Thing-a-day.com

let’s say all the moons align
the stars shift in our favour
we really do like each other
we make love
my egg and your sperm get friendly
they have a few drinks
they become one
we have a child

you wouldn’t want one of those strange or weird names would you?

NONONONONONONO
NONONONONONONO
NONONONONONONO
NONONOyesNONONO
NONONONONONONO
NONONONONONONO
NONONONONONONO

Today I made four cats (only three visible here) happy by bringin’ home the bacon (so to speak). Fresh kitty food in the container and we gets to it before the Huwoman closes it! Again we are saved from starvation! Hooray for the huwoman! We will not yowl in her ear tonight as she foolishly tries to sleep…

Afternoon Buddha

Thinking about love and compassion and matters of the heart today. Pema Chodron says that “A big part of compassion is being honest with yourself, not shielding yourself from your mistakes as if nothing had happened. She also says:

“How are we ever going to change anything? How is there going to be less aggression in the universe rather than more? We can then bring it down to a more personal level: how do I learn to communicate with somebody who is hurting me or someone who is hurting a lot of people? How do I speak to someone so that some change actually occurs? How do I communicate so that the space opens up and both of us begin to touch in to some kind of basic intelligence that we all share? In a potentially violent encounter, how do I communicate so that neither of us becomes increasingly furious and aggressive? How do I communicate to the heart so that a stuck situation can ventilate? How do I communicate so that things that seem frozen, unworkable, and eternally aggressive begin to soften up, and some kind of compassionate exchange begins to happen?

“Well, it starts with being willing to feel what we are going through. It starts with being willing to have a compassionate relationship with the parts of ourselves that we feel are not worthy of existing on the planet. If we are willing through meditation to be mindful not only of what feels comfortable, but also of what pain feels like, if we even aspire to stay awake and open to what we’re feeling, to recognize and acknowledge it as best we can in each moment, then something begins to change.”

My mother taught me a great deal, primarily lessons of the negative ilk. You know, ways not to behave, reasons to place yourself above others, fear and loathing and 101 different ways to hurt yourself and others. Don’t get me completely wrong, she taught me some wonderful stuff, too, such as how to select fruits and vegetables at the grocery, how every herb and spice in the cabinet (and there were LOTS) could be used, and to take time to stop and really see the beauty of the world. Still, it was my dad who saved me from annihilation and taught me to survive. He had his ugly parenting moments, too, but there’s no question that he was definitely the lesser of two weevils.

My first memory of dad is holding tight to his neck as he dove to the bottom of the pool with me. I was MAYbe 2 at the time. Mom said I’d come up sputtering and shrieking with joy, saying “Daddy do’d ag’n! Do’d ag’n!” Some people emerge from the womb running, I came out swimming. But it was dad who taught me to swim, dive, climb rocks and how to never get lost, no matter where I found myself. He taught me about the stars and the speed of light, about moss on the north side of trees, and how to find or collect water, no matter the environment. He taught me the pure pleasures of nature, from the smooth, cool sensation of a snake on my arm to the quiet pleasure of a sunset over water or dawn in the high desert. At the beach, in the mountains and deserts, dad and I were always first out of the car and scrambling around the rocks and trees and cliffs and cactus together, with my mother telegraphing her frustration with being left behind with the smoke signals from her ubiquitous cigarette. Poor mom.

Dad taught me a change a tire, to shoot a gun (he was a National Champion in the 20s with the .22 long-barrel pistol and 30.6 rifle), to cut and polish rocks and gems, he took me to work where I walked across a “dish” - the kind you see in science shows that pick up signals from space, and had me tag along on his hunting trips until it became very clear that my sensitivity to animals being hurt made hunting torture for me. Not to mention facing down his fellow hunters with my outrage at what they were doing to the animals (I started doing THAT at age 8, on a kangaroo hunt in Australia). He taught me to ride a bike, running alongside until I was pedaling on my own, and how to drive…well, okay, he TRIED to teach me to drive. Two such strong-willed people probably shouldn’t attempt such a thing in the first place.

We carved a 20 ft cedar totem pole, built a kite capable of carrying a person (it promptly flew away), built a fiberglass motorboat, and devised and carried out many other wild schemes. He could do ANYthing with his hands and sharp mind…and he somehow managed to pass on those skills to me, miracle of miracles.

Dad was a terrible sport. Playing any game with him, from cards to pool, was an opportunity for him to WIN, and then to “rub it in” (his term). If he lost, there was always some reason beyond poor play or simple bad luck.

Dad taught me to question everything. EVERYTHING. Of course that got me into serious trouble over years, not least when I questioned him. Still, it served me well, too. He was a solid atheist, and delighted in inviting any bible-thumpers who came to our door in so he could argue theology with them. More than one poor missionary went weaving down the walk after hours of my dad and his logical perspective.

His influence resulted in a daughter who was a rough and tumble, competitive twerp. A tom-boy who could win all the marbles, out shoot most guys, succeed in a mostly-male industry, and to have more male friends than female.

My parents always had cocktail parties, where everyone dressed up, drank “martoonis,” talked small talk, laughed, and danced. I have one important memory of a New Year’s Eve party, when, just after the stroke of midnight, dad’s opened my bedroom door, silhouetted against the hall light, and sat on the edge of my bed to wish me a “Happy New Year.” I was crying because I didn’t want a new year, and he told me, “A new year is a time of fresh hope, a time when you can start all over again.” And then he bundled me into his arms and softly sang me to sleep again.

Dad was my best friend, my pal, my buddy. I was his Shorty, Pickle, Mouse, and The Tawny One, and he was daddy, dad, poppo, father, and finally, as his mind slipped away and he required a more direct approach to his identity, Ken.

There’s so much more he did for me, but again I have droned on too long. Everyone takes away lessons from their parents. The single most important lesson I learned from my dad, and one that I apply each and every day of my life is “Make the world a better place for having been here.” Dad continued making the world a better place for us all even after he died. His body was given to the scientific community, where his strong arms and shoulders and legs were harvested for research. The thing that would have really tickled my father, though, was the fact that his cremation was paid for entirely by the organisation that used his body to further our scientific knowledge. Yup, the disposal of his remains cost me a whopping $12…for three copies of the death certificate. Ha!

So folks, lets get out there and make the world a little better place. Plant a tree, give out hugs and smiles, let someone cut in line, take a bag with you on walks or to the beach (as I do) and pick up trash as you go along. My dad and I thank you.

Yesterday would’ve been my dad’s 99 birthday, so the Elderly and howlongwhatotdowiththem/us is more present for me right now. Dad died at age 97, and (apparently) needed my permission to go, as he repeatedly asked me, obviously frustrated and baffled, “When is this gonna END?” a question for which I had no answer.  The day before he checked out I quietly told him, “It’s okay, dad, you don’t have to stick around for me.” He looked me hard in the eye, then relaxed and nodded. 24 hours later, he was gone.

My father, who was literally one of the Grandfathers of the Internet and an Electrical and Professional Engineer of some repute (more on that another day), at the time of his death could still climb stairs, walk his daily mile, and work  alongside me in the garden. His mind had gone, though. I liked to refer to his absence of cognition as “walking in the Wild Woods.” Believe me when I say that a strong person whose mental facilities are scrambled is a MAJOR task to handle, and is only to be tackled by those of you who have a large amount of compassion and tolerance in your souls.

Examples of his madness? Sure…

“Where are the numbers?” he asked one afternoon. “Numbers?” I answered, puzzled. “There were 100 squares of paper on the wall and floor of my room in a grid of numbers, and now they’re gone.” This was the first moment I really knew something was decidedly amiss. After an hour of calming word while in the Wild Woods WITH him, I felt dizzy and completely exhausted from the experience.

Another day we found dad digging up the sprinkler system one afternoon. “I need to know how the water gets into the faucet!” he insisted through clenched teeth when pressed to stop.

One night before bed, I found him unscrewing wall plates and taking all the sockets out in preparation for “rewiring the house…the electricity isn’t getting in.”

More than twice we found the sink and/or shower overflowing after running all night.

And dad suffered mightily from I later came to understand was called “Sundowning” (the symptoms of dementia are exacerbated by sunset in some individuals).  Every afternoon he would ask every few minutes/moments “What time is it?” “It’s 8pm, dad” “WHAT!?! It CAN’T be! It’s morning!” “No, dad, it’s eight o’clock in the evening.”"How can I tell if it’s day or night?” “Night is when it’s dark outside, day is when it’s light.” Trust me, engaging in THAT conversation every five minutes for an hour a day, four years running will rattle your “normal” cage.  After finding him wearing three wristwatches (with different times one each), and the clocks (he insisted on more than two on his walls - so he could “check them for accuracy”) reset every night, I finally figured out that he wanted to be able to set the time on his watch and have it be that time. Hey, don’t we ALL!  His cognitive abilities were shot.  He couldn’t tell day from night, hot from cold, loud from quiet, and I couldn’t help him get better.   It was like having a four year old who is growing younger rather than older.

So finally, after a horrible blend of dad getting lost while on his walk, threatening to burn down the house if I didn’t take him somewhere (he was never sure where, exactly, he needed to go). waking me every night for months and months at 4am with a demand to be taken “to work,” consistently mistaking me for either my mother or his sister, and then, finally, when it became clear I could no longer handle the increasing load, I found a beautiful Assisted Living facility about a half hour from my house where they could offer him - and me - a better life than the one we had been living.  It was a very difficult decision, but as my dearest friend said “You’re not qualified to care for him at this point in his cycle of life.”  It was a tremendous privilege to be in a position to give my father my love and compassion, and as hard as it was, I wouldn’t trade the experience - the time with him for anything.

As much as this is about my father, it’s also about me, and about everyone around me.  As I believe the overall state of fitness in the Boomer Generation, of which I am one, is fairly good, the likelihood of us failing PHYSICALLY before 80 is low. However, our minds are another matter entirely. <”My mind is going…I can feel it, Dave”>  I worry about it a little.  Will I, too simply disappear into the Wild Woods, leaving my body to wind down?  How much awareness will I really have if that happens?  Who will care for me as I did for dad?  There has been a great deal of cognitive research done on aging and the mind, and with considerable compression of data on my part, the upshot is our generation is likely going to live long enough to suffer mightily from dementia.  The pressing questions for both my generation and the ones who follow is; Who will care for so many..and how?

I could say so much more about dad and dementia and my own aging process, but this post is long enough, so I have but one final request, “Will someone please shoot this old horse if you see her wandering into the Wild Woods?”

No claims to brilliance here, but it’s “sing-able,” especially if you imbibe before trying.  Disclaimer aside, herewith I offer a little ditty for my dad (sung to the tune of 99 Bottles of Beer):

99 birthdays

this year - what a doll!

99 years after all

But since he’s not here

’cause he died in the Fall

96 years were the sum

and I bawl.

First my daily dose of darkness. Then, as this is the final day of this theme, two haiku written last Fall (as if you couldn’t tell).

Tight bands of fog
on a closing horizon,
my past is thick and heavy,
like clotted cream.

Soundlessly
I beat myself
Soundly.

*******
Fall arrives
A peppering of birds
Seasons the sky
*******
Autumn day
A Feast of leaves
Before the wind

The way a constant noise
blends into hearlessness.

For some reason, this never got published yesterday, so today I shall publish two rather than just the one…

Cool sheets against her legs
The rumble of the cat a lullaby
against her back
Turning, then again
the deep blanket of sleep
covers her.

He was a rock
in turbulent waters.
Someone I could
tie onto
like an anchor
to keep from
drifting to sea.
But with storms
the sand shifted
the rock moved
and I drowned.

Unfortunately, last night was another in a series. After struggling with the pain, I finally fell into a fitful asleep well past 2am.  Still, poetry insisted on making itself know…a series of three this time.

Sonic waves of pain
- so familiar
I barely snarl.
Mantra:
Breath shallow*relax the belly*pain almost gone
I have the trick; the secret
I inwardly whisper
Another rogue wave breaks
- the secret drowned
in pain.
*******
Dull Darkness
Icepick Sharp
Exquisite Focus
Hideous Constant
Silent Suffering
Secret Succubus
Energy drain
Life taker
Nothing else matters
Only now
To stop
*******
Inside I
claw & scratch
Willing it
to stop.
I’d do anything
to get away
from the twisting
whips of pain.
I think
this must be
why
men break under torture.

One of the ways I lull my <over>active brain to sleep at night is with sudoku puzzles.  I find my brain is engaged, yet relaxed enough to rest, and most nights I find poetry flowing out of me and onto the puzzlebook white spaces.  That said, during my first week, I plan to share my strange midnight ravings.

Menopaused

help

Another
seismic hotflash.