It's been two years already?

Good Morning, Blog, it has been a while..please forgive me for that, for abandoning, old friend, while life churned and tumbled.  This morning while all was quiet, I felt the urge to seek you out for one of our old talks/purges/a chronical of a bland little life.  That's a good, thing, isn't it?..because this is the first time in two years I've actually felt the urge to write anything except silly status updates on Facebook.

These last few weeks have been crazy.  And right now - since my quiet time has been broken by someone turning on that blasted television - I am considering earplugs.  My quiet little moment has been interrupted again.

Sometimes, it feels like the top of my head will open and I will erupt like a volcano.  There is no peace and quiet, no alone time, no thinking time, since my daughter and her family moved in.  She's unemployed, now, so there's no chance of their finding a place of their own for a very long time.  And while I truly, really, truly want to offer them a place to stay, they're driving me insane.  HE doesn't work and has not in two years.  Come ON!  At least get out there and try to find work. And if they can't move out, maybe they could pay half the light bill, or the water bill, or something - as was agreed upon when they moved in.

And my husband?  He is a lump on the sofa I can't quite smooth out.  Maybe HE could help pay on the utilities.  Or weedeat the yard.  Or turn off the television.

I have a basement.  It's in a state of disrepair right now.  The ceiling tiles need replacing, the walls need washing down and the floors need mopping, but I haven't been able to do that, physically.  Perhaps, though, I could get a ladder down there, pack up all the stuff that's been mildewing and haul it out. replace the ceiling tiles and haul a desk, a sofa, a table, a coffee pot and whatever else I might require and move myself to some place I can hear myself think.

I'm sorry to spout off like this.  And it's not that my life is so bad, but between work - oh, work.  Let me continue my rant/purge.  I was alone this week. Supervisor took off, the transfer coordinator was gone...there were only two of us in our department by Friday.  If it could go wrong, it did.  And also, by Friday, one of our "residents" returned from court with additional time and a release date of 10/29.
I've got nothing to hold him on because the S.O. sent him back without a judgment and commitment.  I spent most of Friday trying to get some documentation and only succeeded in getting a Do Not Release placed on him, and then the head of the auditors called and repeated we have nothing to hold him on.

!?!?!

Well, what am I supposed to do?  I'm not about to release him into the public when he has an additional sentence to serve.  If he goes out into the public and commits a crime, DAC will hang me from the nearest flagpole.  Scapegoat.

I was so sick to my stomach from the week that, when 3:00 rolled around on Friday, I couldn't stay another minute.  I FLED.  I went over the fence, so-to-speak.  I wrote my boss a note, attached emails and phone calls and messages to her computer screen so she can see it on Monday morning - let HER take care of it.  I am the office assistant.  They don't pay me enough to have my stomach tied in knots.

All that said - I know I'm lucky to have a job, a family, a place to stay.  But sometimes, it all gets a little much.

And tomorrow, it's to the dentist for lots of oral surgery.  I plan to be out of commission for at least four days, and if Im lucky, the doc will give me plenty of pain pills.  A little fog would be good, right about now.

Monday Night

It's late, but here I sit, sipping a cup of coffee. Full strength. And it's good. The last few days have been very nice...no big problems. Even work is swimming along. My horoscope (smiles) actually told me that the ship is finally coming in after a long period of rocky weather, and that I should get used to stability, for a change. Hey, it was the best horoscope I've ever read, and although I truly don't put any stock in those, it's one that I want to believe. SO - I will.

Saturday was my birthday, and to celebrate, I got out of the house. I did. The plan was to stay out for the entire day, and that's almost exactly what happened. There's a whole big world outside of these walls! I had almost forgotten...we went to some yard sales, to the habitat store where we found a lovely fall painting that was 75% off. Soon, it will hang in the living room. We found books for the smallest grandchildren. We went to a health fair where my daughter and I both won door prizes, socialized a little bit and had a great time. And...as a treat for having been so good, we had tiramisu after dinner. Not too much! Just enough to appreciate decadence and the feeling of indulgence it brings. We all need that, once in a while.
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On a somber note, I found out Bert passed away this past summer. She was a pistol, a wonderful lady who had a big heart. Godspeed, Ladybug. It was a privilege to have met you in this locationless space.

Holy Cow, the chandalier is shaking! Pardon me while I ramble. I don't talk much during the week.

Ft. Bragg is apparently bombing in my back yard this morning - there just came a boom that made me duck, and also made me rethink the chandalier. If they continue to have exercises like this, I'm taking it down, lest it crashes on my head.

Good Saturday, Journal. I am behind in my housework, down to clothes I can't wear in the closet, and hiding in doorways, lest all the bombing should bring down the ceiling. The good news is, the dishes are soaking, the washer is agitating the dirt out of my laundry, and it isn't cloudy out, so the war games across the railroad track shouldn't shake the pictures off the wall. I just hope the participants don't shoot a shell the wrong way.

I met with a nutritionist yesterday. She says all I need to do is balance the carbs a little bit more. All this health is killing me - ophthalmology on Monday, mammogram on Friday, but you know what...it's worth it. My glucose is at least in a safe range, now, and I have lost ten pounds since August. It is amazing what simple changes have wrought. Exercise is the hardest, though. I can't seem to make myself do what needs to be done. A friend from work has generously agreed to walk with me during lunch. We don't get far (my fault), but my muscles are cursing me and my back is threatening to go on strike. Getting older is definitely not for the faint of heart, but it sure beats the alternative.

I am trying to be more upbeat. The last thing people want to do is hang out with Sad Sally.

We have a new clinical social worker at work, and there is something about her that makes me smile. She seems so serene, but at the same time, you can tell her wicked sense of humor is just below the surface. I like it! and can't wait to get to know her better. First impressions can be misleading, but...I think this one could be a lot of fun.

For some reason, I have always been drawn to the CSW's. First, there was Libby, whose eyes are solemn and wise, like an old country woman. Full of spit and vinegar, she was - and is. She retired several years ago. I admire her for so many reasons - her soft heart, her toughness, her willingness to unabashedly advocate for her clients. No, that wasn't willingness. That was just her nature. And everyone was her client, not just those on the roster. Libby is a force to be reckoned with, and a natural giver. Retirement has been no vacation for her. She continues to give, and volunteers at the Coalition, which provides for people in need.

Anyway...I don't think we're ever too old for role models. Now that I have time hanging from hands that were once so full...well. Now they're too empty. I'm thinking it's time to fill them again. Maybe Libby needs help at the Coalition, or perhaps I can find another organization that could use an extra hand.

A little reflection, a little looking toward the future.

They came for Mom's hospital bed. I truly didn't think it would affect me the way it did. The room looks so empty. And I felt the way the room looks. I almost cried, but couldn't squeeze more than a few tears.

I don't know why. Perhaps it's because the last few years have called for so many tears I just don't have a lot left. How dramatic is that statement. It's true, though. I have grieved, as we all have, and have experienced anticipatory grief for Mom for more than a decade. I feel good that I could spend the last two years of her life with her. Once, she told me - "You're sweet. I always thought you were hard to get along with." Well...Mom wasn't far from wrong, but she and I spent a lot of time together not as mother and daughter. She was my employer until I was thirty-six, and maybe I was difficult because waitress was not my life's goal.

But we became close as the years went on. And we were even more so, the longer we lived together. She often remarked, "We get along so well. Did you ever think we would be living together again?"

I cooked in Mom's kitchen tonight. And later, as I was cleaning the mess I made, something came over me that had nothing to do with grief, and a lot to do with remembering.

Mom's sisters, whom she loved so much. The weekend canasta fests, when they all drank diet coke and laughed, called each other "hussey!" when one built a better hand than the other. They had so much fun! ... and I was the fly on the wall, or an observer on their periphery, taking it all in. They were my exposure to what a close family really is. They had so much love, and we loved being near them.

They're all gone, now, hopefully reunited in the proverbial much better place. I hope so. And tonight, for the first time, it occurred to me that it's time to step up and assume the role left to me.

I want to be happy. And I am...more than that, I want to leave the sisters' legacy for my children and grandchildren. I want them to have good times, laughter and love to remember and pass on to their own families, one day.

A few weeks before Mom went to the hospital, she and I were talking, about noise. She said it didn't bother her, and I agreed, saying noise - the kids, the tv, etc, were sounds of living. She watched me intently as I was talking, and she smiled. She would have wanted me to carry on. She would have wanted us to be happy.

New Challenges

Last week, I took the plunge and made an appointment with a doctor. I did this after my brother was diagnosed with diabetes the previous week. And I had felt so...wrong, bad...over the past few months that, on a whim, I took my own blood sugar level. It was 287. I was horrified.

The doctor's appointment confirmed what I already knew, and I'm ok with it. There's a very good chance that I can eventually come off the medication and control the diabetes with diet and exercise. What bothered me is, my daughter was diagnosed the same day I was. That is not ok.

She isn't handling it well, probably because she's confused about what she can and cannot eat. She has had a rough couple of months, and she is afraid because she knows her Grandmother's diabetes contributed to her death.

So for the next while, my new mission is to make sure she - and I - do what we need to do to face this disease head-on and control it.

Maybe I have more purpose, after all.

I hardly know how to begin this...

But it's important to write, for myself.

On September 5, my mother died. She had been in the hospital for two weeks. She had her 75th birthday there. The doctor allowed her to have fried chicken chimichangas for her birthday meal. The Monday after that, she went into respiratory arrest, and was rushed in for an emergency cardiac cath.

Amazingly enough, it wasn't her heart. I could list a litany of treatments she was subjected to after her cath, emergent dialysis, life support...

On the one hand, I am furious with the hospitalist who talked her into rescinding her DNR. She would have gone peacefully the day she had the cath, but no. She never really woke again, that I could tell. I visited her, I talked to her, rambling on about ordinary things that seemed so trivial in the face of her grave situation. We held her hand, we smoothed her hair back. We prayed, sang to her. Told her it would be ok. And there is the other hand. We had time to say goodbye, and know it was right to let her go. We told her it was okay, if she was too tired to fight anymore. We told her we would be all right.

And she went. I wasn't there; the hospital didn't call me, and neither did my brother. I tell myself that the important thing is, she was not alone at the end. I tell myself I couldn't have taken watching that beautiful spirit take her leave of this world.

I don't know how it was for my brother and sisters; she was so many things to all of us. For me, I lost my mother, best friend, my child...I had taken care of her for the last two years. I don't know what I'll do with myself, now. She was my company late in the night. We talked, reminisced, played games, drank coffee together.

And then I think, Oh, what she gave me...laughter. Music. Poetry. Heart. Life.

I know how lucky I have been in my life, how fortunate I was to have her and be with her these last two years.

A long-distance cousin sent lavender roses flanked with lavender calla lillies. She wanted something unique, she said, because Mom was such a singular, beautiful woman. Last night, I woke to the scent of those roses. I like to think it was a visit from her, a message that she is here in all the rare, wonderful things in this world.

I'll miss you, Mom.

Waiting for the Floor to Dry

The picture on the left is of Dad, brother Mike and me. It must have been taken around 1962, not sure. My sister found it, scanned it, and I snagged it for my own personal use.

We're sitting in Grandma Parks' living room. I remember that old rocker! But barely remember Mike looking like that - so small and round and cute. The door behind us was Grandma's bedroom, and much later, was Dad's room. He would go in there, close the door to take a nap after working 12 or 16 hours, and we kids knew better than to make noise, lest he emerge, trip over one of us camped out in the floor and roar - "A bunch of cur dogs!" Well, that was Dad. Roar now (especially when he was in pain from hitting the floor after tripping over one of us), make a gesture of apology later. He never said the words...I'm sorry...but he would place one of his big hands on a shoulder and pat it. That's as close as he came, but it was ok, because we knew what he meant.

He has been on my mind a lot, lately, especially after this past weekend when someone broke into the house in which my baby sister now lives. They stole a few things, but the worst is, they managed to smash my father's picture. The one in his Air Force uniform. The one that sat for years in the cabinet you see in the photograph my sister scanned. They used his knives to stab his dog tags. It was a personal attack, yes, but not against my father; it was against my nephew, who adored him.

Some days, I think there's hope for the world, for the kids coming up, and other days I'm just tired from the violence and the insanity that surrounds all of us, every day, whether it touches us directly or not.

See that picture my sister scanned? It's from a time when the world was a little more tame, when morals were to the foreground for most, whether the background reflected them or not. It's from a time when I could sit in my father's lap and feel safe and peaceful.