos on your arm or get out your old Barbies and dress Ken in Drag or your old Legos and build castles. And, yes, protect yourself from those who are still stuck in their old ways, if you need to. You have no obligation to keep them in your life. It's your life after all, whatever is left of it, even if it goes long term. Clear out all the things that do not matter to you. It's very freeing to let go.

Take care of that little baby you once were who expressed yourself so freely. And in the meantime grab up all the love you can get for that which is inside you feeling empty and let it fill your heart until it is overflowing. You will be very surprised as the overflow floods those around you, and whether or not you get healed of the disease which might kill you, your heart will be healed with the fullness of love as it grows like a jungle garden. Your love and others intertwined in the leaves healing each other.

Death Changes Everything

I look back upon other deaths in my life and see them differently. My father didn't want any fuss to be made, no viewing, no ceremony. He just wanted to be cremated, and be done with it.

Gennie and James Deane age 85 and 90

Both my parents had expressed this as their choice for years. Yet, when Dad died, it was immediately obvious that, though we would respect the wish for cremation, we would still go through the nice dressed up appearance, the new tie to go with Dad's favorite suit, the make up for his face to look healthy and happy.

Though, I thought that smile was probably broader than any my father had ever made, it was still better in appearance than what it might have been. There was no fancy, expensive coffin, but a temporary one. I don't recall what it was called, they had a special name for it. Sturdy, yet disposable, something that would burn with him, for little expense. Perhaps some sort of cardboard?

We went against Dad's wishes for the sake of our Mom's comfort. Her grief was so intense, we did this to help give her some closure, to help her face the fact that his physical presence would not continue to be with her, to help her make that transition into widowhood as best as possible. It gave her the chance to be dressed up for him, for her to say goodbye. After all, he died when she was asleep. When we woke her, she tried to revive him. Perhaps she thought she might have prevented his death if she had not been sleeping. We like to think that going through with a ceremony, a priest, a church as she was brought up with, as was familiar to her, would help to bring some sort of comfort to her.

Honoring Grief

We live in a society that fears death, and we're raised up to believe death is undesirable... "bad".

Imagine what it would be like to have grown up in a society that didn't fear death! There are such people who celebrate with joy. They honor the person who died. 

Since we've been brainwashed and have this ingrained negative viewpoint and emotions regarding death, choosing to change will be challenging, but it can be done. We can still grieve the loss of the one we love simply because we miss them.

My personal viewpoint is: 
Live life as though you will die tomorrow and all the bullshit falls away. 
You will know who and what's really meaningful to you. 
In the meantime, live life to the fullest extent of your being. 
Take the good things and be glad. 
Take the troublesome as challenges to overcome and grow character. 
Love yourself and extend that love to others who are able to accept it.
Honor your friends by remembering the good times with them.

A Time to Live, a Time to Die

When it comes time to die,

be not like those whose hearts

are filled with the fear of death,

so when their time comes

they weep and pray

for a little more time

to live their lives

over again in a different way.

Sing your death song,

and die like a hero going home.

~ Chief Aupumut, Mohican. 1725

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Photo Art, by Elizabeth Munroz

Remembrance Quilt

The big black garbage bag, shiny and ominous sat in the middle of my living room floor. I looked at my best friend, despair emanating from eyes; a little moist and red, a little blank, a little begging for release.  I was surprised at the immensity of the job before me. How had the simple offer of help turn into this big black lump of death's leftovers? I started toward the bag, and Shirley put her hand up. "No, not yet!"


I stood there on the brink of suspense, waiting for her next move. She walked into the kitchen, turned her back, and said, "Okay, now!"

I felt so bad for her. How would I feel if my son had walked into a train? I wouldn't be as brave as Shirley, fetching his clothing from his closet a thousand miles away while his wife stood by weeping. I thought I should never have made the offer of a "remembrance quilt". It was obviously too soon. But, she told me Marissa was getting rid of her son's belongings, had called the Goodwill to haul them away, even his racing bike, they found at the top of the canyon where he had climbed down to put himself on the track at the most convenient time. I had mentioned making the quilt without thinking there would be an urgency about it. Long after my Grandfather died, I'd made one of his shirts, blue and white, a simple patchwork, a comforting summer quilt, that lost it's way after his wife died. I often wondered who slept under it not knowing the story beneath my hand stitching.


As I opened the bag, I began pulling out the jumble of men's suits and ties, winter sweaters, and jackets. This was going to be challenging, and depressing to say the least. How could I make a sweet remembrance for my best friend out of all these dark colors, this heavy fabric that would suppress her to lie beneath?


Eventually, Shirley slowly entered the living room and sat down on the sofa, dragging the bag over to her. We folded the clothes in silence. As the bag emptied, I was so relieved to discover summer khakis, many different colored shorts, light weight hawaiian print shirts. I was so grateful I could have kissed Wayne's ghost. Then Shirley spoke, "I discovered these in the back of the armoir, hidden in shoe boxes. I didn't understand why he would go to such trouble to hide them away, until the police came to the door. They had found his suicide note. He killed himself because he was troubled about his feelings toward other men and long term knowledge that he was bi-sexual. I couldn't believe it. Wayne has never shown any signs. Marissa and he always seemed so compatible. But, he wrote that he couldn't pretend anymore to be a good Christian. They belonged to that strict church, you know. They never would have approved of these short sleeve shirts, these bright colors. He said he couldn't live with himself, had been planning this a long time."


I swallowed. I couldn't think of anything to say, nothing that would comfort her, nothing that would make any sense, nothing that would undo the damage on top of the pain she already suffered learning her son was dead, committing suicide in a most gruesome way, leaving his body unrecognizable. And now knowing how tortured he had been, not just depressed but living his own kind of private hell.


"If only I would have known. If only he would have told me. He knows I am open minded. Maybe I could have helped him. Maybe I could have... " But, I could see her shaking her head back and forth in realization that there was nothing she could do.

imagine that

Thirty years ago John Lennon faced death and died. That day, I awoke from my seventh cancer surgery and survived.  I can never think about his death without ultra gratitude for my life. I never imagined that it would turn out that way.

Healing

"...experience for yourself the potential of poetry to heal by feeling its power through your own voice. Many people have an intuitive sense that voice in general and poetry in particular can be healing. We have all experienced the comfort of soothing words. Finding the words to articulate a traumatic experience can bring relief.

.... People are frequently moved to write a poem in times of extremity. In mainstream culture there are subjects that are not talked about. They are taboo. For example, each of us is going to die, but we do not talk about dying. We are all in the dialogue of illness, death and dying, whether or not we are talking about it. Poetry gives us ways to talk about it.

...In the United States many people are scared of poetry. They have had bad experiences with it in school. People often believe that poetry is difficult or inaccessible or not relevant to them. Modern poetry is based on voice, and must be passed through our ears. This is where the sense is made. So, when you read this article and you see poetry,

Read it aloud
pass it through your ears
enjoy the
ride, and
know
the difference between poetry and prose
is that poetry is broken
into lines—
that is all.

Multiple ways of utilizing poetry for healing, growth and transformation will be presented including the Poetry and Brain Cancer project at UCLA. Particular attention will be given to issues of Palliative care. The reader will be directed to the scientific evidence of the efficacy of utilizing expressive writing. The developing professional field of Poetry Therapy and The National Association for Poetry Therapy will be discussed."

"Finding the Words to Say It: The Healing Power of Poetry" by Robert Carroll

The National Association of Poetry Therapy

~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Thank you to Mimi Olsson for sending me this information! 

Mystery

 I look at the mess outside my back door the birds have made of the sunflower seed shells.  I'm responsible for some of that mess. I've been feeding them. But the possum has contributed too, trying to get to the bird seed, tipping over pots and stools and other garden paraphernalia. Not to mention his...  poop. Possum's poop a lot, and not just in one place but everywhere they go!

I'm sad. This mess is sad. It's a sorry excuse for a memorial ceremony location. I should clean it up.

Last year at this time, I was beside myself in shock. I had all the symptoms, rapid pulse, cold skin, perspiration, tightness in the chest, and an overwhelming sense of horror.

Who knew that loving someone so much for twenty years could bring upon such intensity?

I couldn't comprehend the possibility that I would remain sane. I sure didn't feel sane. That first six months was the most difficult. I went to bed at night and all I could think about was her. Not the good times we had. No. All I could think about was her death, and the things that led up to it.  I awoke in the same thought pattern day after day, night after night. I couldn't stop myself.

As clear as the moment it happened, I see her now, slipping out the door as I reach for the mail. She's plodding across the yard where her favorite plant grows... has been growing for years. Due to my recent surgery, I'm hobbling behind her. I liked to watch as she pads around her cat mint, and sniffs selectively until she finds that one perfectly formed leaf for her enjoyment. She nibbles. She lingers, waiting for my approach.

If only she hadn't.

I wasn't fast enough. The neighbor had let her dog out. He headed toward my house. I saw it coming. I tried, but couldn't run. There was no way I could have stopped it. It was instantaneous.

I heard a blood curdling scream as the dog's body slammed my little eight pound girl. It was me who screamed, but it sounded like it came from outside myself, as if the whole neighborhood had screamed. I saw her hurled away across the sidewalk.

It happened so fast.

I kept obsessively going over that in my mind, trying to re-capture that moment. It seemed she simply disappeared. Certainly she was suddenly not there.

My scream had startled the dog and his owner so much that everything shifted. For a moment the dog stood stock still and did not give her chase, but ran away. The neighbor and I had harsh words.

Since the door was still open, Keli made her way back inside before I got there. I examined her. No blood. She seemed herself. She seemed okay sitting there on her rocking chair, as usual.

It took two weeks as her life began to fade. I took her to the Vet, not relating the episode with the dog to her demise, because she was so old. It was the Vet who wrote in her chart about a mass in her adomen, the lack of bowel sounds. He asked if she'd been injured. Then, it all clicked.

It was too late to save her, he said. I could pay a thousand dollars and they would do everything they could, but he didn't feel there would be much hope at her advanced age, the fact she was dehydrated, etc. etc. I needed to let her go.

NEVER, NEVER, NEVER take your very sick pet to the vet without having a friend go with you!!! Driving home is extremely dangerous, for other drivers, as well as yourself. Several times, I had to pull over just to breathe. I was convinced I would pass out, but not within my senses enough to just stop driving entirely. Very dangerous.

Every night before I slept I re-lived the vet office visit, her looking into my eyes with such clarity that last moment. Every morning the same thing. I thought I would die from the grief.

So here I am a year later, and her resting place beside the back door is a mess with seed hulls and possum poop. Naturally, I got busy and started cleaning. I decided to go out to her favorite plant, her cat mint, dig it up and transplant it. Put it beside her. It gets such beautiful blue flowers on it.

Much to my surprise, I can't even call it surprise.

Just imagine ..... I find the location of Keli's cat mint and discover instead, a four foot circle of dead plant. All the living flowers and grasses surround that circle. But, nothing invades the space that once was the living plant my cat loved.

Bereaved Comforts

I once had a dear friend who died many years ago. Her family lavished flowers everywhere you looked. Her husband went into debt for her coffin, made of fine wood and brass handles. Perhaps for him, this was his subconscious way to substitute for how he would have lavished his love upon her if she had continued to live. That is the only reason I could come up with at the time. I guess I don't really understand this part of our American death rituals very much.

Do we put the deceased in a strong, sealed coffin because of the idea of the creatures that might eventually desecrate the body? What is it about the coffin? Is it a way to preserve the body, a way to feel like the person is still intact, safe, in a location we know we can go to and be with them, even though underground? What in the world is the purpose?

I keep wondering about the flowers, the ones I, in the past, vehemently stated I wanted no one to give me after my death. How foolish of me to think they would be for me! How oblivious to not realize Linda's flowers were not for her. I've realized the flowers are for the living.

We want to clean up death. We want to find ways to make it prettier, more acceptable, and flowers can do that. The natural beauty of flowers have a powerful effect on the psyche. Why not place flowers around the coffin, on the coffin, for the viewing? Why not have them at the grave site? Without them, the dismal effect of the whole situation would be more painful. We, the bereaved need comfort too. Flowers can bring upliftment of the spirit and that's a great comfort in our time of mourning.

I think now I understand a little bit more about this whole process that I once thought was barbaric.

Saying Good-Bye

If we are traditional, there are fixed ideas we have about death where I live, except perhaps with cremation. We have the body made up so that the deceased looks healthy and happy, as much as possible. We have a viewing where friends and family come and share time with the deceased to say goodbye. We give eulogies, share stories of his or her life, how our lives were affected by this person.

Recently, I've realized that all the ritual we have regarding death of our loved ones is very much to honor them. It also helps us with our grief since it gives us comfort in our bereavement. The idea in our society that death is negative derives from the fact that we will miss that person who died, that there is an empty space in our heart that needs to be filled with something else to replace the fact that he or she will not return.

If one is not present when the death occurs, there is a sense of not having had the opportunity to say goodbye, therefore the ritual of viewing the body. Dressing our loved one in favorite clothing, and physical features made to look healthy and happy can provide a sense of completion. We may tell ourselves, the loved one is no longer inhabiting the body, but still, we want to revere the receptacle which housed the soul we will miss so much.

In our grief, thinking rationally may not be a high priority, and spending money on a satin lined coffin, for example, has everything to do with how much we wish to provide comfort.

Though we might understand that the body, nor the being that once inhabited it, will physically benefit from lying on a cushioned bed surrounded with lovely pleated fabric, we have the need for ourselves to symbolically swaddle the one we loved as we may have in life.

Have you ever offered a friend your coat when they were cold? Shared a blanket? Done something, anything, to help the loved one be more comfortable? Seems to me this is our one last attempt to do the same thing when we say goodbye.

In Memory of Jeffery, Fire Rescue Cat

The Dowager Queen, so lonely in her old age made her wishes known: a friend, a companion, I must bring her, to share her last days. The shelter had none old like she, only rambunctious kittens and healthy young ones. No, these were not to be.

Keli needed one of her own, a cat with tired bones and wise heart, not wanting to chase and play. When they called me,
I suspected another mismatch.

But, there he was, a sad derelict rescued from the forest fire. Home unknown. No chip. No collar. No front tooth. A tired old man. But eyes full of life and some kind of rare understanding glowing there.

The shelter called him Charlie, but as soon as we came home he told me it wasn't his name. I had suspected as much. He said, Jeffery would do. Hard of hearing, that is the name he responded to.


Both a bit crotchety, Keli and he bonded as old folks do, tolerating personality quirks, respecting each other's space, and a riled spat or two.

They grew close enough to share the heater, the bed, the food bowl, but not me.

When the Dowager Queen died
Jeffery did the most remarkable thing. He sat shiva with her body.

In awe, I put my feelings aside and let him be with this mysterious cat ritual until he walked away. No one can ever tell me cats don't grieve, because that's what he did. The same as me.

Jeffery didn't eat. Already skin and bones I couldn't face another loss so soon. I went against advice and adopted a pal for him. He didn't much like Ninja but enjoyed the challenge of being first at the food bowl. Being top cat brought back his interest in life and I had hopes for their friendship to develop.

It was only six months and five days after the Dowager Queen died when Jeffery went to join her. We left for a check up visit to the vet. On the highway, we drove past where the skeletal remains of thousands of trees stood testament to the fires from which Jeffery was rescued. Frantic in his carrier, he seized.

He sleeps forever beneath the big pine where he sat many an evening, perhaps missing his old forest home.

I look at his pictures and wonder. How could a cat with me so short a time make such a big hole in my heart?

 It's been one year since Jeffery died.

Life is full of Tigers

Here's a little story. You've probably heard it before in one form or another. This story concerns a man or maybe it's a woman, who is being chased by a tiger until she reaches a cliff where she totters for a moment before falling.

Already know this one? Read it anyway.

As she tumbles down the side she grabs hold of a small shrub growing on the face of the cliff. She hangs there, poised precariously between life and death contemplating her next possible move.

She looks up. Above her the tiger remains panting and growling pacing back and forth. She knows she can't climb up. Looking down she sees another tiger prowling in anticipation at the bottom of the cliff. Where did he come from?

Then to make life even more interesting, she notices two small mice are now busily gnawing away at the main stem of the shrub on which her life literally depends.

Simultaneously she sees some wild roses growing just within reach. She plucks one and puts them to her nose to sniff and thinks to herself, "Ah... how intensely beautiful the fragrance!"

~~~

Life is full of tigers and the adrenaline and stress that come with them. This week tigers have been everywhere I turn. And those darn mice are but the gnawing worry that kept me awake last night wondering what I could do about the situations I was facing.

But, today while awaiting the results of a ten hour long surgery of a patient who is in my bone cancer support group, and hanging out with my elder lady buddies in the book discussion group I attend, and coming home to my three cats who come running to me like puppies to be petted; it was then I stopped and smelled the roses!

Who knows? Maybe all those tigers I've been dealing with will turn out to be made of paper after all.

Note: Both photos were taken by me. The Sierra Rose photo was enhanced in photoshop by plucking a rose from another picture and placing it there next to the dying bush.

Twilight is not a book

“For years I never knew whether the twilight was the ending of the day or the beginning of the night.

And then suddenly one day I understood that this did not matter at all.

For time is but a circle and there can be no beginning and no ending.

And this is how I came to know that birth and death are one. And it is neither the coming or going that is of consequence.

What is of consequence is the beauty that one gathers in this interlude called life”  ~~~ W.O. Abbott

Loss

From Memories of a Geisha~~~

At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss", carved into the stone.

It has three words...but the poet has scratched them out.

You cannot read "Loss"... Only feel it.

The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves...

Until one day there are none.

No hopes.

Nothing remains.

If You Could See Me Now

Perhaps there is nothing supernatural about death.
Perhaps there is.

Some believe that when it is over, it is over. The body dies, there is nobody home.

Some believe that the soul or spirit of a person leaves the body and moves on to another place. Heaven, or the next life, or some ghostly realm or into the ether as molecules, or ???

Obviously, we don't have all the answers. For me, it comes down to personal choice of what I want to believe, regardless of what someone else tells me that I should believe based on their interpretations.

Found a website some time ago where a woman wrote a letter or poem to her sister. It is a Christian oriented site and it is beautifully done. The song accompanying it is, "If You Could See Me Now" by Kim Noblett, and the lyrics are the first part of the web page. The second part has a letter written to the caregiver of the woman who died (I think).

I like the part that says:

"Speak often to me, for I am just a whisper away and I will hear and answer you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dedicated to three beloved people who passed away last month, and their bereaved families.

Cry Daddy

I started to cry while driving. I had no idea why. It wasn't just that sense of tears starting to spring that you can hold back with a tightening of the throat. No, this came from somewhere deep. Like a volcano wanting to break loose. Tears unbidden. Tears with plans of their own.

I knew I had to get off the road, avoid being a danger to others. I can drive while crying. I've done it before. Haven't we all? It wasn't even a matter of understanding why I felt so sad.

I pulled over right there and then. Not wanting to break down completely, looking around for tissues, I noticed in the rear view mirror, the sheriff.

Oh, %^*&!

Would I get a traffic ticket for having pulled over without a reason? I would soon find out. It was just beginning to sprinkle, when the officer came to my rider side door. I opened it so he could lean in.

He took one look at me, I noticed in his eyes a flicker of recognition. He knew instinctively this wasn't a stalled car problem. Maybe he was thinking, a crying woman, Oh %^*&!".

But he said with concern, "Are you all right, Ma'am?"

I didn't know what to say. (I just started crying for no reason, officer, over nothing?) No, I didn't say that. I lied. Okay, maybe not a full lie, a little white lie. I told him my father died last year... a bit of overwhelming grief struck me while driving... I thought it would be safer to pull over, calm down.

He said some comforting words, I forget what.
And to get me out of danger he followed me to the next exit.

Maybe it is true after all. Maybe I am missing my Father. He was 90 when he died five years ago. He was my best supporter, and loved to listen to me read anything I might have written. A letter, a poem, a story, a family memoir, one of my opinionated pieces or a story about my cats. He would have liked to know a caring cop had stopped to help his daughter. He would have understood how tears and sadness come from nowhere, with no known reason. He would have understood my white lie.

Dreaming the Dead

My best friend Patrick
came to visit me
the night
mumps had taken him away.
I didn't understand the dream
until Billy
announced it on the playground
other kids calling him a liar
but I knew

Then Lee,
still in his drunken stupor
two weeks after he careened
into the house at the end of Coomer Rd.
his football helmet rolling across the floor
winter never leaving that corner
every time I passed by

Professor Harvenstein
who I didn't even know
hanging upside down
on the fence
of the 405 freeway
shaking me awake
"tell Arthur, tell Jaime
it's in the bowl"
I timidly told the Chair
the message seemed so urgent
He apologized later for his anger
learning it was true

Grandpa Frank
three thousand miles away
came night after night
said nothing
we sat on the couch watching
birds outside the window
him adjusting the strap on his
prosthetic leg
I would have thought
he wouldn't need it anymore

Auntie Ione
in broad daylight
tore the cross off the mirror
and threw it in the street
I laughed so hard
I cried
She said she would give a sign

Linda
my best friend in the whole world
surprised me
walking arm in arm with Elvis
in his white suit
happier than I'd ever seen her
now that he was more than
a poster on her wall

Dad, in that red flannel shirt
from the 1970's
walking down the hall
of the nursing home
where Mom grieved
He smiled, young again
hugging me
all those engineering instruments
sticking out his pocket
as always
I only saw him that one time

Until the weeks after Mom died.
Grandpa and Dad
stood in the doorway of her room
Me, confused
"She hasn't figured out yet
she's free to go"

and those ancestors
only learning who they were
through the Tioga County
Historical Museum
their pictures hanging on the wall

But, My Darling Keli
the one who owned
the rhythm of my heart
taking with her
a piece of my soul
never

Late Birthday

My father would have been 95 years old on Sunday.
I thought about it for a moment, then blocked my mind.
"Don't go there," I told myself, "it will hurt."
Daddy's gone.

He's been gone five years now.
He was sure he would live to 120
So sure...
We were all convinced
if anyone could do it, Dad could.
He had faith.
Dad could do anything he put his mind to.
He broke his hip and claimed never having pain,

Just a little bit he said. No need for pain pills, 

Then passed out when the nurse
helped him to stand.

I was there.
He didn't even grit his teeth.

But, life has a way of twisting up our plans,
dashing our dreams, changing our outlook.
Life has a way of doing things
differently than we expected.
Expectations lead to disappointment.
The best made plans of mice and men...
and all that.

Today I was diagnosed with Osteoporosis.
Dad had it.
He grew shorter and shorter,
until I was taller than he.
Now, I'm told
all I need is an IV
every three months
and that will take care of it.

If only Dad had known.

A Change of Mind

A dear friend died recently and it hit me right between the eyes that my attitude about our customs surrounding death might be necessary. I realized I needed to re-think my attitude about the whole concept of how we handle death in our culture. Because of the long distance between us, I was unable to attend any get together with others regarding the death of my friend. I felt alone in my grief.

I'm sure that my bereft loneliness could have increased, except for the fact that the internet connected many of us who loved this person. We were able to share our bereavement in a social network. I saw wonderful comments about my friend, I learned how others experienced him in their lives. I saw another side of him, and I smiled. I watched a slide show presented by his dearest loved one, pictures I had never seen before. Pictures that showed my friend in happy times with his friends, including me, and in beautiful scenery he had once enjoyed.

I ranted not too long ago about death and funerals, about how some cultures celebrate death, how our culture treats it differently: death is a sad, bad thing, to be avoided, to be made more acceptable by making things pretty. I ranted that I wanted my death to be celebrated, that I didn't want flowers and you better give me flowers now, not when I'm dead.

Because of the death of this dear friend so close to the timing of my rant, I have had a revelation which has given me a different opinion, nearly a full turn around on the subject.

It doesn't seem so unacceptable to me anymore. I can now truly say, with all my heart, to the family and others who loved my friend, "I'm sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences."

Rest in Peace, my dear friend. I shall miss you immensely, though I believe from the depths of me you are just a whisper away.

It's Mom's Birthday

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 89. She led a good life, a hard life. She had such a lovely name, Genevieve.

Her early memories were of living in the lumber camps, where Papa's work was still necessary, a blacksmith when it was a dying art. Her mother worked as cook and washerwoman for the lumber company. Their home, less a home than we can imagine, with a shed-porch where she and her brother slept and woke up to snow on the bed, because of the open slats holding up the roof.

She didn't think it was a hard life then. She just thought that was the way life was.

In a way, she worked for the lumber camp herself, setting the long tables with plates and eating utensils. Putting syrup, molasses, salt and home made jams in the center for the pancakes while her mother cooked up the big pans of bacon and eggs fried in their grease.

Once the lumbering dried out, no more trees to cut, you see. They went to live in the house of a relative who took them in. Papa tried to run his smithy there on that Crooked Creeak Road out "in the sticks", as she called it. Papa died when she was nine, at the beginning of the fall of the stock market and the Depression. It made no difference in their lives. They were already poor.

So she could find work as a housekeeper, mother sent her off to live with her older, married sister.

A year later she was brought home to live with Mother and her new Step-Dad.  Suddenly, the poverty was not so oppressive as her mother continued to work in a diner as a cook. Her pies the prize of the county.

Those are just some facts about my Mom's childhood, shared for no particular reason except today is my mother's birthday and these things have come to mind.

The first photo is my mother as an infant with her mother and aunt, and work horse.

Second photo was taken the year Papa died.

The third photo was taken when Genevieve was 14, when times were better.