At 84, when my father-in-law, Jay, got his cancer diagnosis, they told him he had 6 months to a year to live. With treatments he might get another 3 months, but those treatments don’t equate to 3 months of quality of life.

After his doctor told him, I don’t know exactly what went on in his heart of hearts, but what he demonstrated was grace and appreciation. He publicly remarked that he was grateful that he had lived a good life—been all the places he wanted to go and done many things of which he was proud. In the last eleven years he readily expressed how he had found happiness with his (3rd) wife, Valerie. She had brought him joy and given him unconditional love.

Merry Christmas 2007 Jay & Valerie

Disclaimer: Well, except she did make him eat healthier. That’s what a good wife does, right?

Jay had fair warning that death was coming soon. Did he change his way of living? Not at all. There was no rushing around to see more of the world or buying toys or much of anything different for him, even though he felt pretty good for the first 6 months after his diagnosis.

He told me he liked to sit in his recliner chair and read and watch old westerns on TV. He wanted Valerie in her chair right next to him. That’s what made him happiest. Instead of broadening his world, he honed in on it, making it smaller. He was at peace with a simple life. I would go as far as saying he was happy. He never complained. Not once.

And in the last months, Valerie was all about making it what he wanted. When it got to be too much for her to do alone, she asked me to come. I will be forever grateful for that phone call and the time I got to spend with them in the last couple months of his life.

Witnessing the stages when someone is actively dying can be hard on the ones who are there to hold down the fort. But it can be magical too, and precious. A few occasions brought us belly laughs, like the time the three of us were watching a Paul Newman movie and the camera panned to a couple playing poker. We were not expecting to see a naked woman at the poker table, but there she was with her perky, big boobs staring at us. Dad quickly drew in an audible surprise breath and said joyfully, “You thought I was asleep, didn’t you?”

One time I offered to clean his glasses and he was reluctant to let me for some reason. But I was anxious to please and after dousing them with soap and water, I proceeded to dry and polish them. As he put them back on I asked him if they were better. With a twinkle in his eye he told me, “That’s okay for a first try, I guess.” Oh, he could be sarcastic, but that was one of the things I loved about him.

His hospice care was a finely tuned machine. There may have been a few hiccups, but those small instances were overpowered by superb care. Appropriate medicine and equipment was delivered right to the door. The people involved in giving the care are unsung heroes. They anticipate needs of the patient and perform their duties with (dare I say?) what can only be described as love. Mostly things went without a hitch. The family caregivers (Val and I) were supported by hospice as well. They educated us about the stages of dying, so we knew what to expect, and they gave us much needed TLC. Hospice was a beautiful thing.

Between the care given by hospice and Valerie and me, we made Dad comfortable as he participated in his walk with cancer. It’s not all pretty; much of it is messy, and some of it is just plain heartbreaking. But as caregivers our only goals were to allow him dignity and provide him comfort, as he went on with this final journey. Dad died on July 17, 2015. He wanted, and got, a military service. Bless his heart.

If you ever get a chance to help someone die, I recommend you do. It will be tough. Maybe the hardest thing you ever do. But it is the greatest gift you can give—to love someone so much—to help him make a smooth transition from life to death. Rest in peace, Dad. We hold on to our love.

At a Window

BY CARL SANDBURG

Give me hunger,

O you gods that sit and give

The world its orders.

Give me hunger, pain and want,

Shut me out with shame and failure

From your doors of gold and fame,

Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger!

But leave me a little love,

A voice to speak to me in the day end,

A hand to touch me in the dark room

Breaking the long loneliness.

In the dusk of day-shapes

Blurring the sunset,

One little wandering, western star

Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow.

Let me go to the window,

Watch there the day-shapes of dusk

And wait and know the coming

Of a little love.

Dedicated to women of a certain age and those who wish to understand them.

I remember with shame the weakness of my first attempt to embrace my victim. In the beginning, my pitiful gift of heat came as merely a rush of energy — almost a pleasure to her. The failure to cause her proper torment showed my weakness.

On my second go, I resolved to make her miserable. Determination brought forth my strength—bit by bit, and with practice I had my victory! Pride filled me when finally my blast incinerated her.

Since then, always somewhere in the middle of her chest I take hold. I hunker down for a while gaining strength. She feels the flame of my evil intent. I know she does, because she fidgets, pulling at her clothes. It is her feeble attempt to get some air movement between her skin and her garments. My vehemence occupies all of her—tissue, muscles, veins, cells, and best of all, her confused, unhappy mind.

I move faster and farther, invading her arms, shoulders and neck before flushing to fill her cheeks. Her ears turn red; she is engulfed, sensing nothing but the burn now. Next, I race from her upper body, pulsing down to her toes, before rising again to disrupt her brain. I bring wicked waves of heat and she knows not how to rid herself of me, her uninvited visitor, her bringer of change.

It gives me great joy to know the ride with me forces her to burn in a hell of my making. In her ear I hiss, “Nothing can stop me.” I laugh as her hair forms into ringlets. Drops fall from her face onto her white blouse. Drip. Drip.

She focuses every ounce of her resolve, longing for relief from my hot, tight grasp. Ha! She can’t get to the window for some sweet air or rip off her outer layer fast enough. She’s frantic. “Open the window for God’s sake. Where is the damn fan?” I do so relish the time we have together. Her body is my vessel; I am her furnace.

But it is enough for now. I am bored with her, though satisfied with how pathetic she looks flapping her fan, pulling at her clothes, soaking up hot sweat with a handkerchief. Her fever lessens as I release my grip, but I can’t resist jeering. I vow to occupy her again. Soon. How I cherish knowing she dreads my return.

For weeks, months, possibly years, she will suffer with anticipation of my inferno.

Does she realize how proud I am to be her beast of misery?

After having 68 years of practice for dealing with the things that can complicate life, I have learned one thing. You have to face the good and the bad, because it just can’t always be good. Sometimes I go as far as trying to appreciate the bad as well as the good. I am mildly successful with this on some occasions, but right now I’m struggling. There are some things bubbling around in my happy Baja world and I find that I must interrupt this interruption. By that I mean I have to come up with things to do that will give me back my happy.

Last night I had two neighbors over to share a nice lasagna dinner. We spent our time talking and laughing and sharing stories. Today I made cookies

and took some to my friends, Greg went to help a pal with a chore at his house, we took our doggie for a beach walk this morning (like everyday)

and this afternoon we went snorkeling. The beautiful tropical fish live right across the street from me. How delightful. This is the first time I’ve snorkeled here by our house and I can’t wait to do it again. Usually there are too many pounding waves, but today it was so calm. Now I’m going to settle into a hammock chair outside on my upstairs deck and read a book for awhile. I’m reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon that a friend loaned me.

Peaceful, easy ways like this can shake the troubles away. It means those icky interruptions aren’t going to stop me from living my happy life. Interruptions be gone! Life is sweet when I make it that way.

Silk Sunflower by Susie

Don’t be a donkey!

It bugs me when people ask me a question and then don’t listen to my answer. You know the scenario, right? Instead of listening, the question-poser stops giving you eye contact, repeats, “uh huh” in a distracted and almost inaudible manner and tone, and either wanders away or on to a new topic. It’s disconcerting to me that someone would feign interest by posing a personal question and then not listen to the response. And, so as there is no misunderstanding, I’m not referring to the question, “How are you?” That’s a whole other issue.

I have always pondered the purpose of someone asking, “How are you?” if this someone doesn’t want an answer. Oh, I know, we ask it so automatically (I am guilty of it occasionally) that we don’t seem to expect an answer to that question, let alone want an answer. We just say, “Hi. How are you?”

When I was much younger,  I tried an experiment a few times. On an occasion of having a cold or flu when asked, “How are you?” I’ve answered, “Not very well.” Many times, before even a moment passes between the question and the answer,  the question-poser  (automatically) responds with, “Good.” or “That’s good.” In some instances even after this awkward exchange, he/she hasn’t acted like it was a weird encounter, thereby giving me the impression that he/she didn’t even engage enough to hear me.

Not to worry, however. I do not sit around and think about this kind of stuff often. In fact I am rather amused by the whole pet-peevy aspect of my being bugged about this in the first place. There are so many other things I could ruminate about. Things that might even be worthwhile. Some things do matter in the long run.

Like KIVA for instance. Now there’s something worth ruminating about. Kiva empowers people all over the world by securing loans from the likes of you and me. Kiva gives anyone with an internet connection the opportunity to make a loan as small as $25 to someone else to start or grow a business, afford school, build a house, switch to clean energy and much more.  It’s the familiar “help people help themselves” philosophy. Check it out at: www.kiva.org

I’ve taken up plenty of your time. But I do want to know: What bugs you?

I promise to listen to your answer.

I’m not really a crab. This is a crab.

yellow green and blue

i tear tiny paper bits

can you feel the fun?

In sunshine and with light ocean breezes we find lots of work to do around here, but some of it is fun. I made a design around a barrel cactus with the pink rocks I gathered at the beach many months ago. Greg loves to work in the yard–more so than I, but doing it together makes it tolerable and sometimes it’s fun.

We’re all cleaned up and straightened up after the hurricane now. The palapa is finished and the only thing we are waiting for is our friend the painter. He will put lots of marine varnish on it after spraying it with anti-termite stuff. Termites are voracious eaters. Pesky, nasty little varmints who are not welcome in our palapa.

I swept every room in the house and in the process removed a ton of sand. Okay, that’s hyperbole, but it was a lot of sand. And dog hair. And Susie hair. I shook out all the rugs and put everything back and now it looks so nice. Don’t anybody move!

My friend, Julie, is going to go with me to the orphanage soon. She is an art teacher and is going to teach them how to paint animals. In the process, she will be teaching me to paint animals too. We’re gathering our supplies and our courage. Our teacher hearts are going to be very happy playing with those energetic little beings at Hogar del Niño sometime later this week.

I started out a little grumpy this morning, but as the day wore on I got my happy back with my working and playing, planning and dreaming! Hope you have your happy on too!

Now it’s time for a nap. Oh the joys of being old enough to know how delicious a nap can be.

The year: 2008

Me: My shoulder hurts. It hurts all the time and I can’t even open a door it hurts so much.

Husband: You need to see a doctor.

Doctor: You need a total shoulder replacement

Long story short

1. SURGERY–complete shoulder replacement–cobalt chrome humeral ball, a prosthetic rod about 5 inches long, and a plastic socket.

1. Had to have a substitute teacher start my year for me. Ugh.

2. Pain and exercise (some of the pain caused by the exercise, but mostly the surgery)

3. Almost a year later I’m good to go. I retired from teaching June 19th and and then I broke my humerus boogie boarding in San Diego, CA. on August 2, 2009. (The humerus is the bone of the upper arm or forelimb, forming joints at the shoulder and the elbow).

You can see the break right where the rod ends.

Broken humerus–oh well.

1. Couldn’t use my arm for a long time, so my physical therapy went on hold. Not good. Six years later I’m still limited and with pain, but not anywhere near as bad as in the beginning, thank God.

But wait! I didn’t stop there. I broke my foot doing Zumba (so much fun when you have the correct footwear) just before we moved to Mexico. I spent two years with a bum foot, lots of pain and it is all my own fault. I didn’t seek medical care in the first place. Dumb me. Now I have lots of hardware in my foot too. I had what they call a triple arthrodesis…fusion in three places. Now I have one motion–the walking motion: nothing sideways, just up and down. But I can walk without pain now. Whoopee!

I had the surgery done in San Diego, but the follow-up x-rays were taken as I was healing back here in So. Baja. These are photos of the x-rays (which weren’t very good to begin with). But you can get the picture…lots of hardware in my foot.

This isn’t the actual x-ray…it is the photo of the x-ray.

This is a photo of the x-ray and you can see La Paz in it.

A week after surgery.

Now you know why they call me The Bionic Woman. Oh, and not to worry–I do not set off the alarms at the airport.

A favorite song of mine is “One More Day” by Diamond Rio:   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TuE1XJ_uqOs

One more day. For me, today is one more time I play at the beach with my husband and my dog.

It is important to me to appreciate each day–each moment actually. If I can learn to love the not-so-easy days, what my neighbor calls the “bad Mexico days,” I will have the brass ring. And so that is my goal. One more day. Whatever it brings, it’s my day to appreciate.

One more day to love and be loved.

I thought people might like to see some pre and post Hurricane Odile pictures from our house and nearby beaches. Like I’ve said before, the landscapes have changed. It’s encouraging to see how things are coming back already and we have only to wait awhile and we’ll be back to where we were. It’s all good for us. We are having a new palapa built, and doing some things a bit differently of course to make the posts stay up. The actual palapa stayed together really well.

Banana trees  & carport before

Almost grown enough to start producing bananas.

Morning after

Back yard with foxtail palm before

Foxtail palm after

Washingtonian and coco palms before

Washingtonian and coco palms after

Traveler’s palms & areca palm before

Traveler’s palms & areca palm after

Traveler’s palm after

Passion fruit vine “green fence” before

Passion fruit vines after

Los Cerritos beach before

Los Cerritos beach after

The beach in front of our house before

The beach in front of our house the evening before the storm arrived! Sweet, clear ocean water.

The beach in front of our house the morning after! See how dirty the water is.

Oh, and it’s my 68th birthday today. So I’m going to throw in some before and after of me too. I have a hard time looking in the mirror these days, but I am grateful for every day and having another birthday is definitely a blessing. Funny how in my mind I’m still young! Got to stay away from that mirror, so my mind can stay focused on the me it thinks I am. Ha ha! The day after the storm was the 50th high school reunion in San Diego. I did not go, obviously, but I hear it was fun. It might have been nice to see that all those other people are wrinkled and falling apart too. Or maybe not. Anyway, like I said, I am so grateful for each and every day I get to be here. Amen!

My brother, Ronnie, me, and Mom, shortly after my birth.

My birthday at 3 years old, making a goofy face! I’m so excited about my new doll house. (I started out a blond).

I used to be a ballerina!

High School Graduation…brunette years!

Dripping with sweat after a walk. Happy 68th birthday to me.

The last picture is undoubtedly not the most flattering picture of me. So I want you to know it takes a lot of guts to include this. My hair is a mess and I’m not feeling so good with the heat and all. And for those of you who may not know, I do not color my hair. This is what 68 years and high humidity has done to it. 🙂

When you want to get attention from your students, when nobody in your class is listening to you, just lower your voice to a whisper. Look someone right in the eye and begin whispering. It’s your lecture, but now you’re whispering it to someone and suddenly everyone wants to hear what you are saying. As if it is a secret you are only sharing with the one you are making eye contact. Ha ha. Good trick. It only works once or twice with the same raucous crowd though.

I guess most people try to hear others when they are whispering. Whisperers make funny faces when they are trying to be heard only to a choice one or two. They exaggerate their silent words making their mouths look peculiar. Their eyes get big and the animation is amusing. But it’s the whispering that gets the attention first.

Mom and I were whispering to each other in front of Steve, my stepfather, her husband of 30 years. He had Alzheimer’s and we thought he was sleeping. His hospital bed was next to Mom’s normal one. We were able to keep him at home, with visits from the hospice team, and all the meds he needed to be administered by us or the nurse who came regularly. Anyway, we thought he was sleeping. Suddenly he shouted, “What are you two whispering about?” The tone of his voice sounded angry. Actually I don’t even remember what we were whispering about; that’s not the point. We were only trying not to wake him.

It was one of those moments when we were brought down to our foundations regarding the strangeness and the inconsistencies of that horrible condition named after the scientist, Alzheimer. Just as suddenly as my stepdad boomed his question, he was lost in a world we weren’t a part of, never hearing our response, or possibly forgetting he’d even asked the question. Alzheimer’s is a sad and strange way to go. All Mom and I could do was look at each other for relief; just one of the many times we sought solace in each other’s eyes.

But by this time, Steve didn’t even know who we were most of the time. Well, that isn’t altogether true. Sometimes he would call me by name, or something close to my name, but he always remembered who Mom was. He called her “his sweetie.” He would look over at her and smile and say, “Hi Sweetie.” To the end we felt he knew who his sweetie was. They were together when he passed.

It’s such an old tradition to lay the deceased body out for viewing. I don’t know anyone who professes to like this tradition, but it somehow carries on. As people gathered into the “viewing” room, I watched them looking uncomfortable as they timidly went to the casket. Or maybe it was my own feeling of unease that I projected onto their demeanors.

I made my own way over eventually ready to say goodbye and I stood staring at the ghost of Steve who was in the casket. We had him in his favorite red shirt and his turquoise tie he loved so much (see picture), and because he always carried his glasses in a case in his front shirt pocket, we tucked them in as well. It’s obvious that the “real” Stevie wasn’t there, but I repeated the farewell I’d given him when he was sleeping in his hospital bed in his own bedroom two months before: “Thank you for loving and caring for my mother, for being a wonderful stepdad, and such a loving and fun grandfather to my boys.” Touching his arm, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, leaned in and whispered, “I love you, Stevie, and I’ll miss you.”

Stevie and me, a very long time ago…

I’ve been sober since April of 1979, which is a little over 35 years. Sometimes I feel angry, resentful, and bitter about being the one person in a group who can’t have a drink. I dislike parties. It isn’t any fun to be around people who have had a few too many. I don’t know why I sometimes get resentful. Succumbing to the Devil (alcohol) has never done anything good for me. That’s why I quit. It was either alcohol or me, and I wanted desperately to win. So, like I said, it’s been over 35 years since I’ve had any alcohol. I don’t even take Niquil. 

Remembering the things I did that make me ashamed brings on Guilt. (I’ve capitalized guilt because it is almost like a person to me). I don’t dwell on Guilt very often anymore, but when I do, the struggle is sometimes overwhelming. Then Depression comes to call. It gets ugly. However, I am tough, and I will not allow the Devil, Guilt or Depression to win. And besides, most of the time I am happy and satisfied with myself and my life. But once in a while…

I know. I know. I’m not a drinker any longer. I’ve been sober for a longer time than I was a drunk. A therapist once told me to think of it this way, “This happened. Now what?”

I wrote the following piece almost four years ago. We’d only been living in Baja for a month. Today I am feeling a lot better. I haven’t had a bout like this one since the day I penned this. 

…………….

12-8-2010

Let’s face it. Math is not easy for me, and I have struggled with it forever.  But fighting my way through math problems seems trite and inconsequential when I consider the many times I have entered the ring to combat my own demons. In a whirl of my own fists, and the tangle of my own limbs, I am clawing at my heart. Repeatedly, I tear myself down, only to fill my lungs with breath enough to force my legs to stand again. Certainly, I have come out stronger for having this combat with myself, but I am so exhausted with the energy it takes, and I want to lead myself down the hallway to a safer place.

Okay, slow down. Take it easy. But it’s just not that simple and sometimes I don’t know how to slow down or take it easy.  What I know how to do, what I have always done, is to close my eyes, imagine digging a big hole, and burying whatever the hell it is that’s bothering me.  Put it neatly down into that pit. How nice. No need to wrap it up, or put a bow on it. Just toss it down the hole and forget it. It tumbles down so easily. Now cover it with the dirt from the hole and the job is done. Out of sight, out of mind.

As I brush the imaginary muck from my hands, I know I will be back to dig it up later when I least expect to be there. The timing is always wrong. Oh yes, I’ll go down there and get it again and the fighting with myself will start all over— when I should be living happily ever after, licking the ice cream that’s running down the cone.  You’d think that after all these years, all these crazy, upside down years, I’d learn. Instead, my theme song has been, “Beat my head against the wall, do dah, do dah,” and I’m just getting better at carrying that tune!

While I try to make some sense of all this, I remember a time in junior high when I saw Psycho. It was a shocking movie for its time. I remember one scene so vividly. I watch the crazed arm that holds the knife. I see it slash the woman in the shower, and terrified, I stare at the blood pool as it flows into the drain. The poor woman grabs the white shower curtain and slides down so slowly into the tub. The movie is in black and white, but her blood pours red. I see it. It swear it is red.

The horror of this scene stayed with me, and like many others who saw it, I was too frightened to take a shower for a long time after that. Only a bath would do. Every noise, real or imagined, sent my heart pounding and I just knew he was coming after me. There is something pure and simple about fright like that. It’s there, it’s horrible, and it is hard to take. But, it’s not real, and you know it. The awful fright fades, finally leaves, and you can breathe again.  The relief of it being over feels so good. Or is it over? When I least expect it, something triggers that memory and I’m in junior high at the movies again.

This is how it is with my hole-digging and demon-burying ritual. Something will trigger a memory and I’m once again visiting that hole where my devil is a coward hiding in a bottle. “Come. Swallow me. You know you want me,” he whispers. I see the promise in his eyes and feel the warmth of his elixir on my lips. Again and again, I am living with the memory of those dark days when I was a drunk, in a hell of my own making.

And so it was that the first five years of sobriety were the hardest. My burden then was to bury my demon every day. Surprisingly, Guilt served a useful purpose at first. But soon His demands also became unbearable. The longer I avoided the devil’s liquid lies, the stronger was Guilt’s hold. Once a proud and reliable talisman, he became my worst tormenter. I became obsessed with this irony. I’ve been digging them up, my demons. I keep revisiting the awful truth, the pain, the guilt, and the experience becomes so real to me. I want to stop myself. Dig an even bigger hole and bury my burden of guilt deeper still.  It’s all so ludicrous to be fighting myself this way.

Sitting in the Baja sun, feeling the breeze against my face, this breeze that tosses my grey hair into my eyes and mouth, I imagine my life without the dance at the edge of all those holes. Surely, my original assertion—I’ve learned and grown stronger in direct relation to those many bouts—is my own bitter, sweet truth. It is my truth to embrace, to wrap around my shoulders, a truth to relish as I once relished my own youth.

Putting an end to my insane ceremonial, cerebral act is the reward I seek. I must be strong enough to satisfy purposeful growth while rallying enough magic to eliminate such powerful and debilitating hurt. After all, this is the game of my own making. I long for the courage to change the rules. Guilt, the most fearful and powerful of all my torments, is residing in my one remaining hole, and it is my very own arm that holds the knife that haunts me.

Sitting on the beach with the reflection of the gold hotel on the water, I beg the sun to bake into my heart an understanding and acceptance so sweet that I may stand taller and move with the quickness and strength required to dig up the worst of my demons, face him, fight him, and walk away to claim victory. I seek redemption. Every night, in the quiet time before I succumb to sleep, the question hovers in the doorway: Will these self-inflicted wounds forever bleed? Looking down, I see blood swirling at my feet, and I reach desperately for the white curtain to break my fall.