I have tried stepping away for a while, but my need to post and reflect and speak of and to and about Marcie has not faded. Some of the things I have not spoken of before include our conversations as the last few months slowly crawled by.
They were painful at times, but I can now recall them and understand how they made her so beautiful.
Marcie mourned her own life very briefly. But what she mourned the longest was her impact in her leaving us behind. That conversation came into play during her more somber times, when life was not much to be celebrated and all my efforts could not cheer her up.
But they always seemed to take great weight from her.
Showing posts with label Caregiving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caregiving. Show all posts
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Not being good at waiting
I was never the kind to sit and wait,
I was never one to bide time.
But you were always patient,
and with a touch or a word I was calm.
The worst waiting ever for me
was the same as the worst for you.
I charged and demanded action
and you let me, and it was ours.
It did not matter in the end
no rush was in time, no haste.
When I finally knew the time approached
I watched and learned to wait again.
And I may have been patient,
I may have let you bide your time.
A single touch calmed you,
and a word comforted.
I learned to hate waiting anew
not for the time it took,
but for the time it didn't,
and for the time it should have,
because nothing ever hurt more
than when the waiting was over.
I was never one to bide time.
But you were always patient,
and with a touch or a word I was calm.
The worst waiting ever for me
was the same as the worst for you.
I charged and demanded action
and you let me, and it was ours.
It did not matter in the end
no rush was in time, no haste.
When I finally knew the time approached
I watched and learned to wait again.
And I may have been patient,
I may have let you bide your time.
A single touch calmed you,
and a word comforted.
I learned to hate waiting anew
not for the time it took,
but for the time it didn't,
and for the time it should have,
because nothing ever hurt more
than when the waiting was over.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 5)
It was drawing closer, and Marcie had determined the precise moment of my borthday's optimal celebration. This provided the proper framework, of course, for the preparation of lists, acquisition of goods and formulation of plans.
The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.
For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.
"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.
"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."
Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.
The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.
"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."
I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.
She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.
"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."
"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."
She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.
In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.
The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.
"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."
She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.
"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."
She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.
The third element created a quandary for me. Marcie was a person who knew immediately what she most wanted within any genre of selection proffered. Cake? Why, chocolate, of course, with chocolate butter-cream frosting.
For me, there were factors and moods and potential changes of mind to consider. I honestly didn't try to drive her insane. I was just quite a natural at it.
"Honey, it's a simple question," she said, dropping her hands to her sides, one with the pen and the other with her "special list for baking" pad. She leaned forward and rolled her eyes up as I responded.
"Well, it's liek two weeks away and I don't know what the hell I will want," I said. "I mean, I could end up wanting something completely different. I just don't want to commit yet."
Foregoing the obvious metaphors at this point in our relationship may have kept the peace, but Marcie was not one for offering such spurious and insincere comforts.
The solution slithered over me like a Zen snake. I leveled my gaze serenely at her and smiled. "I know what I want," I said.
"Well!" she said, raiding her hands and looking up at the ceiling. "It's a miracle! Frank made a decision."
I nodded slowly and smiled, whispering, "I want one of those Baskin-Robbins cakes you told me about," I said.
She looked crestfallen and I immediately regretted the idea, but pushed that sentiment back, as I did not really want an ice cream cake.
"Oh, the one I told you I thought I might like to try?" she asked, nodding. "Well, you know I can't make you one of those."
"I want you to relax and celebrate, too," I said, taking her hand and kissing her forehead. "But if I change my mind, I will tell you. This way, we are both covered."
She was disappointed, but she smiled and looked up hopefully. My deception was complete, but more importantly, I had learned to balance her need for forethought with mine for spontaneity, a lesson I would draw on for 14 years more.
In that moment, I just knew she was mollified yet still psyched at the possibility of baking for me. But the choice to throw out a red herring was made in a storm of memories.
The choice was only just so clear to me, and overshadowed indeed. It was overwrought, more likely, but I gladly indulged in my throes of memory. But I knew that mollification was no substitute for her simple pleasure at making me happy.
"Thank you for helping me look forward to my birthday again, honey," I said, slipping my hands under hers and onto her hips, leaning down and looking into her beautiful blue eyes. "I love you."
She bit her lower lip, and I knew she wanted to protest, but she was too pleased at the appreciation and the gratitude. It was a simple tithe I paid her, but one dear to her.
"Oh, honey," she said. "If all it takes is an ice cream cake to make you happy, then I can go buy you one right now."
She didn't. But we understood each other better, and there was much to be learned before that first birthday together happened.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 4)
I had a long walk home. I stepped on a sharp pebble, stubbed my big toe on an uneven piece of sidewalk and realized, in that very moment, that my Champion shorts were actually my Champion boxers.
I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.
I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.
But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.
Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.
Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.
I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad
I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.
I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.
I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.
Honey?" I asked.
"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."
"I am glad you are home," I said.
I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.
"I want to celebrate with you," I said.
"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"
She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."
The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.
I got home without being seen by anyone I knew. I remember wondering where she had gone, at first. My thoughts eventually shifted to the whole argument itself.
I understood her being upset. She was something to celebrate. But why on my birthday? For years, birthdays had been just days in my life. At home, birthdays were a visit to Grandma's for a cake.
But birthdays were also a privilege that could be taken away, a bargaining piece for an aunt who knew that the less joy in a life, the more precious the joy was. A simple act to remove it could coerce a lot, and coerce she did.
Foster care was no birthday destination, but I had observed my 16th there. Ny 17th was spent in juvenile hall under false charges that were later dismissed. The military ate my 18th and 19th birthdays. I had no real memory of either except having to stand a watch on both. One was in DEP, one aboard.
Others featured poverty, even homelessness on the 23rd birthday. My 22nd was spent on the road, wandering the highways fairly friendless, wondering how many more I might see before I found a place to be.
I took a long stroll down memory lane before I decided I had remembered enough of the bad
I decided that, despite my issues with progress and personal misgivings, I would try to sincerely celebrate with Marcie. I cleaned up the remains of breakfast and put away the dishes, noticing the late afternoon hour.
I showered and heard the door open and close, then latch. I did not call out and she did not come into the bathroom, so I dried off and tried to engineer a way to broach the subject, bridge the gap, heal the wound and move on.
I walked out to see her without a plan, having just dressed quickly as she unloaded things into the cabinets.
Honey?" I asked.
"What, Frank?" she asked. "Are you waiting for your meal."
"I am glad you are home," I said.
I closed the distance between us and let her try, half-hearted, to push my hands away until she stopped and turned into my chest and hugged me. The words came to me.
"I want to celebrate with you," I said.
"You do?" she asked, croaking, rasping. I still remember the hot tears soaking through my t-shirt where she pressed into my chest.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I was so stuck on the past that I didn't think of how much better my life is with you, because of you. I do want to celebrate, okay?"
She nodded and stroked my back as she whispered."I'm sorry I stormed out of here," she said. "But you looked cute following me down the street in your underwear."
The birthday was yet to come, and it would come with a very special gift and a little fuller discussion of the issues at hand.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 3)
It was a week later that Marcie, having sulked and for a day or two before resuming our normal relations, began to prod again. It started from the side, so to speak.
"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.
"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."
"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.
"Honey?" I asked.
"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.
"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.
"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.
"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."
"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."
Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.
"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."
Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.
"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"
"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."
She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"
"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.
She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.
"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"
I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.
"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."
"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."
She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."
I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.
"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.
Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.
"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."
She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"
And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.
"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."
The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."
The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.
"Frank, what do you want for breakfast?" she asked, not looking at me, but rather standing in the kitchen entrance staring straight at the wall, lips tight.
"Just eggs and potatoes," I said. "Thank you."
"Yeeeap," she said, banging the pan on the stove and starting the gas burner. Cupboards opened and closed with force. Utensils rattled and I stopped reading my Logic textbook.
"Honey?" I asked.
"What?" she shot back, tersely, annoyed.
"You don't have to make me breakfast, you know," I said.
"FRANK! Would you just leave me alone and let me cook?" she spat, looking out from the kitchen, her eyes dark with anger.
"Well, you seem upset, so maybe you should just relax and we can go get some cinnamon rolls from Hob Nob or something," I said. "It's okay."
"You don't want me to cook for you and you don't want me to bake for you or celebrate your birthday," she said. "Of course I am upset! I feel like I am a live-in for a self-pitying jerk who just needs a roommate and a sure thing."
Humor was probably not the direction I should have gone in. But life without mistakes is like being asleep without dreams.
"Well, you make a solid point," I said. "But you shouldn't discount the cooking and housecleaning, those really help, too."
Raw potatoes cut into wedges did not hurt. However, she was not amused in the slightest.
"Fine," she said, picking up the potatoes as she spoke. "Fine. You like sleeping with me and kissing me and being fed by me and having a clean house. But you won't let me celebrate your birthday?"
"Honey," I said, trying to give her a hug. "I was just kidding, you know that."
She wriggled away and stood back, arms folded under her breasts, left foot forward as she nodded. "So we'll celebrate your birthday or we wont?"
"I stopped approaching and looked her in the eye, silent and defiant. I waited.
She moved her head as if to say, "Oh, really?" and her lips parted, her mouth hanged open a bit before she bit her lower lip and spoke.
"Why don't you celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What's wrong with you?"
I told her one part of the truth. It wouldn't help.
"I haven't celebrated it since I was in foster care, except my 21st," I said. "I just never had anyone remember it after that."
"So I want to remember it," she said. "What's wrong with that? I love to bake, I love you. I want to bake you something special, I want to do things for you on your birthday and I want you to enjoy yourself."
She let me hug her and buried her head in my chest. "I am sorry for throwing potatoes at you, but you can be such an ass."
I nodded and sighed. Deciding to let her in on more of my thoughts and issues was a good idea, but my delivery proved disastrous and my timing perfectly inappropriate.
"I appreciate that you want to celebrate with me, Marcie. I just don't think I have much to celebrate or be proud of this year," I said.
Of course I know now that this struck right at her heart. I realized it as soon as she pushed away from me and said her piece.
"Really?" she asked. "You just think this whole year has been a complete waste? I'm sorry, I had no idea."
She covered her eyes and leaned down, taking her purse and sweater and crying, pushing my hand away as I tried to console her. "You are such a jerk, Frank," she sobbed. "Thanks for making me feel like chopped liver, I needed that!"
And the door slammed. I followed her and pleaded with her to come home all the way to the bus stop in my bare feet.
"I'll be back when I feel like it," she said. "Celebrate that."
The driver stopped me from getting on. "Sir, you have to wear shoes on the bus."
The door closed and the 1 rolled away. She didn't look back.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Reviving The Birthday Spirit (Pt. 2)
"I don't remember asking you not to celebrate it," I said. "I just remember not being used to celebrating it, at least, not for a long time, and asking you not to overdo it."
She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"
I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.
"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."
"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."
I nodded. It had been a canard
"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."
"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."
She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.
Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."
It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.
I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.
I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.
Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.
I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."
Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.
"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.
"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."
"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.
"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."
Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.
She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.
My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"
Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."
I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"
She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"
"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."
She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"
I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."
She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."
She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.
But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.
It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.
She smiled up at me and released the hug, taking back the chocolate and nibbling a piece as she leaned against the counter and nodded. "Do you remember telling me about your grandma?"
I did at that. Grandma Pruett had prepared me many a cake after my mother left the house. Mostly chocolate and occasionally a marbled fudge cake, it was something she did and derived much joy from.
"She did that for us because my dad couldn't bake," I said. "Yeah, I remember your eyes lighting up."
"Then you just shot me down," she said. "You told me not to bake you a cake, you didn't want to celebrate because you weren't twelve years old anymore."
I nodded. It had been a canard
"Well, honey, I was ashamed at my delay, if you remember," I explained. "I was turning 24 and had just begun college. Most of my friends from high school would have graduated. I felt like I had to catch up."
"You told me that later," she reminded me. "But in the mean time, you just told me no, you did not want a cake, and you did not want to talk about your birthday."
She took another nibble and licked her lips, turning her attention to the cake. "But you changed your mind, didn't you?" she asked.
Or she did, but though it all took me back, I simply hugged her in a snuzzle and murmured an "mmhmm."
It had been a good year. I would start my first term as an Associated Students Senator in the fall, had scored all A's and was hired to tutor over the summer and as an instructional aide in the Chicano Studies Department. But I was not happy.
I had chopped my income, having severed ties with my business partner and slowly backed away from club and rave promotions to keep peace with Marcie. My writing was being published, but the pay was low.
I kept returning to the sense that I had fallen behind. It permeated my consciousness. No achievement was untinged by it. No failing escaped magnification by it. I kept it to myself, but it was slowly eating me.
Marcie had been very happy one May morning. She served me some fried eggs (hard yolks, no run and lots of pepper, just how I liked them). She sat across and watched me eat, her hands and forearms on the table as she grinned.
I looked up and stopped chewing. I swallowed. "What? You look very mischievous..."
Her eyes went even wider and she bit her lower lip before it all came out at once. "Guesswhatscomingupsoon!" she demanded, her hand sliding over and grabbing my fork forearm.
"Is it a concert?" I asked. The guessing game had begun, a favorite of ours.
"Noooo," she said, smiling. "It's more personal."
"Is it... a vacation?" I asked.
"Nooo," she said, shaking her head. "Not until I have been at the job for a year, at least."
Is iiiit your parents' anniversay?" I asked, knowing our own was well off into September.
She began to look exasperated and shook her head. "Nooo, honey," she admonished. "It's about you!" She shook my forearm and bit her lips, sitting straighter in her chair, sure I would guess it this time.
My heart sank and the egg swelled in my throat to ten times its size as I did guess what she meant. I whispered, "My birthday?"
Her eyes popped wide open and she bit her lip before she excitedly squeaked, "Yes! Oh, I can't wait to bake you a cake! We are going to have a great time and celebrate the end of the 24th complete year of Frank."
I nodded and scraped at my plate. "I don't want to celebrate my birthday this year, honey," I said. "I would just rather let it go by like it has for the last few, okay?"
She was silent. I looked up in her eyes and she was pouting and frowning. She was mad that I had spoiled her fun, but she was also concerned. "Frank, why not?" she asked. "Is there something wrong?"
"Well, I just don't want to make a big deal out of it," I said. "I am not a twelve-year-old. I don't have to have the world revolve around me for a day, really."
She withdrew her hand. "What if I want to celebrate your birthday?" she asked. "What if it's important to me?"
I was suddenly very tired of the conversation. I looked up and simply said, "Marcie, please don't make an issue out of this, I just don't really celebrate my birthday and I haven't for a long, long time."
She looked utterly hurt and bit her upper lip, sucking it in a bit. She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. "Fine, Frank," she said. "You know, you need to get over whatever it is that makes you such a grump. It's not attractive, you know."
She slammed the door after snatching the grocery list. I was bewildered at her insistence, but momentarily glad she had dropped it, no matter how riled she was.
But I was wrong, and not only about the argument, or for not being open with her, but in that she had not even begun to argue... not by a long shot.
It is a fight I am still grateful she picked.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Before the Quirks
As I reflected on the aspects of Marcie that made her so unique, I realized that I would not be giving a whole or complete view of her without extolling some of the things I admired about her.
Quirks and unique eccentricities and creative things are all things we enjoyed. But what we sometimes overlook are those aspects of people which define their person.
Marcie was a mother. She did not have children, nor did she want them. But understanding her meant knowing what she did, and what she did was take care of people.
Marcie provided everyone she cared for with love. It was not always the unconditional acceptance they wanted from her, but it was love nonetheless. She underwent much for family and friends, put herself out when necessary and generally wrapped us all in blanket of her beneficence.
Marcie transformed the way I thought of mothers and the function of mothering itself. In my own experience, there were few positive models to build a view of mothers. Those I had were flawed in ways that had somehow harmed me or caused disdain.
My own had left when I was turning nine to essentially run around with criminals. I knew many "can't wait until they are 18" types who smacked me as more inconvenienced than happy about their motherhood.
In foster care, I met single mothers, some of whom became welfare mothers, some of whom would desperately cling to the nearest man who would look at them. Divorce and inconstancy of heart was everywhere and broken children the norm for me.
Foster mothers? We won't even go there. Suffice to say that in the 1980s, there was a shortage of them and the business end of it all was good, and they knew it.
Mothers weren't doing too well in my book.
Marcie and I had a very good relationship on a lot of levels. But what swayed me, so very opposed early on to marriage, to decide I could marry her was that she took care of me as much like a mother as she did a lover.
Don't get me wrong here. She was not my mother by any measure. But she illustrated a better and more motherly aspect in her relationships, including ours, than most women I had known in lie.
She had a lot of practice at it, and I am making a list of the weight she carried in her life, as mother to all, even her own.
I will post that in detail, then something closer to her and me afterward before we explore her quirks, starting with her characters.
Quirks and unique eccentricities and creative things are all things we enjoyed. But what we sometimes overlook are those aspects of people which define their person.
Marcie was a mother. She did not have children, nor did she want them. But understanding her meant knowing what she did, and what she did was take care of people.
Marcie provided everyone she cared for with love. It was not always the unconditional acceptance they wanted from her, but it was love nonetheless. She underwent much for family and friends, put herself out when necessary and generally wrapped us all in blanket of her beneficence.
Marcie transformed the way I thought of mothers and the function of mothering itself. In my own experience, there were few positive models to build a view of mothers. Those I had were flawed in ways that had somehow harmed me or caused disdain.
My own had left when I was turning nine to essentially run around with criminals. I knew many "can't wait until they are 18" types who smacked me as more inconvenienced than happy about their motherhood.
In foster care, I met single mothers, some of whom became welfare mothers, some of whom would desperately cling to the nearest man who would look at them. Divorce and inconstancy of heart was everywhere and broken children the norm for me.
Foster mothers? We won't even go there. Suffice to say that in the 1980s, there was a shortage of them and the business end of it all was good, and they knew it.
Mothers weren't doing too well in my book.
Marcie and I had a very good relationship on a lot of levels. But what swayed me, so very opposed early on to marriage, to decide I could marry her was that she took care of me as much like a mother as she did a lover.
Don't get me wrong here. She was not my mother by any measure. But she illustrated a better and more motherly aspect in her relationships, including ours, than most women I had known in lie.
She had a lot of practice at it, and I am making a list of the weight she carried in her life, as mother to all, even her own.
I will post that in detail, then something closer to her and me afterward before we explore her quirks, starting with her characters.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
A Mistrust of Praise (Conclusion)
"You are so beautiful," I said, holding her hand and kissing her forehead.
She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."
Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."
She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.
"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.
She gulped and I kissed her cheek.
"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."
I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."
She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."
She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."
I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.
She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.
I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.
To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.
She looked at me dubiously and croaked, "You don't have to say that."
Her voice was a hoarse, breathless whisper. I heard it as much with my heart as with my ears. I had waited two days to hear it again, and I was in tears that I had my chance.
"You are so beautiful," I said. "You inspire me, you make me a better man and a better person. I am in love and have been for 14 years. You teach me, you love me, you take care of me and you have grown up with me."
She looked, her eyes uneven, one pupil larger than the other. She could not see me well, I knew. But her hearing would be the last thing, and she needed to hear it all. Spasm or not, she squeezed my hand. Her eyes closed. I squeezed back.
"You are and have always been the most loyal, sweet, smart, kind, thoughtful, generous, adventurous, glamorous, sexy and loving woman I have ever met," I said.
She gulped and I kissed her cheek.
"You are the greatest honor I have ever been given, and I say given because do not know that I have ever earned or deserved you or even had a hope of really being worthy," I said.
Tears slid out of her eyes and she mouthed "You have," then eked out, "You are, honey."
I felt the hot trail of my tears burn down my cheeks as I continued to recall my list of things to say. "I didn't always praise you at the beginning. I was afraid that you would take me for granted or maybe you would take advantage, I was insecure," I said "I'm sorry."
She nodded at it all and I kissed her nose, letting a tear mix with hers before I gently wiped her cheeks and rasped "I am glad I got over it, and I always meant what I told you about how good you are."
She opened her eyes and the strength of her voice startled me. "I am glad too, honey," she said, then, her voice fading again, she added "You always said what you felt."
I knew she was tired and I leaned down. "I love you, beautiful," I said.
She looked up at me with her eyes slit and mouthed, "I know." A rueful half-smile almost formed and she was out again. It was a gentle joke to lighten the moment. I kissed her again and her breathing was the slow, familiar rhythm it had become.
I knew she accepted at least my own praise, and that I had offered her as much as she could handle in a moment of wakefulness. She accepted not my praise of her baking or cooking, which she could dismiss as a recipe and secretly enjoy, but of her.
To get that acceptance and see her lightly revel in my attention was an honor in its own right.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The Fever
I have been fighting Marcie's fever the whole day. It spiked after I moved her this morning. I got some water down her and tried to get her antibiotics in. I have switched from liquids to apple sauce and yogurt as bases to mix her medicines in, as she cannot swallow well and may soon lose that ability wholly.
Unless she turns a corner, this could be it. She did not have her usual evening wide awake time today, but has been struggling and her breathing is rapid. She also has some discomfort, so I will be trying to give her medication again, which she has been refusing.
Unless she turns a corner, this could be it. She did not have her usual evening wide awake time today, but has been struggling and her breathing is rapid. She also has some discomfort, so I will be trying to give her medication again, which she has been refusing.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Six Hours Later
It took six hours to get the oxygen concentrator. The medications came shortly after that. On one hand, the gurgling is gone. On the other, there is now a tube on Marcie's nose. It isn't breathing for her, but it's there.
No food for Marcie tonight, but she did have some orange juice with the new antibiotic, which was prescribed to fight off her new fever. It was prescribed as a 10-day course, but arrived with only 7 pills. I will try a late meal.
No food for Marcie tonight, but she did have some orange juice with the new antibiotic, which was prescribed to fight off her new fever. It was prescribed as a 10-day course, but arrived with only 7 pills. I will try a late meal.
A Little Dinner
Actually, a tiny one. But it was a dinner! When Jane left, she advised me she had brought a couple of meat (veggie) loaf (frozen) dinners (organic). Marcie was hungry, so the mashed potatoes and peas and corn all lumped together in the brown veggie gravy was the ticket.
She couldn't eat much, but she ate what she did with alacrity. We shared. It was delicious. I took advantage of the whole situation and gave Marcie chicken noodle soup broth instead of water to wash things down with. We'll see if she gets another bounce out of all that effort.
Barbara reports that she got Marcie to take some chicken noodle soup broth earlier as well. I am just glad she can chatter with me a little and enjoy some food.
She couldn't eat much, but she ate what she did with alacrity. We shared. It was delicious. I took advantage of the whole situation and gave Marcie chicken noodle soup broth instead of water to wash things down with. We'll see if she gets another bounce out of all that effort.
Barbara reports that she got Marcie to take some chicken noodle soup broth earlier as well. I am just glad she can chatter with me a little and enjoy some food.
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.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The Vigil Begins
Marcie is not taking liquids of any kind now. She's awake, but she is refusing. I can't blame her. She has a lot of trouble breathing and has liquid in her chest, from what I hear. I do not believe Kaiser personnel who told me it was in her throat yesterday. She takes shallow, rapid, rattling, ragged breaths.
Keep her in your thoughts, if you are not dodging fires and sorting out evacuations or cancellations of them. Her mom, Barbara, is here and watching her with me.
I am able to administer some medication by crushing the drugs, suspending it in honey, then putting it under her tongue with a syringe. It was my own idea, and it works fairly well. Just a tip for anyone visiting from outside our circle of friends.
Keep her in your thoughts, if you are not dodging fires and sorting out evacuations or cancellations of them. Her mom, Barbara, is here and watching her with me.
I am able to administer some medication by crushing the drugs, suspending it in honey, then putting it under her tongue with a syringe. It was my own idea, and it works fairly well. Just a tip for anyone visiting from outside our circle of friends.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Grapes Among the Flames
So, while San Diego burned this morning, I woke Marcie up and she was more coherent than yesterday. She took about 10 grapes and all her medicines went down well. Jane came back over to help us out for the day, but her mom may need her to go help with evacuations. We'll see.
Here's hoping Marcie does well for the rest of the day and the smoke doesn't knock her down too much. The news says, "slow down, take it easy and drink a lot of water." We'll give it a shot.
Here's hoping Marcie does well for the rest of the day and the smoke doesn't knock her down too much. The news says, "slow down, take it easy and drink a lot of water." We'll give it a shot.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
An interesting read
Frances Shani's blog has a nice post on caregiver stress, including a video on the subject. But aside from that, she has a wonderful site about nursing homes and hospitals, something my generation will need to know a lot about in the coming years.
I have added Frances's blog to the links on the left. She is an author some of you might want to pick up a book from. Check her out!
I have added Frances's blog to the links on the left. She is an author some of you might want to pick up a book from. Check her out!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Some resources for us all
Believe it or not, you don't have to be by Marcie's bedside to be a caregiver. I have added some links to my Link section (left side) to help everyone get information on hospice care, caregivers and other tidbits. I hope none of this is necessary for any of you for a long time to come, and I am largely providing it to help any visitors searching the web for help.