Trip to get the tree

I went through the camera and downloaded December's pictures. Most are from our trip to get a tree a couple weeks ago. I just did a little rough editing.

As you can see, other than this nice one of Robyn (see sly smile), I didn't really get any pictures of the actual excursion.





It was cold and the sky was amazing, very dark, with crystals floating around as the sun went down. I snapped all the sky pictures from a moving car while Robyn drove. The consensus was that I am a dork.










Might be something to that. There's no substitute for pressing the shutter button, though. You never know what's going to work.











Who says Winter is depressing? Okay, maybe a little.













I'm going to get a call from the developer on this one. She's concerned that I'm just plain ignorant. These next are all twisty and out of focus in places. I like 'em that way.

























I'm hoping that you enjoy looking around you as much as I do. It's possible I value it more after the trials of this year. My trials were not the worst to befall a person this year. A sore back is a badge of honor.

If you're reading this, I'm glad for you. I was going to write a noble exhortation but then the dog gagged.

'Nuff said.

Intrepid

Walker, Robyn and I went out to see Mom and bring her a warm blanket and soft comforter for Christmas Day. Generally I go see Mom alone. Robyn comes pretty often, the kids seldom. Walker was not sure Mom knew who he was. She wasn't letting on. I am reluctant to take mom out these days. She doesn't walk well and the chaos of gatherings confuses her. I tell myself I'll try to take her out for a drive first. She liked her gifts but I don't think she really connected them to Christmas. Walker said she had tears in her eyes. Why do I always cry when you come? We drove to Papa's for his gift exchange.

My technique these days is to find a good spot on the big sofa (one of the recliner sections), smile, and watch. I'm also on a "no verbal negativity" diet. If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything. Midwestern wisdom at it's best. You don't hate modern art. It's different, is all. I was pretty quiet. My kids came to sit with me, which is never bad. I got a couple hugs from Papa [one forward, one sideways] and a good, very aerodynamic new bicycle helmet.

My sister in law is a sort of holiday equestrian. She comes to these events and rides her kids. "Brent! Get in here and eat some rolls!" "Brent! Does your mother know you're doing that! [Playing with his Nintendo DS.]" "Did you eat?" "Go back and eat some more!" No one will say these kids did anything for lack of supervision. These folks mean well; perhaps that's what's so disturbing.

Papa is glad to have us all around, but dammit he's in his 80's and if he wants to read the incidental cautionary statements on the outside of the box the DVD player came in out loud to all of us, he's certainly earned that right. Back when there were lots of kids of a certain age, nobody could build the suspense like Papa, reading the label on the little bag of silica that came with your transistor radio. I'm not here because I expect a great gift (got one!). I'm here because he built half my last house, and came to problem solve every practical disaster I encountered in the first 15 years I knew him. Papa has his own way of working things out and if you're not along for the ride, you'd best go some place and gnaw on your hand.

Caitlin went off Highway 30 on the way. She got herself unstuck and drove the rest of the way to Papa's very slowly. She did this unsupervised. Probably could have used some oversight. After a while I drove Caitlin home. "Why do these things always make me so grumpy?" she asked.

"Breathe," I said.

Robyn and Walker came home about an hour later. We watched "Up."

At six, it seemed very late, and we each went to our own corner. The falling rain and ice turned to snow. I noticed the garage door was still open and turned off the porch light and the Christmas tree.

I'm trying to remember how I felt last year at this time. It seems decades ago. I bet I wasn't this glad to be here.

Yule

Cam Waters took his own life, presumably sometime last Saturday, leaving himself for his wife to find. This is a public enough place that more detail should probably not go here and I don't know much detail. Will's on his way to Sue's family Christmas in Ames and we're going over for a family gathering tonight. I want to know what became of Cam, but I'm not in a hurry to mix it with this holiday.

I was picking my way through the usual Alzheimer's Christmas conundrum. Mom qualifies for Hospice now, so I did an intake with them first thing Tuesday morning and then went shopping. This was a triumph of logistical planning on my part.

This season I'm pleased to be here and relatively intact. I spent much of the Summer wondering how I'd end up, and after weeks of PT I'm here to say things are working better than I ever dared hope they would. I had decided to be grateful and try to be in the various moments offered by family ritual(s) present in that gratitude. Really.

Cam's death, particularly at his own hands, presents another challenge to my spirit of gratitude. I don't know what he was thinking. I'm trying to be less judgmental. He pisses me off, though. I know folks who'd have killed to have his talent and intellect. I was planning on him being around.

Over and over I learn that I don't get to control these things. You'd think I'd get better at this. It's Christmas Eve.

Hold close those you love and tell them why. Peace.

Sunday morning

I stopped in to see Mom this morning, armed with some dwarf daffodils and a variegated poinsettia. Mom was awake and admired the flowers. I took them to her room and we sat a while and talked about nothing. I looked over and there was a tear in the corner of her eye.

"I don't know why I always cry when you come," she said.

"I don't know, Mom." We sat for a little. I held her hand.

"I should go to bed," she said. I offered to help her get there and she said "oh, no, I can do it." We sat a little longer.

"I have to get back to work," Mom said.

I gave her a kiss goodbye. Whatever it was she thought we were doing was over. I could have said "I know why you're crying, Mom." That would have been more honest. I know that she saw me for a moment and realized that we were here in this place, acting out our parts in the dread scene she never wanted to play. The idea was gone fast as it came.

Leaving only a tear in the corner of an eye.

I'm taking a minute for reflection before I go to work. I spent some time under the hands of my physical therapist today and he did a masterful job on my poor overworked neck. I played basketball yesterday and really wrung myself out and this morning I was in a permanent shrug, with strong Yertle the Turtle style neck thrusting. All my tendons contracted and refused to budge. Nate took care of that. Good man!

He won't tell me not to play basketball either. I think he figures the lack of mobility the next day is its own consequence. I'm so happy to be able to expend strenuous energy again, I'm probably overdoing it. Okay, I AM overdoing it. I had grown very fond of doing something very physical and then feeling the warm, achy glow of having done so. My endorphins battled my darker parts as well as anything can. I'm willing to ache for this. Besides, today's ache is nothing. I haven't taken my opioid in days, and today I haven't even had a Tylenol yet. Just me and my old creaky body! Just like old times.

Almost.

Postscript

Like living in Cedar Rapids, Thanksgiving was "not that bad." This whole business of not being thankful for a holiday based on gratitude can make irony a full time job. LeRoy's turkey, against all odds, was quite moist (although the composite ham was dry enough to be sliced "paper thin"). The company was friendly enough, although predictably devoid of content, but also devoid of anything patently offensive. LeRoy was glad to have family around him and grateful that Robyn came and helped set up. My brother in law stayed to put up the worlds most complicated artificial tree while I absconded with a large television that LeRoy can no longer use because J.D. moved in with April and already has too many t.v.s and so LeRoy replaced his downstairs t.v. with J.D.'s flat screen one. We got the downstairs t.v. which sits happily in our bedroom in place of the ancient 19 inch television Donna gave us as a wedding present. Are you following this? It's truly an "object" lesson.

I find myself, now, with one more day of a long weekend after a restless night built upon rich food, too much to think about and insufficient exercise. Since I put some money down on a gym membership I'll shortly go try to redeem myself by working out on an elliptical machine. It's low-impact, and since I haven't talked to a trainer yet, I'm trying to be careful. There's a large, hot whirlpool waiting as well.

And what did I think as I lay in bed last night? I thought about money, or the lack thereof. I thought about my mother, whose circle has diminished to almost nil, and wondered how much longer she'll occupy her tiny space. We've cut back on a lot of her medication and her disease will progress more quickly now, it's evident. There's no point in standing with your finger in the dike when the water is up to your chest. I thought about my kids, my marriage, the hole in my ceiling and the leak that made it. I doubted myself in various ways and longed for a large martini, settling in the end for a late night beer.

Today will be about exercise. I'll get my body going. I'll help clean up the house, putting away all the stuff we got out for our guests. I'll go see if my mother can walk any better. I'll go to Iowa City and bother my friends. Doing, to substantiate being, looking for purpose, which is inevitably in my other pants.

Thanksgiving morning

I went to her room and she was sleeping in her big chair. When I woke her, she smiled at me with recognition.

"It's Thanksgiving. Would you like to come over?"

"Yes, I'd like that," Mom answered, blinking. I got her coat and offered to help her stand. Although I held her hand, she couldn't rise from the big chair. I put my hand under her upper arm and lifted her to her feet. While I put her coat on her arm she sat back down.

"Let's put that coat on while you're sitting." With her coat on, I lifted her to her feet again. "Let's walk to the door." She took small unsteady steps, uncertain, shuffling. It took five minutes to walk to the door of her room.

"I think I need to sit down," she said. We turned around and began to walk back into her room.

"We can sit you in your big comfy chair," I suggested.

"That's not my chair."

"You can sit in it anyway," I said.

"That's what I always say, whose-ever it is." We shuffled toward the chair, Mom becoming incrasingly unsteady.

"I don't know if I'll make it."

"A few more steps, Mom."

"Yes, BIG steps. There we go! At last!" I sat her down, back in the big chair. She closed her eyes. Her hands moved and shook with a life of their own. I helped her get her coat off. After a while I got up to go.

"Stay with me. I'm scared," she said. And so I sat a while in the quiet room as she fell soundly asleep again, the sounds of relatives coming to collect other residents coming from outside the room.

It's a long walk down this hall, Mary.

I'll make it.

Whoo! How much farther?

Turkey with a complicated stuffing

I was trying to post something on facebook to capture my feelings about Thanksgiving in a few words and realized that it was going to be a disaster. I navigate these holidays like an explorer looking for the Northwest Passage. It's a journey with great beauty, fraught with peril.

Today I will quite literally be "upright and taking nourishment," and after this summer, that's certainly no small thing. I find that I'm very grateful for Robyn, Caitlin, Walker and the many friends and relatives who helped us in so many ways during the very difficult parts of this year. I'm quite literally grateful that I can stand up straighter and straighter and really can look forward to resuming my regular activities, even (especially) the strenuous ones. All these people who know us well, and love us anyway, have helped the nearly unbearable parts of this year pass. Now we can celebrate.

My summer officially "ended" when we paddled down the Upper Iowa river near Bluffton on an impossibly sunny, warm, November Saturday. I can't tell you how many times I lay on my back in that interminable brace and dreamed of sitting in my boat, scooting down a river. I truly felt I had "arrived." By God, I had.

I'll go and get Mom this morning and bring her over early, so that she can get settled here and not be so overwhelmed by all the people arriving. I'm not sure how long she'll last at the party. Holidays are more painful in Alzheimerland because they mark time. Anniversaries remind us of better times, of who Mom used to be, and feed sadness, the guest who never quite leaves. I remember Mom's inventive, elegant holiday tables and the good times with friends we'd invite who for one reason or another had no family and so joined ours. We argued and laughed and debated and felt very pleased with ourselves.

What we have to offer Mom now is inclusion, which is more and more difficult to manage as her once formidable powers continue to diminish. It's hard to be thankful for this. It's difficult to find a lesson to learn. Entropy is its own lesson, I suppose.

On Saturday we'll go to my father-in-law's and sit in attendance on the other Thanksgiving. Robyn goes out early to help LeRoy get the house together. It's far too much house for him now and in the best of times LeRoy had 12 more projects than he could finish. He, too, is diminishing, and Robyn shows her love in ways he can accept. She helps. Exchanging love with LeRoy is a Northwest Passage of its own.

Robyn's relatives will arrive for second Thanksgiving. Her step-sister and brother-in-law, amazingly uptight, snapping at their kids (who, another relative pointed out, wear slippers to keep their socks from getting dirty), will be there, as will some neighbors of LeRoy's. There is nothing to say to these folks, really. Those of us who gathered today, at our house, will smile at each other knowingly (here we are again). LeRoy finds comfort in relationships that don't involve much intimacy. He is a wonderful, helpful neighbor, a builder of projects. He showed his love for Robyn by helping us rebuild a house and being practical in all kinds of patient ways. Sometimes, working on these projects, just he and I, he would open up and tell me things about himself, his life, and we would feel close. Over time, though, I have found his love to be conditional in ways he can't help. While I can't blame him for being who he is, raised by a callous man who had no time for dreams or feelings, I felt myself withdrawing from him. I think he knows this and I don't think he knows what it means. Once, Robyn and the kids went with him for lunch somewhere and he put Caitlin on the phone to ask me why I was not there. Caitlin was terribly uncomfortable, and it made me angry to think he'd use my daughter that way. I got off the phone as fast as I could and apologized to Caitlin for LeRoy. No eight year old should have to carry water like that. Small wonder Caitlin hates Thanksgiving.

Now we count time and talk small. I have found that blaming people for being who they are is a waste of energy and I try not to do it. LeRoy has been good family to us in lots of ways and so we go help him have another Thanksgiving, his way, at his house. The neighbor with the impossible toupee (think opossum) and the inane wife (valley of the dolls meets dumb and dumber) will prattle on, my step-sister-in-law will tell her kids to stop being kids, and my watch will be on the inside of my wrist so I can look at it less obviously. These are the things we do for each other.

I can take my camera and look for beauty. I can remember that I'm lucky I'm not doing the holidays in a wheelchair (talk about being trapped!). We can find the good. It's there. We are lucky people, Robyn and I. It's just that the wisdom conferred by middle age is fleeting, and my better self has a tough wrestling match with that other guy.

Insomnia

I found a basket filled with odds and ends as Robyn and I cleaned out Mom's closet last weekend. I took it to the car and didn't get around to clearing it out until yesterday. There were all sorts of pictures: an old one of my Grandma Jones standing by my cousins' bunk bed looking quizzical, pictures of my 22 year old Mom holding me as an infant, a picture of Caitlin at about six, leaning her head against my Dad - already gaunt from ALS, pictures of some of the troubled children my mother taught when I was a kid, a picture of Mom at the zoo joyously spreading her arms in front of an eagle exhibit, "prom" pictures of Mom and her friend Ruth at the first old folks home, all dressed up and looking cynical about it. In the basket were years worth of buttons from 15 years of Woman Art/Woman Fair, the exhibition for which Mom worked tirelessly, a set of terrycloth bunny ears, a pin made of a fan-folded dollar bill and plastic flowers, an antique tortoise shell box with unmatched costume jewelry from my Grandmother Thompson, and a good deal of cat hair.

Mom sat and made disjointed small talk with us as we worked our way through the closet, entirely in the moment, one moment at a time. Her last cat, Freckles, went on a one way trip to the vet the week before. One's minutes must be connected to each other for one to notice such things. To Mom the cats are under the bed or in the closet. They'll be out soon.

My mother was a very bright, accomplished woman, immensely generous and understanding and yet proud and aloof, "keeper of secrets," my Aunt says. She raised me with great generosity of spirit and understanding, much forgiveness and a good deal of humor. Now the edifice she occupied is largely untenanted. What remains are manners, the sort of wit that can be captured in thirty seconds, memories strung together at random. She sleeps. She looks out the window, seeing I know not what.

I saw clients this morning and into the early afternoon and the time flew by. It's satisfying work and people are interesting. I came home and found myself exhausted. I took a nap, had supper, and took another nap. Now that everyone else has gone to bed I find myself alone with my thoughts and this keyboard. It's hard to avoid mortality on nights like this. I wonder what will become of us and our busy lives, how we will end up, what will be left of us.

Mom planned for her retirement and had plenty to live on. I fear we have not planned enough or taken enough care to assure security in twenty years. But what good does all this planning do? What good is a hedge against a random future? Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, when all there really is is today. After our fecklessness, we may win the lotto, and my Mother, for all her care saw her well fashioned planning carried away, box by box, down to the last cat, the last basket.

As I sailed over the handlebars of my bicycle this Summer, I didn't consider that I could die. I said "Oh, no!" and didn't have time to put my hands forward to save my face. I thought I had broken my nose (I had not).

A few weeks ago, we paddled the Upper Iowa sipping beers and feeling very lucky on such a lovely day. Each minute connected with another downstream, revealing more November beauty, another gift. I felt very lucky for many reasons. Now I'm thinking of my mother, her long arms spread wide, imitating an eagle and smiling impossibly wide, her long fingers stretching. She is upstream somewhere and I miss her.

. . . other than my physical condition . . .

Chris sent me a great picture from our recent kayak trip down the Upper Iowa the other weekend. I am standing in the yard at the cabin, coffee in hand, in front of my car which carries two boats, looking relaxed and feeling victorious. He also sent a picture he took of me the day my jaw got wired. I was grimacing to great effect, showing my newly reassembled mouth, looking absolutely hideous.

I posted these on Facebook to great effect.

I also noticed something: I'm getting bored with reports on my own physical condition. If I'm getting tired of talking about myself, I can only imagine how others must feel. (I start PT on the 24th and have cautiously resumed a little light, friendly, co-ed basketball at work. I'm not having any pain this week that can't be managed by Tylenol, although we'll see what a longer b-ball skirmish will do today.) See!! Boring.

I think this is good news. What seems like an eternity was actually only four months. When I look at my grimacing visage, I remember how helpless I felt, how much I longed to be where I am now. The other weekend, I worked on our deck, applying the ceiling tin my Mom had left over when she did her kitchen ceiling 20 years ago. I hauled it all over the place and finally used some of it to make a deck surround. It hurt to do the work, but it was great to be doing something interesting and semi-useful. The pain went away soon enough. This week, I feel far better and I find myself not calculating so much what I will pay later for a given activity.

I have longed for this moment. Time has passed, narcotized, second upon second in a slow motion parade past my window. I have stared at myself in the mirror (what else to do?) trying to imagine how I will turn out (in an ironic revisit of adolescence?), praying to my Agnostic God for a future that is not too compromised by condition.

Now, it would be a good idea to remember just how really lucky I am. To take some care. Damn. Let's get on with it.
Aw, hell.

















Couldn't resist.

Spiritual geography

There are places for all of us that for one reason or another take on spiritual significance. For me, and a number of my good friends, one such place is a cabin on Canoe Ridge, north of Decorah, Iowa. Fish and his Dad rebuilt a pioneer cabin on a new concrete foundation. It overlooks a meadow full of wildflowers and an oak-wooded valley that falls toward the Upper Iowa river valley. There is a waterfall on the property and in the summer bluebirds flit casually from tree to tree. For my friends and I, it's a place we visit to remind ourselves that things are simpler than we often make them. Sitting on the porch and gazing down the valley you can feel your heart rate subside and your blood pressure diminish. The noise in our heads and the anxieties in our hearts subside. There's beer and banter and occasional excess and fishing and kayaking and biking and a sense that we're in on a special secret, a privilege, a gift.

When we went to Southern Illinois, on the Ohio River, to scatter my Dad's ashes, we visited another such place. The river makes a big bend and cuts under the bluff it's made during flood after flood over the eons. My grandfather's cabin sits on that bluff, owned by someone else now, as does the ancient Rose Hotel, build in 1812, where we stayed with my mother, already significantly in decline from Alzheimer's disease. We went to the foot of the bluff and Walker and Caitlin (the grandchildren he was amazed to have) scattered his ashes into the river where Dad learned to swim, to curse, to be a boy. His footprints were all over the bluff, the rocks, the river bottom. The July water was as warm as bathwater and the weather became unusually cool, setting of a show of mist and water in the morning that made me speechless.

My feelings about my father's long death were complicated and contradictory. My grieving (for my father and my declining mother) sent me into a long depression fueled by vodka rocks martinis and self-pity. I chart the beginning of my healing from the moment Dad's ashes, rescued from the top of Mom's old Zenith television and cast in his most favorite spot, touched the water he most loved. We sat for hours on the second floor of the porch of the Rose Hotel and watched the river move and change with each minutes and we sighed. That night Mom went to bed and the kids and I lay on our backs in the grass on the bluff and watched a meteor shower. I think my children felt the magic of this place, rinsed by the river of it's tragedy and turmoil.

Today, as is our custom, we make our way to the cabin in Decorah, my friends and I. There have been months recently when I despaired of ever getting out of the house, or even down the block and this trip feels special to me. Over the summer I have learned that I'm more fragile than I thought, more vulnerable to chaos and entropy (and momentum in particular). I've had to be patient and to confront some of the flaws in my character I'd have preferred to continue to ignore. Also, I think I've become a little more patient, perhaps more grateful.

I've been reading e. e. cummings a little:

. . . for life is not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis.

Life back

Eons and eons ago, I was moving out of the house I shared with my first wife Nancy. We married very young, she and I, and I was certainly the more extroverted one. Nancy went along for the ride for a while, taking on my interests and generally subsuming her personality in favor of mine. She was a Polish Catholic girl from Niles and this is what you did, as far as she knew.

Since I am prone to center of the Universe behavior, and was REALLY that way at 23, I didn't really notice or catch on to this dynamic. (And there was a good deal more to this, really. I'm simplifying history here. Nancy's family was monumentally scarred by alcoholism and traumas that Nancy only ever hinted at.) As time went by, we grew far apart, having little in common in the first place and things got more and more negative between us. Nancy initiated the divorce discussion, but in the end it was I who moved out, and our discussions continued after.

"I feel like I've got my life back," she announced. I was probably sarcastic about it, since I hadn't knowingly stolen her life and didn't know enough about young women to understand. There was enough collateral damage that I had my own wounds to lick.

Nancy took her own life a couple years ago. Her life, for what it's worth, didn't improve for long. She married a guy we both knew (a friend of ours attended the wedding and wore black, she was so pessimistic about the match), and they had a couple children - a boy and a girl. Eventually she and her husband divorced, but not before he held the children hostage at gunpoint and got the state involved in their lives. Nancy was a very self-conscious, almost paranoid person and I'm sure she was horrified. After her sister died, of years of MS, she said goodnight and apparently took pills she had in her purse. She left her son, estranged from her by all accounts, and a daughter.

As I drove to Iowa City yesterday morning to see my clients (a pleasure as well as a second job) the sun was shining and the last of the leaves were showing their color. I sipped my coffee and listened to music, reveling in my relatively new-found ability to travel independently, and feeling little if any back pain. It's been a long summer and now with the crisp air comes the easing of our burdens, our ability to again look at something like enrichment, something other than survival. And I knew then, how Nancy felt in that time she became more independent and before she saddled herself with an even worse relationship than the one we shared.

"I have my life back," I said, to no one, to everyone, and to Nancy, wherever her troubled soul now lies. I hope, for a while, she felt as good about it as I do.

Saturday night bachache reverie

I'm thinking of my friend tonight who has buried his father, his mother and now his aunt in rapid succession, and who after returning from his aunt's funeral related that he was "beat from a long week (actually years) of mourning," and has disappeared from radar.

I know where he is. He's hunkered down wrestling with that dark inertia that descends on us as we face entropy and know with certainty that it's a matter of time, really. He's chasing everyday life and not looking over his shoulder for the next wave of sadness.

He is, as we will all be unless we pass away before our parents, an orphan. My Aunt Peg said to me after her older sister died "she was the only one left who knew me from the start." A lot of us are these days, orphans, that is. Mom still recognizes me and that is some recompense, but its not really her. We're writing our own histories now, the keepers of the past.

Yesterday I labored over files and to day I helped move a couple chairs and tonight I ache. A wise woman who had a similar trauma to mine said that her pain was her reminder that it's good to be alive. It's my reminder that I'm free again from the confines of invalidism, driving, working, playing a little, and at the end of the day nursing my aches and pains, and glad to have them.

When I had surgery for my fractured face, the surgeon was concerned that I might aspirate into my wired mouth after surgery and either die or aspirate or gross everybody out. My friend organized time off for Robyn and a host of friends to sit by me and then went home, got sick and fell asleep. Didn't come back for his second shift. Left me a text message. Didn't call the our other grumpy friend who felt particularly awkward sitting there with me in a gown, my ass hanging out, taking a dump in the bathroom and him having to listen. I was wishing everyone would just leave at that point and didn't get it. Grumpy friend was disgusted and suggested it was the same old shit, not following through.

That's not the point, though. The point is that I might have died and my friends were afraid for me. That someone would panic over my passing and try to organize me to safety is a beautiful thing. To realize that the crisis is over and fuck up a few details is a small thing.

Love is love. Brush it off and get on with it.

Dog day

Tye has a number of jobs, but his main job is getting you to throw things so that he can catch them. He will do this at any time and under any conditions, with any item handy. His favorite item to get you to throw is his chipmunk.

The chipmunk is a stuffed pet toy, sufficiently realistic, except that real chipmunks are not covered with dog saliva. It occurs in pet stores, and, if you visit Thompsonville, your lap. If you pick it up and fling it away in horror, the games have begun.

Here are various shots of Tye doing what makes him happiest. Happier than humping. Happier than eating out of the sink. Happier than cheese off the counter.
















































Caitlin took all these pictures. Good girl!

Again, my son will question my masculinity

. . . but that's the way it goes. I wanted to get close up pictures of the rose of sharon blossoms last year but there were japanese beetles all over them, munching happily. This year I learned if you put out bug bags with attractant you get bugs from miles away migrating to your yard. More than you could ever catch in bags because it's a sexual pheremone.

I took a really cool picture of a japanese beetle last year, much to the disgust of my brother in law, Greg, who views them as the enemy. Even one's enemy can be attractive. Anyway, since they are not so horny, there are fewer of them this year, which is a blessing.

There's a little robber fly in this one. This fly is colored like a bee, but not really shaped that way. This must work for him. We are not always what we seem and this is usually a survival strategy. I seem to be a harmless middle aged man, so there you go. My goal is to be increasingly less harmless.

I'm well. I have a new non-narcotic pain reliever, which is nonetheless an opioid, and helped me get some stuff done today even though my back began rebelling early. I'm not sure what I did yesterday, other than see two new clients. There isn't a one to one correspondence between when I exert and when I have aches and pains. It was manageable today with a light dose and Wikipedia says this stuff isn't addictive except at the maximum dose, which I am nowhere near. Most of the time Tylenol 500s work well. I helped get the house clean and did some shopping and took little breaks and it all got done. This is more than I can say for my macho son who has done absolutely nothing we have asked him to do today, claiming fatigue. I'm an asshole dad so I suggested that he was too exhausted to do anything with anyone including the Xbox and he seemed to begin to move. It's looking like rain and I don't think the lawn is going to get mowed. Nor is his laundry going to get done or his room clean. His grounding will last until tomorrow when there's probably something he'll want to do. So it goes. Yelling at him doesn't make me feel better and still doesn't get the job done.

Rose O' Sharon was a character in the Grapes of Wrath. She nursed a dying man after her infant died as the family rode from Oklahoma to California, the promised land during the depression. These days there's no place to migrate to, except perhaps Alaska and I don't believe they are promising anything there.

I'd actually really enjoy mowing the lawn. It was one of the jobs I found satisfying, along with shoveling the snow. I liked being strong. Picking up rocks and making walls and shoveling holes and planting things. It has been strange to be weak, anemic. Atrophy has been almost alarming at times. Nowadays, I'm gaining my strength and can see progress. It's easier to have pain when one can see a progression. Robyn's back pain isn't like that and I'm noticing the difference. At some point I suppose I'll come to the conclusion that, in the words of the sage Jack Nicholson, this is "as good as it gets."

I suppose it won't be good enough.

Tough.

Flying dogs observed in Iowa

Caitlin took this picture of Tye doing his favorite "job." His rule is that he must catch the chipmunk before it hits the ground. Dogs have rules. Don't think they don't. Not bad for a nine year old dog.

Speaking of old dogs, I am feeling a lot better. Back on the campus at work, I'm walking a lot and climbing a lot of stairs and feeling the "burn" less and less. Running will be entirely another matter, but the first day back when I took the stairs I felt like I'd run a few miles. Now they just feel like stairs.

What I'm experiencing these days is more of an ache than a pain. I resort to the "big" drugs at night, but during the day, my aches are very manageable. On days when I "work out" more, I feel more achy at night and I understand that is to be expected. I have the "advantage" of knowing how it feels when all the surgeon's good work comes unglued, and this definitely does NOT feel like that. It feels like progress. I wear my lighter brace as little as possible: when in the car or when doing back intensive tasks such as vacuuming.

I go back to Madison for CT scans and a final pronouncement on October 8th. I expect to go get my license and be back on the road again. It's time. It will be wonderful to have some more independence. My Iowa City caseload is filling up and I'll need more flexibility. The Corps Members will be arriving on campus in a few weeks and we'll be hopping. I'd like to get going with some physical therapy so that I can look left and right without the "full torso pivot" move. I'm not sure how well I'll ever be able to look up. It may be a bend-at-the-waist deal from here on out. We'll see.

Our family is falling back into a more normal routine. Autumn has us in its grasp, getting us back to routine and nudging us with shorter days, foggy mornings, and crisp air. It's good to be alive, active, to wiggle my toes. It's good to value our lives and the good things we do. As I drove to Wisconsin in June I felt I was getting away from the grind of my life. I guess I sure as Hell was.

Having fought like Hell to get my life back, I hope I don't forget how much it's worth.

Merry gold

I have a great little photo shareware program called Gimp that I'm half way learning to use. I still haven't figured out to do what I set out to do but this one turned out okay. The morning glory was psychedelic all by itself.

The Infectious Disease Clinic at UW called me today to let me know that my labs are normal. This means that I no longer have to wolf down antibiotics for the first time since June. They're going to test me again in a few weeks after no antibiotics and see if seratia has been hiding out and has started growing again. Dr. Mejicano is wily and knows all their sneaky tricks.

It is cool and a little sticky out. The corn is turning brown at the edges and you can hear it rustle now in a breeze. The cicadas are keening, louder and louder in waves and then dying out again. For a moment, everything is just as it should be.

Morning Glory

I went out to get the paper the other morning and in the middle of the worst of our grass, right down by the curb where all the sand and salt ends up, was a single morning glory.

I got great news in Madison and can now wear my lighter brace or no brace at all depending on my level of activity and on how I feel. Range of motion is a really wonderful thing. I'm miserably stiff and inflexible, particularly my neck. Because my spine is now bent forward, I think I'm having to hold my head up with somewhat different muscles. At any rate the muscles currently engaged were complaining mightily of overwork yesterday.

I've learned that the aches come and go and I can feel myself getting stronger as I "pay" for yesterday's exertion. An ache is certainly better than the sensations I was experiencing in June, or in July for that matter, when complications were arising.

Our friend and sister Katie suggests the pain is a reminder of how good it is to be alive. The man in the Army commercial says pain is the sensation of weakness leaving your body. These days for me an ache or pain is the fee for more freedom and normalcy. I got to sit in a small town bar and look pretty much like the other humans. We were early for a wedding and there were puppies on the floor and children beginning to tantrum because their parents were on beer number two and you know what that means. We enjoyed our drinks and speculated with the bartender about which local wedding we were attending. No one during the entire visit asked what happened to me. I got eye contact!

The young adults are returning to our campus at work. They are full of energy and critical analysis, humor and fun. There's going to be lots of work to do and my motivation is much higher to get my training materials written and polished. Now I have my audience and don't want to disappoint them.


We are bent but we are no longer broken. Knitting together, we piece ourselves into place.

We work to straighten ourselves as we walk and we keep ourselves tidy, the better to be clean and dignified.

To walk along the street and be unremarkable is a piece of luck, not a right. I am lucky enough to have a few upright miles remaining, before I order my online scooter, place a carafe of martinis in the bag, and roll toward the sunset, leaving only a little dust, and a faint whirring noise.

De-friended.

I've already had a lot of fun with this, but it seems a shame to waste it on Facebook. I made a vow to myself to try to get out of my own head and see what's going on and ever since I've noticed so many things and have had some really exciting experiences. I'm grateful, I'm just sayin'.

I got friended by someone I went to high school with on the aforementioned social network site. Her name isn't important. I'm not even completely sure who she is or was, although I think she ran in a flashier social circle than I. That's how it feels to be that age, so I'm not sure. My classmate is married and considers herself conservative politically (!) and has wonderful grandchildren.

My classmate posted some pictures of things she was doing to get ready for homecoming. There were rows of dresses hanging in plastic in long rows. There were tables of boutonnieres and banners hanging and strangely no people at all. Other pictures showed various people, but no one that I recognized. There were pictures of my classmate but they weren't really close ups and so they didn't help me make out how I was supposed to remember her. But what the heck, right? Wait and see.

My classmate seemed sympathetic when I posted about my adveture at the DOT office. That was nice.

Facebook has inane polls which it uses to mine your personal data for sales and analysis. My classmate answered a poll and indicated to one and all that she did not support removal of "under God" from the Pledge of Allegiance. I'm not aware that there's anything cooking in this arena -- God removal -- but I'm up for a little discussion.

I'm as big a fan of America as they come, particularly as we seem to have come at least a little to our senses as a nation of late. This Pledge has always bothered me.

I have never been very attached to things as objects worthy of allegiance. It does bother me that the Republic for which it stands gets second billing.

"Under God" was inserted in the '30's or 40's by politicians pandering for votes. One suspects this would be similar to saving Marriage by amending the Constitution.

"Under God" presupposes that we all agree about the Almighty. Religions that evangelize have a natural tendency to minimize the value of other points of view. Because the congressmen were Christian, we are not "One Nation Seeking Nirvana" although undoubtedly some of us are seeking Nirvana, rather than being born again.

Actually our early forefathers were free thinkers, Congregationalists and Unitarians, for God's sake. Their sense of the need for separation of Church and State was palpable.

In 1965, when I used to recite the Pledge, "liberty and justice for all" was just not happening. I knew that. I was a little Unitarian kid.

I commented to my classmate on Facebook that she was reflecting a certain bias. I shared with her my sense of the politicians who inserted God into the Pledge . . . the pandering part.

She commented that I didn't have to say the Pledge if I didn't want to then, did I? I commented that if the Pledge instead demanded that her children stand up every day in school and DENY God, then perhaps she'd feel differently.

And now she is not my friend. Sure was fun. I wonder who she was.

church

Brief update: the visit to Madison was great, in that Dr. Mejicano, who is great and truly worth the price of admission said my wound was "beautiful," and my labs were "great" and explained very clearly what we're watching and why. He treated us as though we were capable of understanding this stuff and in fact we were. I really love being treated as though I'm capable of understanding my own situation, particularly when the news is good.

As I mentioned, my friend and colleague J.J. is hauling me to work when he can, which is every day this coming week, and that's just the thing for my morale. I work better in my office, get more done, and the interaction and stimulation remind me that I'm part of something that I really love. NCCC is a great place to be these days and soon there will be 160 young people running around our quaint little campus.

The campus is very much like a small college and I have to walk back and forth between my building and our 3rd floor administrative office in the next building. This is more walking than I was doing at home and I can feel it. You don't get stronger if you don't push a little and I was defaulting to the not ineptly named La-Z-Boy far to often.

After a good night's sleep it is easier to have hope and not be so impatient. Yesterday, I went to the DOT to try to get my lapsed driver's license renewed before I passed the 60 day limit. Needless to say, I went as Samatello. I checked in at the desk and got my number, sat in a very uncomfortable chair and waited for an hour, only to be asked if I was under a doctor's care. Good guess, Tonto! I said that I was and that I was not currently driving because of my injury, and would not drive until my doctor released me, but that I'd like to renew my license on time. The woman called the manager.

It turns out that if they suspect you are unable to drive, they put you on a list and require that you fill out a long form, and that your doctor fill it out too, in order to get a license. I suggested that had I not come in in good faith they would never have known that I was not driving because of an injury. The manager agreed, and said that now that she knows, they can't help me. She said if I wanted to take a driving test, I could get a license. I reiterated that I was not driving. She reiterated that I could get a photo ID, but no license. I suggested that this was penalizing me for coming forward and wasting my time and damned poor customer service. "You are free to go," she suggested. I had not been aware that I was in fucking custody, but it was a relief to know. I suggested that it would have been nice if the woman at the first desk, seeing the full body brace I display prominently, could have cued me when I hinted by saying "I am here to renew my license" that this might be a futile mission. The manager again offered me the long form.

After a long night's sleep, I can understand that there are some who will continued to drive when they can look neither left nor right. Most drivers regularly encounter able bodied people who seem to have this disability while driving. As a responsible middle aged citizen who hasn't been behind the wheel since June 17th, I resent being treated as though I am one of these people. I would think that showing up on time to be responsible would count for something. What really makes me mad is the limitation, though. I miss the freedom and independence and the idea that now some dimwit who never met me is enforcing something I am compliant with anyway just adds insult to injury (literally). Having done my best irate citizen imitation I took my fiberglass clad somewhat bizarre form out of that den of iniquity, as the speaker recited "now serving number 657."

I understand that one of the lessons I am to learn here is that, as my son said, I am "not invincible." Apparently, I need reminders. One of these days, I'll be a senior person trying to renew my license and some drone is going to figure out that I'm a hazard to navigation and I'll get my license pulled permanently. I request that my friends and family assure that I am not carrying weapons or sharp objects when that time comes. I may not be entirely cooperative.

Easier to have some faith

Facebook is ridiculous in a lot of ways, but a lot of folks from my past have found me, and that's mostly gratifying. For those whose gratification escapes me there is the "hide" button. Yesterday, a woman "friended" me and I had to go look to see who she was. One look at her kids and I knew, she was a girl I worked with when I was a new social worker still working at child psychiatry and then doing street outreach.

I won't recount her story here. I'd probably get it wrong, because I wasn't involved in all of it. She experienced unspeakable trauma and for a while used her wit and intellect to protect her awful secrets and her family. Later she used the same wit and intellect to find herself and to heal. The message from facebook was about how she turned out "okay" and had a family and beautiful children who are safe and healthy. She lives nearby and is a professional who works to help children. I am guessing she's on to most of their tricks. I am sure she gives them much of her very large heart.

I used to have an imaginary house on a hill in my mind with a great big porch and a long grassy lawn, and I populated it with kids I knew who I felt needed to escape from their lives and be appreciated. I supposed it was a mental excercise that allowed me to rescue them, even though I could only do a little in real life.

In the end it's not about rescue, of course. I can do what I do because I've been around long enough to observe that people rescue themselves. They grow stronger and healthier and heal themselves. Like the rest of us, they come to approximate normalcy and often to find the things in they long for - family, love, safety, joy.

She thanked me in her message, and she's welcome. I am a priveleged observer.

Road trip

We're back to Madison for blood (drawn) and twenty minutes with Dr. Infection Control, one George Mejicano. He actually seems to be a very sharp man and is pretty informative. My sedimentation rate and something else are still too high, or were last week, although significantly improved. His job is to get every last one of the bugs that the Ciproflaxin is supposed to kill. My body tells me it's working, but he gets paid to obsess and I'm glad, mostly.

Gets you thinking about what might happen, though, doesn't it? I feel less immune to what might happen than I did this Spring. I'll be happier when the visit with Dr. George is over and I'm walking out, rather than checking in.

I've been back at work for the past two days. A colleague commutes from Cedar Rapids as well and has agreed to let me share gas as he comes to pick me up. What a mensch. He's saving my bacon. (Now there's a sacreligious mix: yiddish, followed by a pork reference. Nasty.) It is great to be back. I have a very nice office and comfy chairs, computer, copier, all the goodies, as well as a sofa to lie down and rest my back on, and permission to do so if need be. Why would a guy NOT go to work?

Because we're on a campus and our administrative offices are in a different building than my office (in the dorm basement, near my people, thank you!) I'm walking a whole lot more than I have been at home. I find I need to rest a while after these jaunts, but I suspect they are just what I need. I can work from home and telecommute if necessary, and I may do so rather than get worn down. Soon our people are coming and we'll have lots to do, so it makes sense to ease back into the groove now.

And, frankly, I'm tired to monitoring my own well being. I would like to expect to be well again, and this requires that I have things to do, to think about, to work on. I fear I'm running the risk of becoming one of those decrepit old goozers who reminisce about their bowel movements and haunt Bishop's, lurking by the cream pie. Get me the fuck off the lazy boy, pretty please.

These days, what I deal with is an ache, not sharp pain, or someone sliced me open pain. It's bone healing pain. I feel it when I remain in a position too long, or after I walk longer than usual. I feel it more as the day goes on. I find changing position, walking, taking short naps, keeping on the Tylenol schedule, and having something to freaking do help a lot.

I am going to have this ache to some degree for a long time, I suspect. On a cold rainy day it may be the cost of doing business. I have it when I stay home. When I go out it goes with me. It says "Why are you thinking about me? Do something."

Cap'n Crunch

Le Fort I fractures
Le Fort II fractures
Le Fort III fractures

Hey gang! I found my facial fracture on Wikipedia. My documentation says I had Le Fort 1, 2, and 3. Good thing I broke my back for distraction.

It's a good day. Caitlin hauled me to Iowa City and I got organized around my lovely consulting gig. I think I may have a lead on getting myself to and from work, at least some of the time. My office is lovely and I can work better there. I have two sofas to snooze on if I wear out, and permission to snooze to boot. Clocking out, of course.

My back doesn't hurt much today. I believe this will be coming and going.

I love the rain and the cool moist air. Open my windows and let the dust and cobwebs out. Off in the corn, I hear the whisper of October.