It is difficult to live here,
In this house on this street.
Where every little thing is a reminder,
and every little reminder is so precious,
but heavy on my heart.
I want to flee from this,
so I cling to it all.
Showing posts with label Uncertainty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Uncertainty. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Finally back at the Beach
So today it was hot, and I decided to try going back to the beach. I made a review of mission Beach for Yelp... I thought I would share it here, too.
I almost had to leave you forever, Mission Beach. Your funk, your wide swath of the social fabric, none of it could obliterate the pain. But I went back and we were back, buddied up for madness and fun.
Yeah, bra. You know me. I used to pop in for breakfast. I sometimes had a beer. But me, I come see you to be on your sand and in your water. Back on my hardboard days, by the jetty. Body boarding days? That sweet break in the summer swim zone, in front of Canes.
Now you remember me. Hey, remember when mom took off and lived down by the volleyball nets in that cool little beach house with that new dude? She visited that day with us and I learned to surf? I sure do. I was nine, man. Wow, that was a great day, seeing mom after three months. Thanks, you were a great host.
Remember all the trips to see you with my aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, sneaking away from Mission Bay Park where they made us stay to come see you so I could play in the waves. Awesome, man. It was worth the spanking, totally!
Remember the girlfriends I took there, all of them needing to have that special "you get to know this place through me" quality. Yeah, of course you do. Even the one who didn't much like you.
In 14 years she only came with me five times. Each time, I made it a point to be in tune, riding and carving to impress her under her skin-shielding encampment, my little pallid Sultana. She liked it, but the beach was just not her thing. You played a good host, though.
I remember she urged me to be in the water whenever possible. I was. She was your biggest cheerleader. Then she was gone. I forgot she urged me to be in your water. I just remembered she didn't like to go with me to see you. I was afraid her spirit would not be with me.
I was wrong, and I finally went to see you today again, ready to ride the waves for the first time since she left me here. The first song on the radio was the one that reminds me of her. "Big Hard Sun." She wanted to let me know she was coming with me.
We've been buds for a long time, bra. You're my homie from the home break. Hell, you are the home break.
You might not be the best surf spot ever, but you have the goods to get me in the water, and there's a boardwalk for me if I want some non-natural beach fun. Not bad, not bad, but a little gawdy. I prefer the sand and waves.
Hey, bud. If I bring a new girl or a pack of friends around, try to do something to score me a fire ring. It gets busy and I can't camp out all day. You understand, man.
And do you think you can bring the broom painter back, the guy who does the sand sweeping designs on the lot surface? That would be keen, even if he sells more Jesus than an immigrant smuggler with a labor service on the side.
I almost had to leave you forever, Mission Beach. Your funk, your wide swath of the social fabric, none of it could obliterate the pain. But I went back and we were back, buddied up for madness and fun.
Yeah, bra. You know me. I used to pop in for breakfast. I sometimes had a beer. But me, I come see you to be on your sand and in your water. Back on my hardboard days, by the jetty. Body boarding days? That sweet break in the summer swim zone, in front of Canes.
Now you remember me. Hey, remember when mom took off and lived down by the volleyball nets in that cool little beach house with that new dude? She visited that day with us and I learned to surf? I sure do. I was nine, man. Wow, that was a great day, seeing mom after three months. Thanks, you were a great host.
Remember all the trips to see you with my aunts and uncles and dozens of cousins, sneaking away from Mission Bay Park where they made us stay to come see you so I could play in the waves. Awesome, man. It was worth the spanking, totally!
Remember the girlfriends I took there, all of them needing to have that special "you get to know this place through me" quality. Yeah, of course you do. Even the one who didn't much like you.
In 14 years she only came with me five times. Each time, I made it a point to be in tune, riding and carving to impress her under her skin-shielding encampment, my little pallid Sultana. She liked it, but the beach was just not her thing. You played a good host, though.
I remember she urged me to be in the water whenever possible. I was. She was your biggest cheerleader. Then she was gone. I forgot she urged me to be in your water. I just remembered she didn't like to go with me to see you. I was afraid her spirit would not be with me.
I was wrong, and I finally went to see you today again, ready to ride the waves for the first time since she left me here. The first song on the radio was the one that reminds me of her. "Big Hard Sun." She wanted to let me know she was coming with me.
We've been buds for a long time, bra. You're my homie from the home break. Hell, you are the home break.
You might not be the best surf spot ever, but you have the goods to get me in the water, and there's a boardwalk for me if I want some non-natural beach fun. Not bad, not bad, but a little gawdy. I prefer the sand and waves.
Hey, bud. If I bring a new girl or a pack of friends around, try to do something to score me a fire ring. It gets busy and I can't camp out all day. You understand, man.
And do you think you can bring the broom painter back, the guy who does the sand sweeping designs on the lot surface? That would be keen, even if he sells more Jesus than an immigrant smuggler with a labor service on the side.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Times Apart That Were Just In Time
Despite our closeness and our passion for each other, Marcie and I did spend time apart now and then. There were my trips with various entertainment companies, my degree completion trip, and various little journeys I embarked on, as well as long and painful stretches in multiple jobs, never seeing each other except in notes.
But there were other times apart that had their basis more in relief and vacation. Generally, Marcie engaged in these alone, and by design.
Sometimes they were just in time. Marcie and I would, when left submerged together in our little close-wrapped world, begin to pick at each other over stupid things.
Usually, we were conscious enough to defuse it, but sometimes a little complaint would become a huge problem. A memorably small but malignant example was my preferences in cooking, memories dredged up by my recall of her breakfast tastes. They drove her insane, and for a little while it was a wedge between us.
But if she was insane, I was simply mad. Our styles were in stark contrast, usually to my deep frustration.
Marcie did not understand my need to fry eggs until the yolks were solid. When I explained a family members' love of breaking my over-easy eggs and cutting them on the same plate as pancakes or waffles, ruining them and creating my distaste, I inspired her derision.
"FRANK!" she said. "You can eat a normal fucking egg, no one is going to soak your plate in yolk. Let me cook for you and just sit down and shut up!"
I simply asked her to scramble them from then on. That, however, was not the end of the Breakfast Wars.
She grated at my desire to fry and gobble up bacon up fast, its awful, wonderful smell driving me insane from the second she began to cook it. She liked to cook bacon painstakingly slowly, the salty pork lusciousness of the bacon wafting about for a half hour, or even 40 minutes or more if she was not hungry yet.
For me, it was hellish. I held my tongue but would come out and look, which drover her batty.
"FRANK! I will call you when it's ready, would you just GO AWAY? I am trying to cook!" she screamed one Sunday.
When one day she brought home the delicious and irresistible Hob Nob Cinnamon Roll, I made the ultimate mistake. After waiting a half hour for her to heat it up, I heated mine up in the microwave. She walked in as I took it out, her lips pursed, glaring.
"You couldn't fucking wait, could you?" she asked, crossing her arms. "You were so impatient that I could not even call a friend before you were in here, ruining your cinnamon roll with a microwave. Fine. Enjoy your cinnamon roll. What a nice breakfast we had together, Frank."
With that, she grabbed the other cinnamon roll, still in the box, and dumped it in the trash with a flourish, adding an entire Tupperware full of fresh fruit salad. She crossed her arms as I continued to eat.
"You don't even care," she accused.
"I care," I said. "But I have to work this morning, and I have twenty minutes to be there, so I went ahead and ate."
She grabbed her purse and slammed the door as she left. I wrote her a note and made it worse. "I'll see you after work," I wrote. "I'll eat with the guys, so save the steaks I see you brought down."
I actually won that one. I came home, forgetting to eat with the boys after our gig, and she gave me a hug and kissed my neck. "I'm sorry I forgot you ha to work, and I walked out because I was embarrassed," she said. "But you really drive me crazy with your impatience at breakfast."
"I know, honey," I said. "I apologize, too. But sometimes I feel like you are testing me, and I hope you're not."
It was far from over. After one morning, in which the bacon simmered for an entire hour in the pan, I walked out and saw that she was reading her People magazine. Ingredients for the rest of breakfast were out, but she had stopped when the mailman came with her gossip rag.
"Honey, can I just have some bacon and go?" I asked. "I want to go surfing, and it's getting late."
She tossed her magazine aside and started cussing under her breath. "I cannot believe how fucking impatient you are," she said. "I don't know why I even cook for you, you are such an asshole. You take the joy out of it for me, I hope you know."
I had had enough. I went into the bedroom and changed into my wet suit, grabbed my body board and gear, and headed out to Pacific beach as she cracked eggs and stirred angrily. She followed me out.
"Frank!? Where are you going?" she screamed, then threw up her hands as I walked down to the bus stop where the 30 awaited.
That night she sat me down. "Frank, the impatience has to stop, it is making me very sad," she said, beginning to sniffle.
I let her hold my hands and watched her closely, a little angry at it all. What kind of bullshit is this? I thought to myself.
We bickered over this even more and the waits got longer. Eventually, as the morning cooking process went past 11 a.m. and one and a half hours, I stopped waiting when I could not any longer, and just left, or ate cereal. The mornings grew ever more quiet and angry. Then, one Sunday, Marcie had an announcement over our sullen faces and shared breakfast.
"I am going to see Jane next week," she said. "I need to get out and have a little vacation. You are driving me crazy."
I nodded and shrugged. She took her plate and mine and that was that. But things would be looking up, and I would soon be grateful to Jane for the ways in which, though she could not know, she was helping me and my beloved girl.
But there were other times apart that had their basis more in relief and vacation. Generally, Marcie engaged in these alone, and by design.
Sometimes they were just in time. Marcie and I would, when left submerged together in our little close-wrapped world, begin to pick at each other over stupid things.
Usually, we were conscious enough to defuse it, but sometimes a little complaint would become a huge problem. A memorably small but malignant example was my preferences in cooking, memories dredged up by my recall of her breakfast tastes. They drove her insane, and for a little while it was a wedge between us.
But if she was insane, I was simply mad. Our styles were in stark contrast, usually to my deep frustration.
Marcie did not understand my need to fry eggs until the yolks were solid. When I explained a family members' love of breaking my over-easy eggs and cutting them on the same plate as pancakes or waffles, ruining them and creating my distaste, I inspired her derision.
"FRANK!" she said. "You can eat a normal fucking egg, no one is going to soak your plate in yolk. Let me cook for you and just sit down and shut up!"
I simply asked her to scramble them from then on. That, however, was not the end of the Breakfast Wars.
She grated at my desire to fry and gobble up bacon up fast, its awful, wonderful smell driving me insane from the second she began to cook it. She liked to cook bacon painstakingly slowly, the salty pork lusciousness of the bacon wafting about for a half hour, or even 40 minutes or more if she was not hungry yet.
For me, it was hellish. I held my tongue but would come out and look, which drover her batty.
"FRANK! I will call you when it's ready, would you just GO AWAY? I am trying to cook!" she screamed one Sunday.
When one day she brought home the delicious and irresistible Hob Nob Cinnamon Roll, I made the ultimate mistake. After waiting a half hour for her to heat it up, I heated mine up in the microwave. She walked in as I took it out, her lips pursed, glaring.
"You couldn't fucking wait, could you?" she asked, crossing her arms. "You were so impatient that I could not even call a friend before you were in here, ruining your cinnamon roll with a microwave. Fine. Enjoy your cinnamon roll. What a nice breakfast we had together, Frank."
With that, she grabbed the other cinnamon roll, still in the box, and dumped it in the trash with a flourish, adding an entire Tupperware full of fresh fruit salad. She crossed her arms as I continued to eat.
"You don't even care," she accused.
"I care," I said. "But I have to work this morning, and I have twenty minutes to be there, so I went ahead and ate."
She grabbed her purse and slammed the door as she left. I wrote her a note and made it worse. "I'll see you after work," I wrote. "I'll eat with the guys, so save the steaks I see you brought down."
I actually won that one. I came home, forgetting to eat with the boys after our gig, and she gave me a hug and kissed my neck. "I'm sorry I forgot you ha to work, and I walked out because I was embarrassed," she said. "But you really drive me crazy with your impatience at breakfast."
"I know, honey," I said. "I apologize, too. But sometimes I feel like you are testing me, and I hope you're not."
It was far from over. After one morning, in which the bacon simmered for an entire hour in the pan, I walked out and saw that she was reading her People magazine. Ingredients for the rest of breakfast were out, but she had stopped when the mailman came with her gossip rag.
"Honey, can I just have some bacon and go?" I asked. "I want to go surfing, and it's getting late."
She tossed her magazine aside and started cussing under her breath. "I cannot believe how fucking impatient you are," she said. "I don't know why I even cook for you, you are such an asshole. You take the joy out of it for me, I hope you know."
I had had enough. I went into the bedroom and changed into my wet suit, grabbed my body board and gear, and headed out to Pacific beach as she cracked eggs and stirred angrily. She followed me out.
"Frank!? Where are you going?" she screamed, then threw up her hands as I walked down to the bus stop where the 30 awaited.
That night she sat me down. "Frank, the impatience has to stop, it is making me very sad," she said, beginning to sniffle.
I let her hold my hands and watched her closely, a little angry at it all. What kind of bullshit is this? I thought to myself.
We bickered over this even more and the waits got longer. Eventually, as the morning cooking process went past 11 a.m. and one and a half hours, I stopped waiting when I could not any longer, and just left, or ate cereal. The mornings grew ever more quiet and angry. Then, one Sunday, Marcie had an announcement over our sullen faces and shared breakfast.
"I am going to see Jane next week," she said. "I need to get out and have a little vacation. You are driving me crazy."
I nodded and shrugged. She took her plate and mine and that was that. But things would be looking up, and I would soon be grateful to Jane for the ways in which, though she could not know, she was helping me and my beloved girl.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Five days
Five days from now will mean one half year from losing her. My weight is down over 50 pounds, but I feel the heaviness of my heart increasing.
I feel it as I run into the night, hoping to outpace my sorrows with steps and heartbeats.
I feel it as I ponder my work and the meaningless struggle to procure money for children who are sneered at by selfish gray people who would see them imprisoned before they were educated.
I feel it as I consider the future with women ahead of me, in all their sadness or greed or heartless demand for comforting falsity.
I feel it as I gaze into a picture of beautiful blue eyes and know that a great and perfect love is gone from me, perhaps forever.
I feel it as I try to gather the courage and the motivation to pour out her life in verse and chapter as I know it, and her memorial as I realize it.
I feel it as I listen to my body for the little signs that say I will not live to honor her, to immortalize her, and to be known to have been hers at all, except as a rumor that dies with the last that have heard it from some reverent voice.
And I cannot feel so much so often and so deeply anymore without someone, and I feel my greatest grief when I admit I know she was right, and I must love to live, and I must live to love again.
And I wish she could live, so all of that, all of these weights, could feel so much less of a burden and a stone in me, and so much more a matter of my grateful love for her, as it always had been.
But at least my shoulders are broad and my back is unbowed, and much of that is her, alive in me and insistent that I carry her, and it, on.
F.
I feel it as I run into the night, hoping to outpace my sorrows with steps and heartbeats.
I feel it as I ponder my work and the meaningless struggle to procure money for children who are sneered at by selfish gray people who would see them imprisoned before they were educated.
I feel it as I consider the future with women ahead of me, in all their sadness or greed or heartless demand for comforting falsity.
I feel it as I gaze into a picture of beautiful blue eyes and know that a great and perfect love is gone from me, perhaps forever.
I feel it as I try to gather the courage and the motivation to pour out her life in verse and chapter as I know it, and her memorial as I realize it.
I feel it as I listen to my body for the little signs that say I will not live to honor her, to immortalize her, and to be known to have been hers at all, except as a rumor that dies with the last that have heard it from some reverent voice.
And I cannot feel so much so often and so deeply anymore without someone, and I feel my greatest grief when I admit I know she was right, and I must love to live, and I must live to love again.
And I wish she could live, so all of that, all of these weights, could feel so much less of a burden and a stone in me, and so much more a matter of my grateful love for her, as it always had been.
But at least my shoulders are broad and my back is unbowed, and much of that is her, alive in me and insistent that I carry her, and it, on.
F.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Five months today - A letter to Marcie
So, today marks five black months since I lost the one person in my life whose true-heartedness, beauty, intelligence, independence, sweetness and depth could completely enthrall me, and did.
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Possible hiatus
I am pretty ill at the moment and may need to take a break from blogging and life in general to deal with it. Then again, maybe being sick will inspire more nostalgia and the time to think will override the fevered state of my mind. We'll see.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Technical Issues
Due to a camera that did not record what I needed it to, I will have to postpone sharing Marcie's last list. Rest assured, it is coming and I am ready to share it. I will also be talking about a movie I watched very recently with Marcie which just wrung my soul out.
Bah. Hours wasted on a file that was corrupt. Bad batteries! Bad!
Bah. Hours wasted on a file that was corrupt. Bad batteries! Bad!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Update On Details
I still don't have a final location for the proceedings, and I am trying to nail down either Friday or Saturday for the event. Currently, they are running neck-and-neck. Whatever the end result, the celebration of life will begin at 5:30 PM Friday or 5:30 PM Saturday. The wake afterward will begin at 7 PM.
By tomorrow, I will lock in a day. The places for the memorial and wake will be announced and directions posted by Thursday night. Please mention if you are bringing spouses or friends. Children will now be allowed for people who have trouble finding sitters.
Folks, I am working on it. Suggestions of place are fine, but because we are all of differing faiths (and levels of it), church sites won't work out. Focus on places near Sunset Cliffs if you have ideas (Point Loma, Shelter Island, etcetera).
Please write in to me, or contact Melissa Senoff (SignOn), Marsi Bowers or Marie Salmon (Union-Trib) so that I can keep a good tally of who will attend.
Our love to all of you,
F.
By tomorrow, I will lock in a day. The places for the memorial and wake will be announced and directions posted by Thursday night. Please mention if you are bringing spouses or friends. Children will now be allowed for people who have trouble finding sitters.
Folks, I am working on it. Suggestions of place are fine, but because we are all of differing faiths (and levels of it), church sites won't work out. Focus on places near Sunset Cliffs if you have ideas (Point Loma, Shelter Island, etcetera).
Please write in to me, or contact Melissa Senoff (SignOn), Marsi Bowers or Marie Salmon (Union-Trib) so that I can keep a good tally of who will attend.
Our love to all of you,
F.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Hoping for a Visit
I have spent the day thinking about what to do for Marcie's memorial, submitting papers and getting the hospital bed she was trapped in for weeks out of our house. It might help weaken the more recent memories of her in favor of all the beautiful memories her photos have for me to recall.
Thank you to all of you who have been giving and offering your support. I will announce the memorial (or celebration of life) details when I have them worked out.
Some people reported experiencing a strange "wakeup call" around 2 AM last night. I am hoping that I get such a visitation from Marcie. At any rate, I will be sleeping a lot, just in case. Goodnight, folks.
Thank you to all of you who have been giving and offering your support. I will announce the memorial (or celebration of life) details when I have them worked out.
Some people reported experiencing a strange "wakeup call" around 2 AM last night. I am hoping that I get such a visitation from Marcie. At any rate, I will be sleeping a lot, just in case. Goodnight, folks.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
A Slow and Busy Morning
Marcie's morning ritual took a little tonger this morning. She needed some extra care and I gave it to her.
I woke her at 7 a.m., first clearing her throat of some phlegm and wiping her face, dabbing mostly, patting it dry. I gave her drops of natural tears and cleaned around her cannula:
After the accumulated moisture and grubbiness of Marcie's sleep was off her face, I changed her bed. I gave her a bath while I did it, slowly shifting her to her left side from her right. She quietly watched or snoozed when it suited her, serene.
After almost an hour, I took her laundry out and got it started. She generates a lot of it. I like to use clean washcloths and towels for her. The latter, at least, are plentiful.
I came back and she was snoozing hard. I finished changing her clothes, carefully giving her a fine coat of her favorite oils, salves, unguents, balms, lotions and emulsified suspensions of every type. She woke and indicated she was quite amused by it all, since the home health aids take about half the time and don't "moisturize."
It was time to grind her medications. I did that, made a mix of it and water in a syringe. She took it with OJ. I got her to take some orange juice and more water, finishing two loads of laundry as I set her up with some gentle classical music to drown out the hum of the air mattress and the oxygen rig.
Her pupils are mismatched. I gave her Ativan and massaged her again. She's warm.
I woke her at 7 a.m., first clearing her throat of some phlegm and wiping her face, dabbing mostly, patting it dry. I gave her drops of natural tears and cleaned around her cannula:
After the accumulated moisture and grubbiness of Marcie's sleep was off her face, I changed her bed. I gave her a bath while I did it, slowly shifting her to her left side from her right. She quietly watched or snoozed when it suited her, serene.
After almost an hour, I took her laundry out and got it started. She generates a lot of it. I like to use clean washcloths and towels for her. The latter, at least, are plentiful.
I came back and she was snoozing hard. I finished changing her clothes, carefully giving her a fine coat of her favorite oils, salves, unguents, balms, lotions and emulsified suspensions of every type. She woke and indicated she was quite amused by it all, since the home health aids take about half the time and don't "moisturize."
It was time to grind her medications. I did that, made a mix of it and water in a syringe. She took it with OJ. I got her to take some orange juice and more water, finishing two loads of laundry as I set her up with some gentle classical music to drown out the hum of the air mattress and the oxygen rig.
Her pupils are mismatched. I gave her Ativan and massaged her again. She's warm.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Heavy Breathing
Marcie is gurgling again, so I have requested oxygen. The nurse got me some antibiotics to crush into her ice cream (or apple sauce). She needed pain medication, but she sounds clearer now. We'll see.
I managed to get out today (thanks to our hospice aide, Shawn Marie). I had a four-hour break and got some exercise, then came home and helped the nurse check Marcie out and diagnose her. Marcie took in some orange juice and some water, but that was about it. I'm just giving her love and waiting for the oxygen tanks and prescriptions to come in.
I managed to get out today (thanks to our hospice aide, Shawn Marie). I had a four-hour break and got some exercise, then came home and helped the nurse check Marcie out and diagnose her. Marcie took in some orange juice and some water, but that was about it. I'm just giving her love and waiting for the oxygen tanks and prescriptions to come in.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Little Drops of Hope
So a change in approach is paying off, but there have been issues. Marcie will take some water from an oral syringe. It's not much, but I think it helps wet her parched throat and she has taken several. We tried chicken soup broth. No dice. I will try again, even if it is late.
On another note, Marcie is also requesting more medication for pain. When I give it to her, she goes out like a light, though it takes a little time because I keep her dose, optimally, at enough to recover lucidity from if the pain fades . Overall, I just want to make sure her breathing stays relaxed and, not pained and rapid and I hope I can keep ahead.
If any of you ever need to care for a loved one who is suffering, remember that staying ahead of pain is better than catching up. The more pain your loved one is in, the more opiates or other painkillers you have to use to get them comfortable. This is how pain drugs work best.
If you have moral or recovery-based objections to or issues with the use of pain medications, many of which are potentially habit-forming, don't be a caretaker. Also remember that a patient need not be on their backs in bed to need pain control.
On another note, Marcie is also requesting more medication for pain. When I give it to her, she goes out like a light, though it takes a little time because I keep her dose, optimally, at enough to recover lucidity from if the pain fades . Overall, I just want to make sure her breathing stays relaxed and, not pained and rapid and I hope I can keep ahead.
If any of you ever need to care for a loved one who is suffering, remember that staying ahead of pain is better than catching up. The more pain your loved one is in, the more opiates or other painkillers you have to use to get them comfortable. This is how pain drugs work best.
If you have moral or recovery-based objections to or issues with the use of pain medications, many of which are potentially habit-forming, don't be a caretaker. Also remember that a patient need not be on their backs in bed to need pain control.
On the Outside
I spent the night turning Marcie from side to side to keep her from gurgling when she breathes. She has not been swallowing, so some of her food and soup may have gone down the wrong pipe. Later, I am going to make Marcie a little cocktail of honey and a drug we were prescribed to help cut down on the secretion of mucus into her throat.
Marcie is occasionally lucid, but so far has not taken in any water, or has tried but cannot swallow it. According to the hospice nurse, Marcie has two weeks, and that is "at the outside." I am doing what I can to make that not the case, but without some intake of water, death could come at the hands of an infection and a fever.
Thank you for all your thoughts and prayer of support. I share them when she is lucid, though all she can really do is nod in response.
Marcie is occasionally lucid, but so far has not taken in any water, or has tried but cannot swallow it. According to the hospice nurse, Marcie has two weeks, and that is "at the outside." I am doing what I can to make that not the case, but without some intake of water, death could come at the hands of an infection and a fever.
Thank you for all your thoughts and prayer of support. I share them when she is lucid, though all she can really do is nod in response.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
I Don't Know If It's Really Goodbye
Marcie's parents just left. The late-night visit was inspired Marcie's weak, but suddenly clear announcement, "I am dying, honey."
After I gulped that down, I decided to make sure I knew what she was telling me. They were strange words for her first clear ones in a day. She had had a good breakfast, and slept a lot, but she had had a generally good day otherwise.
"I know, Marcie," I said. "You're in hospice and I know what that..."
"Nnnnnmmm," and her pained frown, a weak turn of the head. Something else. Something I suddenly knew.
"You mean you are dying right this moment?" I asked.
I let her nod, her eyes closed tight, her lips closed, another frown. She wanted me to stop playing dumb. But tonight, for the first time, I wanted to hide in the dull shelter of ignorance.
"I'm dying right now," Marcie repeated, straining for clear diction against thirteen brain tumors, a throat full of ash and mucus, and her general weakness.
"Okay, honey," I said. "But not just yet, okay?"
She nodded and was quiet. Her breathing was ragged, as it has been for a day or two. Her face, pinched in a way I have refused to notice but now cannot deny.
All my illusions and delusions of progress from her decent morning? Thoroughly dispelled.
I called her parents when my throat was clear enough to. They came over immediately. Bob and Barbara each sat with her for a bit, then left in tears. I only hope they get home safely.
After I gulped that down, I decided to make sure I knew what she was telling me. They were strange words for her first clear ones in a day. She had had a good breakfast, and slept a lot, but she had had a generally good day otherwise.
"I know, Marcie," I said. "You're in hospice and I know what that..."
"Nnnnnmmm," and her pained frown, a weak turn of the head. Something else. Something I suddenly knew.
"You mean you are dying right this moment?" I asked.
I let her nod, her eyes closed tight, her lips closed, another frown. She wanted me to stop playing dumb. But tonight, for the first time, I wanted to hide in the dull shelter of ignorance.
"I'm dying right now," Marcie repeated, straining for clear diction against thirteen brain tumors, a throat full of ash and mucus, and her general weakness.
"Okay, honey," I said. "But not just yet, okay?"
She nodded and was quiet. Her breathing was ragged, as it has been for a day or two. Her face, pinched in a way I have refused to notice but now cannot deny.
All my illusions and delusions of progress from her decent morning? Thoroughly dispelled.
I called her parents when my throat was clear enough to. They came over immediately. Bob and Barbara each sat with her for a bit, then left in tears. I only hope they get home safely.
Maybe a little Bounce
So, the fires have me home with Marcie and her mom, since the school asked that only essential employees, ordered to come, in go to work. I wasn't on that list. It's a good thing. Marcie had a rough night, coughing and wheezing. She is having trouble breathing and it appears she is clogged up. The nurse visits later today, so I will let everyone know what is going on afterward.
On the other hand, Marcie's speech is clearer today and her mind is, too. She ate A LOT of the homemade soup Jane left us (as seen in the picture) and her medications went down with nary a hitch.
On another note, thanks for all the kind words of support. Keep your prayers and thoughts on Marcie, though. I'll relay your greetings.
On the other hand, Marcie's speech is clearer today and her mind is, too. She ate A LOT of the homemade soup Jane left us (as seen in the picture) and her medications went down with nary a hitch.
On another note, thanks for all the kind words of support. Keep your prayers and thoughts on Marcie, though. I'll relay your greetings.