Sucker Punch

I have recognized that I am going through grief from Bill's and Dad's deaths. Both deaths were expected on many levels. In many ways both deaths made my life easier. That, I also recognize, doesn't exempt me from grief. I say that I am experiencing a subtle undercurrent of sadness. I wasn't very interested in doing the outdoor activities with the family during my first few days in Idaho. I thought maybe when my other sister arrived, I would have the desire to go riding and hiking with her. She's fun. She's always been great company for me. I thought she'd pull me out of my shell. On the morning, the caravan was supposed to head up to Idaho, my little sister posted on Facebook that she and her daughter just had the first of 8 mother/daughter days together. I thought nothing of it. I figured she'd promised her daughter 8 days during the year during which they would do special things together. Nice mother/daughter bonding gift, I thought. Another nice example of my naivete. This was her way of letting us all know neither she nor her daughter were coming to Idaho. Kyle spelled it out for me later that day. And the sudden, shock of that 'news' hurt me in a way I didn't know I could be hurt. That pain drove deep into me. I thought I wouldn't be able to absorb it. I hadn't known I could be hurt so badly---or that anyone so close to me would, or could, do something that would cause me so much pain. This was my younger sister letting Beth---and me---know she was still angry, that she couldn't do the trip to Idaho again, that she was no farther along in recovering from her 'issues' than she was two years ago. This was a situation where she was just not going to show up and her husband and sons would have to bring her lame excuses to us. "Don't insult my intelligence with your lies," I wanted to say. "It's bad enough to know what has just happened. It needs no explanation. It's as clear as day. Please don't further hurt me by lying to me. Remember, I'm smart." I thought my little sister was better. In fact, we had gone over to her house on Sunday and had had a nice time. My sister was out running around. She had had her cold for over three days and she was 'almost over it'. Her husband came in Beth's and made the lame excuse that Sue wasn't well and didn't feel she could do the trip. I didn't confront him on the lie. I felt sorry he was in the position to deliver it; I gave him the benefit of the doubt of not really believing it himself. I know this wasn't directed at me. I know this is Sue's stuff, and I am beginning to believe she'll never get over it. She has let her idea that she was not loved, not wanted, ignored and unappreciated, mold the adult she has become. She's not going to get over that. It doesn't matter how many therapists she sees, how many books she publishes, how many motivational speaking engagement she gets, or how many stand-up routines she does. She's never going to get over it. And maybe the last three years of my life and the recent deaths have left me more fragile than I knew. Until my little sister decided not to show up for the holidays and left her husband and boys to deliver the lie. Her youngest even asked us to pray for his mother's health in church today. Sad. Sad. Sad. I don't know how I will react to my sister the next time she tries to contact me. For the time being, I won't answer her phone calls. I can't play the game where she tells me she wasn't feeling well and I graciously accept the story.

Arriving for Christmas

The trip to Beth's could have been a tame version of Planes, Trains and Automobiles. We spent three days in transit. The final leg is always done with a stop at Cabela's in Post Falls. The rest usually involves a stop at the grocery store but this time we needed to go to get some baby snow boots and a walker in Sandpoint. The only 'must' is to arrive at Beth's before dusk. And dusk comes by 4:00 p.m. They live in a wildlife corridor, and the animals are always looking for food from dusk until morning. It's easy to hit them. I found that honking will help get them off the road but they are unpredictable in their approaches to crossing the road. We got there at 3:15. There were five people there already. We spent Christmas with them. It was good to be there on Christmas again. We had only been there once before on Christmas morning. Our two other siblings and their families were supposed to start caravaning up to Idaho on the morning of the 27th.

Getting to Idaho

This year I had bought tickets to Idaho for the holidays with my family. We go on even years now. Every year was too much for Beth's family and, after the last trip and the sudden and unexpected fireball from our other sister, it didn't feel like all the work was worth it. I had agreed. Last year we stayed at home; it was tough for me. We entertained Kyle's recently widowed grandfather and autistic uncle. It was an okay time but it didn't satisfy me. There's nothing like being with my siblings and their families for Christmas and New Year's. For me the trips to Idaho have been the best ways to celebrate the holidays since I was a kid. Our trip was slightly complicated because Kyle had promised Sue's family he could get them a large four-wheel drive SUV from his friend who is a manager at a local car rental agency. 'So I made airline reservations to fly out of the airport nearest Sue's. When we went to get the car, the fellow had forgotten and we got a two-wheel drive. Sue didn't need that. We knew this would be a possibility. There are very few four-wheel drive vehicles in our area, and they were all gone. On our drive up we got a text from Sue saying she was ill. We decided it wouldn't be wise to stay with her family. Laura, Kyle and the baby had all been sick with colds thaat week and, with supressed immune systems, no one needed exposure to fresh viruses. We stayed at Beth's. Kyle said he had a funny feeling, like maybe Sue's family would cancel out of the trip altogether. We drove the rental we had and left it at the car rental return at the airport. This was Day 2 and we were flying to Idaho. We got to our destination at almost 11:00 p.m. We picked up a car for the drive to Beth's. It wouls take us almost three hours and there would be snow. It was snowing heavily as our plane had touched down and we wanted the safest car available for traveling in snowstorms with a baby. I ended up getting a four-wheel drive Explorer. It's a beautiful, red one with all the bells and whistles. I had made reservations at a local motel for the night. The place I had liked so much the last time I had stayed overnight was nowhere to be found on the internet. I have since discovered that motels in that area change hands frequently. As we sped by the one I had liked, I saw that it was now a Comfort Inn. Wish I had known.

Allowing Help

With Bill's estate still unsettled, my driveway full of his stuff, and now Dad's death, I was starting to feel overwhelmed. There was so much minutiae on so many levels. And then there was all that stuff! Dad's stuff, Bill's stuff. It was everywhere. I didn't know what to do with it. In expressing condolences, one friend had suggested our book and Bible study come over and help pack things for me. My first inclination was to politely decline. Then I thought how challenging cleaning out and ridding myself of things is. I waited several days and then took her up on her offer. Our book group was meeting two days later. We discussed it. I told them I would have coffee and donuts for them. I said nine a.m. to noon. I needed a plan. Keep it simple; don't overdo it: empty Dad's dresser and closet, and clean the driveway of Bill's clothes and household goods. By the time Saturday rolled around I had lists for everyone as well as boxes for prescriptions, medical supplies, glasses and wristwatches. I also gave everyone a list of lost items I hoped we could find. I was prepared. They showed up. Three people came from church, Laura and Carmi were here, and six ladies came from the book group. By noon, the job was done. I felt an enormous load had been lifted off of me. I will be forever grateful to these people for their help. The job would have been more than I could have handled if I had attempted it any time within the next four months. I am tremendously relieved. Carmi agreed to stay at the house and wait for the truck from the donation center to come by, load and haul off everything while I drove Laura and KJ back to their apartment. The truck didn't arrive until almost 2:30. We were just about their last stop as they finished the circuit of pick-ups that would lead them back to the thrift store. The driver was tired and in a bad mood. He didn't want to take anything. I had been told that whatever they picked up would be at the driver's discretion. Carmi pleaded with the driver's assistant. These were really good items, she said, and the rain was coming soon and would destroy them all if they were left outside. Something she said touched the assistant's heart, and they loaded almost all. What little was left, I loaded in my car. I will stop by the store this week to drop them off and pick up the receipts for my taxes. I had typed up a note asking for certain receipts. I know the law. I know what I need when I file my taxes. The driver gave something to Carmi and said it was all I needed. He lied, of course. But the day had been a success and I was content.

With Beth Here

For the next three days Beth and I powered through a long list of tasks. We called friends and family, we read through Dad's trust notebook, we opened his safety deposit box and went through many items in his room. On the phone, we learned there were three, not two, insurance policies with one company. There was a small policy with another. We unearthed evidence of an annuity which explained why Dad was getting a monthly deposit from that company. The annuity was guaranteed for life, no matter how long he lived. Chances are it was exhausted long ago. We realized Dad hadn't known his mother's middle name. Who knows? Maybe she didn't have one. We found copies of his birth certificate in his safe deposit box and then we learned we'd need them for certain paperwork----more evidence of incredible organization. Beth was enormously helpful. By the time she left on Tuesday evening, our list had been whittled down. Laura came over to help and had colored Beth's hair with very positive results. I got Beth to the airport in plenty of time. For her, having Dad so far away made this easier to accept. She was prepared for his death. There were no tears. There was no surprise. The missing won't be as vivid as she wasn't used to having him around.

Incredibly Well-Organized

The love of my father's life died suddenly and unexpectedly in early 1973. My father grieved heavily and found that having to make 'arrangements' during this time was extraordinarily painful. To protect his family from the same fate, Dad went out the next month and made and paid for all of the arrangements for his body. He was, at that time, fifty-two years old. Did he have any idea those plans would not have to be put in place for almost another forty years? Beth flew down on Sunday, arrived at noon, and we went to the funeral home. Dad had even prepaid for six death certificates. For over thirty-nine years, the funeral home had been earning interest on the money he gave them. However, since the cost of death certificates had gone up $6 a piece over that time, they had to charge me the difference in price: $55.65. Another person would have squawked, refused to pay the difference, and would have reminded them how much they had probably made on the original investment for thirty-nine years. Beth and I decided not to. It wasn't enough money for us to get upset. I was surprised, though, that death certificates in our county now cost $14 each. They would call me when the cremains and the death certificates were in. It might take ten days or so.

Later That Morning

Sue had only slept one hour Friday night. In anticipation of the drive here, she had downed three cups of coffee. Once in bed, she was unable to sleep and spent most of the night reading. She went to take a nap when we got home from the hospital so she'd be awake enough to drive back to finish off her anniversary weekend with her husband. A friend came over and sat with me for an hour or so. Carmi came by. She was crying, her face was swollen. She was feeling guilty because Dad had asked her not to leave him Friday. She had said she needed to see her doctor because she was worried about her blood sugar levels and her cholesterol. As it turned out, they were high as was her weight, her doctor was running very late, and she waited a long time for the pharmacy to fill her prescriptions. Although her appointment had been scheduled for 8:30 a.m., she hadn't returned to the HCC until after noon. When she got there, Dad's fever was raging, and the relief person hadn't notified the HCC personnel in time. He had been checking Dad for a fever by pressing his hand against Dad's cheek. Another example of that person's enormous ineptitude. About a week before this, Dad's doctor had warned me that if the relief caregiver wasn't more on top of things, he'd kill my dad. Carmi had asked me if I would keep the guy on as long as Dad was in a medical facility. Against my better judgement, I agreed. I just didn't think he could have done anything so negligent in that environment with the safety nets they had in place. I was wrong and I'll have to live with that. Laura and Kyle arrived later Saturday morning. I started making phone calls. Beth was in transit from being up in northern Idaho and was returning home. She arranged to stay the night at her daughter's near the airport while her husband continued home. What was I feeling then? I couldn't identify it. I was numb. I can't say I was surprised; Dad was 92 and he had been fighting this pneumonia for over seven weeks. His health had been going downhill for a good six to eight months. There was a part of me that was relieved he didn't have to fight anymore. There was a part of me that was glad he wasn't going to have to suffer any further indignities to his body. He had been so ill so many times, and I had gotten used to the trips back and forth to the hospital. During the week or so he had become unable to speak clearly. The feeding tube he'd been given on his 92nd birthday had been an assault to both his physical and mental being. This death on this day could have been avoided, but I believe we would only have been able to postpone the inevitable a few more days. The intervals between hospital visits were getting shorter and shorter, and the antibiotics were less and less effective. This time he had been off the antibiotics only a matter of hours before his fever had returned. Later, talking to a friend whose father had also been a daughter, she said, "My dad always said pneumonia was an old person's friend because it would take them out." That is certainly true.

That Saturday Morning

The ICU is on a floor that gently curves along the south side of the hospital's second floor. The north wall of each room is about fifteen feet long and completely glass with sliding glass doors that must be over eight feet wide. Each room also has a curtain that can be pulled across the length of the room. I stepped outside the room. The door was slid open and the nurse had posted herself there at a rolling desk. Dad's body was lying there. It was now almost 8:30 a.m. At about 7:15 a.m. I had noticed the color in his face changing. Starting from the neck, it was blanching, and I recognized that this must be the sign that death was moving up his body. I knew he was gone then. He had no more color. He was no longer there. So many times during the evening and then again that morning, Sue and I had looked at him and commented on how ironic this was. He was dying exactly the same way our mother had died thirty one years ago, on a ventilator in a coma with dilated eyes and unable to speak to us. He was dying of the same cause: septic shock. It was eerie. It took me back those thirty one years. I had hoped I would never be in that situation again, that I would never have to watch another person die under those same circumstances. This was sad but I didn't feel robbed like I had when my mother had died. She was so young, 53. She hadn't seen a grandchild yet. She hadn't resolved so many things in her life. She had been devastated by her father's death two years before and had lost her way. He had been her rock, her strength, her confidante, and her rescuer. Without him she hadn't known how to reset the course of her life. But it was different with Dad. I hadn't been robbed. He was old. His body was breaking down. The only problem was that his mind wasn't deteriorating in step with his body. He was out of his pain and frustration. I still felt strange leaving him. I had an empty feeling. Was I abandoning him? Shouldn't I sit with him until they came to take him away? Did the nurse need me out of there because she had something she needed to do? A man came in and started taking the ventilation tube out of his throat. That did it. I was NOT going to watch that. I left.

5:00

I fell asleep at about 1:00 a.m. Dad had beaten death so many times in his life. It seemed incomprehensible to me that he would succumb now. My phone rang at 5:00 a.m. It was the nurse. His heartbeat was getting slower and slower and more and more irregular. If I wanted to see him, I had better come on over. "How much time do I have?" I asked. "Not much. Be careful on the streets." I jumped in the shower. I hadn't bathed in quite some time. I was stinky. I slapped shampoo on the crown of my head. I rubbed. It didn't budge. This wouldn't do. I figured I had better do it right. No matter what happened, it was going to be a long day and I didn't need to smell bad on top of everything else. It's funny how such a simple thing like shampooing your hair, an easy almost mindless little task, can seem so perplexing when you're under such stress. Would I make it to the hospital before my dad passed? Would this tussle with the shampoo be the reason I'm not at my dad's side for his last moment of life? I woke Sue and she was ready to go in what seemed like thirty seconds. She drove. I don't remember where we parked. We went to the room. The nurse said she could only feel a pulse in the femoral artery but it was still definitely there, getting weaker all the time. I talked to him. Again, I told him it was okay to go. We didn't want him to suffer. We knew he was in pain. We knew he was afraid. It's okay to go, Dad. It's okay. You've fought so hard for so long. It's okay to let go. You're going to a better place. We'll be fine. We'll be okay. You can go now. Be free. As the nurses changed shifts they told us we could stay in the room; they wouldn't kick us out like they do when ICU shifts change. They usually kick visitors out from 7:00 until 8:30. Both a.m. and p.m. The new nurse couldn't detect a pulse. The old nurse could find one in the femoral artery. They called the charge nurse. The first time the charge nurse could feel the pulse in the femoral artery. Several minutes later, he couldn't. It felt a little strange to have the nurses arguing in front of us, one saying there was a pulse, the other saying there wasn't. Susan and Beth. Their names were Susan and Beth. And so are my only two sisters. Susan and Beth not agreeing. How familiar that sounds. At 7:45 a doctor I had met in the ER came in. "If you can't feel a pulse in the artery closest to the heart, the chances are the heart is no longer working and you are only feeling the impulses caused by the ventilator." He pronounced Dad dead at 7:46 a.m. We stayed on. I don't remember what we did. I don't remember if I signed anything. He was dead. What was I to do? The nurse said, "You can leave him now." It felt so strange. Just leaving him there. Dead. It had been a long, long life. He had far out-lived any other male member of his family. He had lived life, for the most part, on his own terms and the way he wanted to live. He had had enough money and time to do the things he loved. He had traveled, he had loved, he had bought what he wanted and lived where he wanted. He had escaped the oppression of the village in Ohio where he had found his childhood stifling, where he had lost his mother at 10, where he had changed tires and pumped gas at his strict German father's filling station, where he had played high school basketball and graduated second in a class of 17, where he had decided to commit his life to medicine, and where he had tried to hide his true identity. He was now gone from this world and, ironically, his remains will soon lie in the family plot, in the last space in that plot, next to his mother, his father, his sister and his ancestors, in that little village he ran from so many years ago. By choice, that will be his final resting place.

Susie

Laura and I retrieved my car from the HCC parking and went to the bank. I had asked her to drive me home. I knew I wasn't up to the task. I had known that when she had called me early in the afternoon, before Dad had gone to the ER, and she had agreed. As we pulled out of the bank, my phone rang. "Where are you? I'm here." It was Sue, my little sister. "Where?" "At the hospital. By the ER." "We'll be right there. We've just left." Laura dropped me off and headed home in my car. Sue and I went back into the ICU to be with Dad. Sue went in and talked to the nurse. She went to Dad. She stroked his arms. She checked his legs, his arms, his sides. He was bruised from so many IV's. He was thin and frail. I hadn't seen all of his bruises. Then the nurse asked me if I wanted to see the photos. The hospital takes photos of all the patients when they are moved up to the ICU. He had so many bruises. I knew the blood-thinners caused him to bruise easily but I hadn't realized how much these trips to the hospital had done to his body, the pokings and proddings, the IV's and whatnot. Then the nurse showed me a very bad mark on his tailbone area. How did he get it? Had he tried to get out of bed and fallen? Had one of the caregivers not told me because they felt they had not done their job? Had they been asleep when he had tried to get out of bed? Did they feel guilty? Had the idiot agreed to help him walk to the bathroom again after I had specifically told him not to, only to have Dad fall in the process? It's too late now. It didn't cause his death. Sue leaned in close to his ear. "Hi, Jim. It's Sue, Donna's youngest daughter. I'm here with Cindy...." She continued speaking to him in a sweet, low, comforting voice. I wonder what she said. Did she thank him for being there for her at some of the times when her own father wasn't? Did she tell him everything was going to be okay? Not to be afraid? Did she say something about God? Or about forgiveness? I didn't ask her then. Maybe I will when I see her at Christmas. During the whole time after he was resuscitated, I only saw him do one thing. Once. Once he licked his lips. His mouth had been so dry the last week. I had brought petroleum jelly and lip balm to the hospital. His lips had become chapped. The idiot had decided to put wet lip swabs on them. I told him, perhaps not in my nicestvoice, that you don't treat chapped lips with water. How did that man manage to raise FIVE children without killing them? I don't know. Maybe he started with fifteen and only five survived. That would make sense. Sue was so comfortable with this setting and with Dad's condition. She was a paramedic for fifteen years and an EMT for many years before that. It is part of her domain, not out of her comfort zone. She would have not felt lost during Code Blue in ER Number 8. I was so glad to have her with me then. The nurse asked if I wanted to be called if he started making a turn during the night. I said yes. We went home about an hour later.

Post CPR

Later a woman introduced herself to me. She said she was the head nurse, that they had been able to revive him, that his vitals were returning, his color was back, and they were impressed. Aha! I thought. He has cheated death once more! She said they were going to clean him up and move him to a larger bay in the ER. I went out to the waiting room. Laura and Kyle were arriving. Kyle looked pretty rundown from his wild birthday party, and they had the baby with them. Carmi had called David, and her friend, Gail, was there as well. David arrived. The first of the known doctors to arrive was the cardiologist, the man who, no matter how old or incapacitated Dad had become, always treated him with the regard of a highly-esteemed colleague, the man who the ICU nurse had said had saved patient after patient from death from congestive heart failure, the man who my dad trusted far more than any other doctor. He found me and said, "This doesn't look good. This looks really, really bad. They spent almost twenty-five minutes reviving him. His lungs are full of crud. He has a raging infection and his body is in septic shock. He has about a one in a million chance of recovering from this. I've known your dad for thirty five years. He wouldn't want this for himself." "I know. You're right. I was really surprised last week when the doctor asked me to ask him if he wanted chest compressions, intubation and paddles, and he said yes. I think maybe it was fear. His health care directives say he doesn't want heroics. He even wrote that if he's in a reversible condition that he wanted to be let go gently and comfortably." "I'm going to write that if he goes into cardiac arrest again that they don't do CPR. He probably has a couple of broken ribs from this as it is. If he makes it through the night we'll put him on comfort care in the morning. We'll keep him out of pain. We'll stop the meds and put him on morphine." "Yes, I understand. I think you're right. He wouldn't want this again." I visited Dad over and over again in that ER bay. His eyes were half-open. His pupils were dilated. He was on a ventilator. I knew that look. That's how my mom looked. Non-responsive. Not really there. We all went in to see him. I held his hands. We all held his hands. David came out shaking his head. "It's no good. He's gone." By 8:30 p.m. they moved him up to the ICU. They were wonderfully attentive. In that unit each nurse has two patients: one in great need of attention, and the other in fairly good shape and ready to be moved to a less intense ward. Dad's nurse was a woman about my age with spiked platinum hair about an inch long and a slight hint of dark roots. She wasn't a punker; she had adopted this hairstyle to combat thinning hair. Good for her! Be courageous. Make a statement! Laura and I stayed in the room for a couple of hours. Kyle was unhappy. He needed to sleep. We left a little after ten.

Code Blue in ER Number 8

I guess when you work in an ER, you learn to keep your cool in the face of any medical emergency. The intake nurse worked efficiently but didn't seem to look the least bit rushed. We were sent to a small room, number 8. By then Carmi and I were with Dad. He didn't look good. Over the past seven weeks, the intervals between the reemergences of his pneumonia had become shorter and shorter. This time they had barely stopped the IV antibiotics before his fever had returned. He was in pain. He was frightened. He had been looking at me to help him. And the delays with the doctor and now the ER admittance had felt like they had taken hours. I held his hand. I told him it was hard for us to watch him suffer. We didn't want him to be in pain, we didn't want him to suffer, and we didn't want him to be afraid. I told him please don't be afraid. I said that God loved him and was waiting for him and that he didn't need to fight anymore and he didn't need to worry. He was loved. He was forgiven. It was okay I said. You can go. Go home. Nurses came in. One said, "Sir. Sir? Can you hear me?" Then to the other nurse, "Call for the crash cart." She placed the palms of her hands on Dad's sternum. Then she looked at me. "Does he want this?" "Yes," I said. "He does." I stepped into the hall. I covered my eyes. I did not want to see that. I did not want the memory of my father, my elegant, sophisticated father, being thumped and jumped and defibrilated to be the last thing I saw of him. I fought not to see it or mentally conjure it. I heard the call go out over the loudspeaker, "Code Blue in ER Number 8." Then again, "Code Blue in ER Number 8." They didn't sound frantic. But the personnel descended on little ER Number 8. They didn't come loudly with crash carts clanging and running feet pounding on the linoleum. They came swiftly and silently like an owl flying in the night. Instantly the room was crowded with medical personnel. I went into the next room. It was small, dark, empty. Hospital stark. I sat on the lone metal chair, stuffed my fingers in my ears, pinched my eyes shut, and cried like a helpless child. I rocked back and forth. I had never seen my father frightened before that day. I had never felt so incapable. And my kneejerk reaction was that I had let my father down. I hadn't been able to see him on Thursday and I hadn't understood the intensity of his distress that Friday morning. I hadn't known that the stupid caregiver, the one I had told Carmi to fire, the one I subconsciously and unwillingly thought of as the 'village idiot', had been in charge of him that morning.I had let my father down. He had trusted me, and I had let him down. A woman came to comfort me. She introduced herself as Kathy. Did I want a glass of water? Yes. She left. She returned. I had water. She disappeared. I didn't want to hear. I didn't want to see. I wanted this not to be happening.

Distress

As I started my workday, I received a text from Carmi. Dad had begun to run a fever during the night. He had been on antibiotics until Wednesday. I had seen him twice that day. On my second visit, I had felt his forehead and asked him if he thought he was running a fever. He said no. I trusted his judgment and anyway, he had just come off antibiotics only a few hours before. I knew Carmi had a doctor's appointment on Friday morning and that she would relieve the other caregiver as soon as her appointment was over. Dad's fever had been 104 during the night. As it turns out, Carmi's doctor ran over two hours late, and the medications that were prescribed for her took a long time to fill. She didn't get back to the Health Care Center (HCC) until after noon. I got there right after 1:00. The idiot relief caregiver had not notified the nurses that Dad's fever was returning. In fact, when the nurses had asked him, he had only pressed his hand against Dad's cheek to check, and then he told the nurses he didn't think there was any fever. In the meantime, the temperature continued to rise. By the time I arrived, they had discovered this raging fever, and he had ice packs jammed in Dad's armpits, in his groin and around his neck. They had given Dad Tylenol and had called the doctor. Unfortunately, Dad's primary physician was on vacation, and the doctor covering his calls was not responding. Carmi had gone to the nurse's station asking for a doctor. I went to the nurse's station twice. They said the doctor was seeing patients at the hospital. I said this was urgent. Then my cell rang. It was my youngest sister returning my call from last Sunday. I told her my dad was in distress. I was starting to cry. She asked if I needed her because, unbeknownst to me, she was just two hours away, celebrating her 20th wedding anniversary. I said yes. She is medically brilliant and she is great in a crisis. Then Laura called, and I told her the same thing. She headed on over. A few minutes later, the HCC administrator came into the room and said he had taken it on himself to call the doctor. He said that man had a colleague here who was in immediate need of medical attention and if the doctor couldn't get over to the HCC right now, he needed to send an ambulance to take my dad to the ER. I had only met this administrator once, he was new to the HCC since Dad had been there last. I was so grateful. An ambulance showed up. The EMT's invited me to ride with them. They made a U-turn right there on 20th Street and headed the block and a half to the hospital. As we rode, I gave them Dad's medical history. Arriving at the ER, someone had parked their Prius right where the ambulances park! Wow, someone has quite a sense of entitlement! Once in the ER doors, we had to wait for the intake nurse to finish with another patient from another ambulance. All the while I felt Dad slipping away. He had recognized me when I had arrived at the HCC. He had tried to say something to me but he could only move his mouth. No sound came out. I had noticed this inability to speak growing over the past week. He had also been sleeping a lot. I wondered, and I still do, what he had been trying to say. Now I'll never know.

Thursday

Kyle turned 25 on Wednesday the 14th. Laura had to coach that evening so she said she'd take him out to celebrate on Friday but she gave him his gift on Wednesday. She planned, though, to have a surprise dinner party for him at Benihana's on Thursday evening. She had invited his dad, his siblings, his cousin from Long Beach, and several co-workers. Laura and Kyle would drop by the house, I would mention what a great happy hour they had at Benihana's and that the free birthday dinners there were only good from Monday through Thursday. Laura would suggest they go right then, and I would volunteer to take care of the baby. That all happened as planned. Since Dad was in the Health Care Center now, I didn't worry about how late I would go to visit him. If Laura and Kyle got back at 8:30 or 9:00, I'd go over and see Dad for a while and then get home to be in bed by 11:00 because I was scheduled to teach until 1:00 p.m. on Friday, a minimum day. Laura and Kyle didn't get home until after 10:30, and by then I was ready for bed. Even running into his cousin in the parking lot and seeing his brother on the sidewalk hadn't tipped Kyle off to the surprise party. When they got to the happy hour, 10 people were there to celebrate with him. It went off beautifully. Kyle had lost count of the shots he'd had upstairs at happy hour. The party had migrated down to the restaurant where everyone ate dinner complete with chefs twirling giant knives and throwing eggs in their pockets and nesting them in their hats. The food and drink flowed freely, and Kyle was blissfully, obnoxiously drunk by the time they got to my place. They spent the night out in my guest house. Early the next morning, after Laura and I had had coffee and Kyle had purged himself of all of the prior evening's imbibings, we headed off to our respective jobs.

This Post is NOT for the Feint-Hearted

This is a Monday post. Think of the worst Monday you've ever had and then put it on steroids. That is today. Last night my biggest worry was how to access Season 3 of Downton Abbey. Today that is nothing. I'll get right to it. Laura and Kyle couldn't get the baby to my house before work because Kyle left their apartment with the baby before Laura realized she didn't have her car keys. Kyle had to go back which cost him the time he needed to get the baby to my house. I had to go get him and got stuck in ridiculous traffic. I literally crawled to their office. Someone's Bmer had broken down at one of the busiest intersections in the city. When I got there, the office was in turmoil. Someone had decided to shuffle everyone's workspace. Laura no longer has a private office. She is in a larger space she shares with another worker. It is also the place where all the files are kept, and people are constantly going in there to access them. The married couple who used to work in that room with another guy have been moved out and separated. That's too bad because they really worked well together. The supervisor who is in charge of the apartment building where Laura and Kyle live had fired off a barrage of emails trying to get Kyle fired because Kyle is asking for improvements at the building. Kyle was volunteering to quit when I came in. Laura was stressed out. She and I left through the back door. The baby screamed all the way home. He would only stop if I held his binky in his mouth while I drove. I chose screaming bloody murder over risking an accident. When I got home my foreign exchange student was still there. She had skipped her classes that started at 9:00 a.m. She was sitting at the table, exactly where she was when I left to get the baby. Her head was down. She was crying. Her girlfriend had broken up with her. Dad was wheezing and gasping for breath. I have never heard him like that. His chest was heaving. He could barely talk. It broke my heart. I put my arm around him and sat with him while Carmi pulled her car up next to the house. We helped him into the wheelchair and then took him out to the car. I had spoken to two of his doctors and they both agreed that it was time to go to the ER again. The sweet side of my dad is something I have always been able to access. We have had a closeness over the years most of my friends have envied. So many of them had huge distances between themselves and their fathers. I was able to talk about almost anything with my dad. Except sex. I didn't talk about sex with my dad; that was just too creepy for me. But we could talk for hours. I accepted his relationships; he accepted mine. We could discuss politics, race, religion, work, secrets, indiscretions, money and whatnot. I spared him most details about Bill's gambling and how Laura had tortured me during her 'difficult' years, and there were things he spared me. The last few years have been hard on us. I saw the side of him that had always bothered other people but not me. I wasn't able to slough it off like I used to. I saw how his criticisms cut others to the quick, and I was unable to sway him to channel Grandma instead of Grandpa. Those were the grim realities that tarnished us but, through it all, I worked hard to remember that as we age, we lose our social filters, and move into an insidious, slow-evolving form of dementia. And sadly, because I have the baby today and Laura and Kyle's lives may be changing as well, I can't go to the hospital with Carmi. The blessing now is that KJ feel into a long, peaceful, much-needed nap without any resistance, and I am able to write this.

I've Held Off but Now I'm Really Upset

For weeks now I have resisted the urge to write a political rant. I get very charged up every four years. I was absolutely stoked in 2008 when Obama won. I felt that the eight-year-reign-of-evil had finally come to an end. It was akin to the feeling I had when Clinton became president---and that one ended a twelve-year-reign-of-evil, one in which a "tax reform" had amounted to me losing all of the write-offs related to my work. Both times I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I thought Reagan was the worst president we'd ever, ever had. Not only did I lose my write-offs, the economy was in shambles when he left office. Then I looked back through U.S. history and saw that starting with Herbert Hoover and the Great Depression, every single time the economy had tanked, it had been with a Republican president at the helm. The only possible exception to that was the Carter Administration when interest rates and inflation went nuts. Republicans have a habit of deregulating concerns that should stay regulated. Then something happens in either banking or on Wall Street and some greedy rich guys pull a fast one, a fast one that would have been prevented had the regulations not been 'de'regulated. That's one part of my rant. But today, in church, I had it. I absolutely had it. I almost got up and walked out. Geeeeezzzz, sometimes some Christians can be sooooo stupid and shallow. Since my father has been ill, I haven't been obliged to take him to his church. Actually, it's my church, too, but I have long since given up on getting anything out of it. I call it The Incredibly Shrinking Congregation, and the message has been so watered-down that all I walk away with is 'God Loves You'. I know that already. The last couple of months have afforded me the opportunity to go looking for a new church. I have been visiting one church the last four weeks. I like the pastor; he's dynamic and his sermons are Bible-based. I like the music; it speaks to me and it's well-done. This morning the pastor was supposed to start a series of sermons on Joseph. But instead, he told us he had decided to put off the series on Joseph for another week, and this morning he wanted to talk about voting. Even though he said he wasn't going to tell us who to vote for, he told us who to vote for. And I left the service feeling like he had told us to vote Republican. BUT! His message lacked depth to the point that I was even more convinced than ever I should vote Democrat. The pastor told us we should consider these Biblical principals when we vote on Tuesday: 1) Vote for who protects human life. To illustrate this he gave us Bible verses, one of which was about how God knit us in our mother's womb. Now I AM one of those people who believes life begins at conception and I DO feel that abortion is murder. That is my opinion. However, when I scratch the political surface on this one, here's what I get: the Republicans will fight tooth and nail for babies to be born but do NOTHING for them after that. They don't believe in providing healthcare, they'd love to cut funds to education (they've been behind all the voucher initiatives), they oppose welfare, etc. They are also the more 'hawkish' party, and if you want to talk about protecting human life, they have been the ones sending troops into battle over the years thus ending thousands of human lives. So, after my surface-scratching, my 'takeaway' on that issue was to vote Democratic. 2) Next the pastor said we should vote for who promotes Biblical marriage. Uh-oh, I thought. There's not a lot of wiggle room here. Ah! But again I scratched, came to my own conclusions, and this is where I probably come off as pretty radical. And please consider my personal history when you read this. I don't think our society does a particularly good job at marriage. People are constantly getting married and unmarried. Marriage has become ephemeral. It's difficult, too! We have to find a better way of doing marriage! And I speak for myself. I am guilty, guilty, guilty of going into marriage and then giving up. I will still say I tried very hard in my marriages, and much, much harder in my second marriage than in my first. I had even gotten to the point where I thought I was good at marriage. In my marriage to Bill I did everything I thought a wife was supposed to do. But, even then, I threw in the towel. I had a breaking point. Even though I thought I had married for life, even though I felt sure both times that there was nothing that could tear us apart, they ended. So, here's where I'm a bit radical: I think marriage is something that should be more difficult to get. I think very few people should get married. Gay marriage? Can they do it any better or any worse than heterosexuals? Nope. I don't think they should do it either. So, do I want to vote for the party that upholds Biblical marriage? Nope. Again, that misses the real point. I believe Americans don't do marriage very well. It's not about what gender people are. It's about how we enter into and maintain our commitments. That's my wacky opinion. Maybe it will change in time. The pastor's message was very clear about for whom he thinks we should vote. His final point was that we should not be in the elephant or the donkey party, but in the lamb party, that is, the party of the Lamb of God. Ok, here I go again. Scratch the surface. What would Jesus do? If he had to vote on Tuesday, and he HAD to choose Democrat or Republican, I think He'd go Democrat. I think that when He said, "....Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for Me...," He didn't mean the least of these to be the top 1% of the population. I'm pretty sure on that one. Jesus would have gone with Obama. The part where Mormons believe God was a man on another planet before He became God, and when you die you go to the planet Kolorg, probably wouldn't sit too well with Him either. Just a guess there. I know, I'm off the chain sometimes but this religion and voting thing pushes my buttons. In any case, my search for a new church will continue. There are three more I am seriously considering. Then there's also the church on the corner.... 1)

It's Always Groundhog Day

One of the constants about living with Dad is what my sister and I call 'Groundhog Day'. For days on end you can count on having the same conversation over and over again. This week's Groundhog Day conversation is about money. I come into the hospital room and he says, "I haven't had aaannnnyyy money for dddaaaayyysss now." "That's right. You can't have any money. You're in the hospital and they don't allow you to have money here. They even ask that you send your money home with a family member." "No money? Why not?" "Because you don't need money when you're in the hospital. It might be a temptation to someone." "Well, what if I want to go buy some oranges at the store?" "You're not going to the store. You're in the hospital." "But I would like to have some oranges." "Then you can ask the kitchen to send some oranges." "Well, I would like to..." (he gestures reaching out his hand and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together) "give a little tip to people." "Hmmmm, Dad, these are professionals. And you don't tip professionals." The next day. Same conversation. And the following day. And the day after that.

Tennis Elbow

One Thursday morning last October I woke up to go to work. I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. As I raised my right hand to turn the knob and open the bathroom door, I was greeted with an excruciating pain in my forearm. It was so intense I couldn't grasp the handle, and turning the knob was out of the question. What was going on? On further attempts to use the forearm, I discovered that just about any movement was going to be met with shooting, stabbing sensations. I couldn't lift a thing. I couldn't rotate the arm. I couldn't carry as much as a kleenex. Something was grossly wrong with my right arm. This was not good and I didn't know how long it was going to last. Fortunately, my annual physical exam was a few days later. The doctor checked it and told me I had tennis elbow. Yes, this woman who refuses to engage in any sports that involve chasing little balls, had tennis elbow. Apparently you can get tennis elbow without the joy---or, as in my case,the aggravation---of playing tennis. Due to a cyst on my right middle finger, I was being sent to a specialist to have the cyst lanced. When I saw him, I asked him about my 'tennis elbow'. He said not to ice it but taught me some stretching exercises to loosen up the area and hopefully help me regain my range of motion and strength. I dedicated myself to doing the exercises at least once a day. Fast forward a year. The pain is greatly reduced. I can carry things, I can rotate the arm, I can reach into the back seat of the car and pick up things. But I still have pain and the arm fatigues easily. Nighttime is the worst. Four or five times a night I am aware of stiffness and pain in my right arm and have to change my sleeping position, extend the arm, and roll over. It was once again time for my annual physical exam. Again I told my doctor about it because now the pain was somehow radiating up to my right shoulder. This time he refered me to the physical therapy department. What used to be a six-week wait for an appointment is no longer. I am in in a week. And what does the physical therapist say? I have pinched some nerves in my neck probably as a result of my Bejewelled addiction last year (one I gave up because it was too painful to play anymore) and my poor posture while reading on my iPad. My thoracic to cervical spinal juncture is getting constricted. What used to be a gentle 'S' in my neck now looks more like a 2. I need to straighten up. Geez. If only I had known that last year....Straighten up, practice turning my head with my chin down and my head aligned with my body, no tilting. Practice turning it to the left and to the right, chin down, no leaning, whenever I am driving and am stopped at a red light. Next appointment, bring 2 tennis balls and a sock.

Post Op

Dad is now in a weird situation. He can swallow solid foods. Therefore it's okay for him to take them orally. However, once the solid foods get to his stomach, they aren't sent on into the intestines. And, if they build up in the stomach, there is no way to suction them out. They can, though, suction out liquids in the stomach. That's what the suction tube is for. He can't take liquids by mouth because they get in his lungs. He can take thickened liquids by mouth. He can have them feed into his stomach through the tube. They started the liquid nutrition in his tube the evening after they were inserted. They also started the new medication that promotes digestion. One or both of them brought on the unsavory phenomenon we call 'Boom Boom'. Yes, the stomach was definitely passing things on into the intestines and beyond. Dad says he wants to come home and have a meal. I told him that even when he does come home, he won't be having meals. This is his future: tiny amounts of food by mouth and nourishment through the tube. That's it. Being home will not change it. When he was in the bathroom after Boom Boom, he cupped his hand and drank from the faucet again. Carmi and I both confronted him on it. He gave me what Laura calls the Death Stare. It's one of his specialties. He does it when he doesn't like what you've said. He closes his mouth and just looks you in the eye. For a long time. Saying nothing. It's meant to intimidate. I said, "Don't look at me like that! You drank from the faucet. Are you trying to kill yourself? Do you want to die?" He held up one crooked index finger, "One time. I only did it one time." "You only had a chance to do it one time, and one time will cause the pneumonia again. Do you want to die?" Death stare again. "Don't stare at me. I haven't done anything wrong. You can't drink out of the faucet. Not even one time." I am my father's parent.

Birthday Tubes

Dad got his very own feeding tube for his 92nd birthday. Actually, he got three tubes. One tube is for medications, another is for the 'food', and the third is for suctioning out things that are in the stomach and not being passed through. The surgery which was allegedly to last only about ten minutes, lasted almost an hour and a half. For several days prior to the procedure, I asked the nurses if they needed me to sign any forms giving my permission for them to do the procedure. They said, no, Dad had signed the form himself. I brought in the Power of Attorney form I had. They made a copy. I was taking care of the baby on the day they were to put in the tubes. They called. Before they could begin, they needed my verbal okay. They had two staff members speak to me to validate my consent. The surgeon called immediately after. He said that when they had gone in they discovered Dad's stomach was full of food. Despite fasting for over 15 hours, the stomach had not digested the prior day's meals. What did that mean? It meant we had another, new problem. There's a name for it; I forgot what it is. Generally it means that the peristalsis isn't working as it should and, of course, there is a medication they will be giving him. There's only one side effect: confusion. Personally, I think there is enough confusion in the 92-year-old territory anyway. Do we really need a medication that promotes it even further? Will Dad's confusion now move ahead at warp speed?

It's Time

I am finished going out to Bill's apartment. I don't know what it is exactly but every time I go out there, I wake up ill on the second day. Maybe it's dehydration. Maybe it's the poor eating I do out there because we don't cook in that kitchen. Why isn't the apartment enjoyable? I am so good at adjusting my attitude. I can take what one person thinks as an unenjoyable experience and find something to like. I do that lemonade thing pretty well. But these weekends in the desert give me a visceral reaction. I want it to be over now. I have done my due diligence. This weekend we finally, FINALLY rented a truck, loaded it up, and brought Bill's belongings back to my house. I never want to go back. Not even the evenings at the pools at the spa are enough enticement to get me out there again. I don't think I even want to go there for a spa weekend, not even if all my expenses were paid. I am over this. I am tired of all the cleaning, all the stuff, all the heat, all the chaos. I am done with that town in the desert. I want to put this behind me. It's time to move on.

You Have Two Options

On the day of my retirement party, my dad called 911. They took him to the hospital closest to the house. It's protocol. Carmi jumped in her car and went to the hospital where he usually stays. It took her a couple of hours to find him. The beauty of that hospital is that it's close-by. The ugly of that hospital is a laundry list, not the least of which is that it smells like excrement and the rooms are not only tiny but house two patients each. There is more to say about that experience but I'll pass. He came home five days later sounding worse than ever. There was an audible rattle when he breathed, and two days after that he had Carmi drive him to the hospital he loves, his home-away-from-home. The cardiologist's assistant asked me to call her. She said, "He has aspirational pneumonia again. This is the third time.I know this is hard for you but you have two choices: we can give him a feeding tube or we can make him comfortable, put him on palliative care, and wait for him to die." "I can't make that choice for him! And I don't want to make that choice by myself." A friend suggested I call my sister and ask her if she could come down. I even offered to pay for it. She said she'd help me any way she could. She would be glad to come down for four days and do whatever I needed; she'd even help me clean out Bill's. I gave her my credit card number and told her not to tell me how much it cost.

The Happy Half

The two years of our divorce were times of bad stuff, and that bad stuff evoked the memories of all the bad times in our marriage. I remembered the gambling, the lying, the financial treacheries, the broken promises, the disappearances, the times he embarrassed me in front of my family, or friends, or co-workers. The divorce was a time of adding more bad memories. There were times when I was fighting to keep what I had, times when I had to combat lies, defend myself, times I was repeatedly dragged back into court, and there was, of course, the continual bloodletting for legal fees. My story was one of assault after assault. I was in survival mode for much of those years. With Bill's death came a flipside. His death meant there was no more Bill on earth. No more Bill, ever, anywhere. Death's finality brought out opposite emotions. It was as if floodgates had been opened, and I was suddenly inundated with all the good memories, the reasons I had fallen so madly in love with him in the first place: the courtship, the adventures, the sweet nothings, the tenderness, the love-making, the proposal, the wedding, the pregnancy and closeness we felt when our child was born....this is what dominated my thinking and thrust me into a period of grieving. I fell into a state of listlessness and confusion. And I was angry with myself for mourning him. I functioned better when I was defending myself against his outrageous behavior, his outrageous lies, his outrageous allegations. Falling into a state of melancholy was not what I wanted to do. All the projects I had for myself, my exercise regimen, my schemes to make money, were all evaporating, and I couldn't summon them back. But as I begin to emerge from this time I see how it has been good for me. I was never going to recover from the marriage if I wasn't going to make peace with ALL of it. I now see how incomplete it would be for me to think I could ride off into the sunset only remembering the insults and injuries. In order for me to be free of all of Bill and the marriage, I was going to have to reconcile the negative with the positive, the ugly with the beautiful, and only then would I be able to put the twenty-six-year matter behind me. And seriously, that's what I want: to put it behind me. I will come out of this. I will move on. In a way, Bill's death might accelerate this.

Check Up

Today I had my annual physical exam. I love getting these things out of the way. I feel like I've been so good to myself when I do. Annual physical exam. Check! Out of the way. I also threw in a flu shot for good measure. Every year I've skipped the flu shot has been one fraught with at least one case of a nasty flu that lingers for a minimum of three weeks. For me, it's like playing Russian Roulette. And I'm through with intentional gambling. When I got to the office, the new nurse, a male, ushered me in and started with the preliminaries, weight and blood pressure. The scale was dark. He thought the batteries were dead. I commented on what a shame it would be if we couldn't get my weight. With a little jiggling of wires and connection-checking, he got the thing going. Hmmm, lucky me. But the numbers weren't scary. I remembered that the doctor's scale weighs me two pounds less than mine does. My blood pressure was low, as usual. He also announced that they'd be doing a pap smear. I said, "Really? I'd forgotten I'd had one of those things." I guess I caught him off-guard. He almost fell out of his chair laughing. After a sizeable wait during which I read a book on my iPad, the doctor came in and asked questions. I told him about all the parts of me whose functioning are not up to snuff. Then I had to get into the stirrups. I suppose I have one of these smears every year but they're not memorable. However, the field seems to be advancing and I soon found out there has been a recent 'improvement' in the equipment. It was the incredible pain that first caught my naive attention. It's been a looonnnnngggg time since I've had cramping and bleeding in that vicinity. In fact, I felt as though frozen in a sort of living rigormortis. Then my body slowly curled into a 61-year-old fetal position. "Is it me, Doctor, or is there something going on?" He extracted what looked like a bright-red, miniature bottle brush. I was certain it had been a brilliant, sanitary white a minute ago. "It's something new." "A brush?" I asked. "Well, we call it a broom. I'll give you a pad for the bleeding." "A womb broom?" And a pad for to wear with the yoga pants? Subtle. I got my flu shot and limped to the car.

Lazy Wife

My sister gave me an Amish cookbook. She had bought it for herself but hadn't found anything in it she thought would be good. I grabbed the ball and ran. I have found some killer recipes in it. They have great names like 'Hidden Eggs', 'Overnight French Toast','Vanishing Oatmeal Raisin Cakes' and 'Funny Pie'. I made several of these dishes for the family in Idaho. They were big hits. I keep the recipe book at home and pull it out on occasion. Today was one of those. I found a new one: 'Lazy Wife's Dinner'. It had meat, macaroni, potatoes, frozen veggies, cream of anything soup and the kitchen sink. Even though I am no longer a wife, I connected with this. It had my name written all over it. I made it for dinner. Add a little sour cream and some more cheese, and this thing's a keeper. Throw that baby in the oven, fire up the hot tub, and you've got my idea of a great evening.

Bill's Bills

I reread the will the other day. Hmm....the things I miss when I read something for the first time. In it, I saw I would have received $5,000 if I had taken Matt back and another $500 for Steve. I took Steve. I didn't remember the kids telling me I would have gotten $5,000 for Matt; I thought they had told me $1,000. Hmmmm....did they monkey with the numbers? I don't know. I honestly don't know. When I heard $1,000, I said no. I also read that I was his beneficiary. I hadn't remembered that either. Was it his intent to leave everything to me? No. I know better. That would be breaking his father's family tradition. His intent was to keep Laura's hands off his money because he believed she couldn't manage money. In a way he was right; she got herself in serious debt three years ago, and it haunts her still. It dogs her, the letters, the phone calls. I thought I had taught her better. Bill knew I was good with money. As Dave Ramsey would say, I was the nerd to his free spirit when it came to money. If opposites attract, this is one area where we were opposites. With my first husband, we were both savers. We had no credit card debt, a very low mortgage, and a very high savings account. When I paid off the loan on Bill's car, I was told the pink slip would be sent to the address on it. Oops! I hadn't put in a change of address at the post office. Another hoop to jump. Now I get his mail, and it is abundantly clear that the free spirit was living fast and easy with money. There are daily bills: the motorcycle, the cable TV, the cell phone, the former attorney (the one who had to quit his practice because he was old already and got rear-ended on the freeway), auto registration (delinquent, no less), the credit cards, the IRS. The IRS??? Yes, he wasn't going to give away any money until it was demanded of him. And to add insult to injury, the lender on the motorcycle sent a nasty letter as if they had repossessed the bike and were now going to sell it because 'a promise had not been kept'. I called to politely give them a piece of my mind. They were closed for the weekend. The internet, cable TV, and cell phone providers will all erase outstanding balances past September 2 if I send them copies of the death certificate. The former attorney's letter had said he was planning to sue for the unpaid balance. After a phone call, he agreed to accept 50 cents on the dollar. I smogged the car and took it to AAA, but I can't do anything with it until tomorrow because title can't be transferred until he has been dead for forty-one days. Forty one days is tomorrow. Tomorrow is Saturday. Laura has already gotten a citation for driving a car with delinquent registration. I am now driving it and keeping the paperwork in the front seat. I will do the deed on my way out to the desert tomorrow morning. When I called the IRS, I spent over an hour on hold only to find out there was a form I needed to fill out. Gee, I'd already done that one.

Money Money Money Money

I was surprised Bill had put me as the beneficiary for the tax shelter I had just transferred to him. $81,000 had been given to him approximately twelve weeks before he passed away. I had been told there was $79,000 left. The second weekend I was at Bill's helping Laura and Kyle pack, a statement from the investment company arrived. It showed only $65,000. Reading through the papers I learned that he had received a distribution of $4500. But where was the other $10,000+? I called the financial adviser when I got back home. He told me that even before he had a chance to get the spousal rollover going, Bill had contacted the parent company for the funds, faxed them a copy of the dissolution papers, and got them to cut him a check for over $10,000. For some reason that made me feel better. That was the old Bill. True to form, grabbing that money as fast as he could, and making it vanish faster than anyone could imagine. If he had been well during those last months, there would have been very little left. I know his ultimate goal was to buy a house or a duplex, and I think he would have wanted to leave about $50,000 to cover that, but he was bad with money and addicted to gambling. Who knows how much would be in that account today if he had received it several months earlier or if he had stayed healthy just a couple more months?

A Letter I Received

Hi Cindy, I was over at the High School Class of 1963 site and saw the notice you posted that Bill had passed. I'm so sorry for you and your family and also for me as I was looking forward to seeing him at the 50 year reunion. My name is Daniel and I grew up with Bill, we were good buddies in elementary school/junior high and friends in high school. I really liked Bill and as kids we played a lot together. He was definitely one of the "coolest" kids in school and of course looking like Ricky Nelson certainly didn't hurt the attention girls gave him! When I told my wife (also a Cindy) about his passing, I had to explain who he was, and started telling her stories about us. I thought maybe you'd like to hear a couple of them. One is the "great adventure" we had when we were around 11-12. The other happened a few years later. Maybe I should start by telling you a little about growing up in our town in case you aren't from the area or Bill didn't tell you. People make jokes about the "perfect" families and strife-free life of the 1950s television shows like "Ozzie and Harriet" (the Nelson family) and "Leave It To Beaver." But for me and most of the kids I grew up with, that's pretty much the way it was...well, maybe not quite so perfect or strife-free, but it was a great era in which to grow up. Dads worked, moms stayed home and the kids, like me and Bill, roamed and played until darkness signaled it was time to go home. The town was in the citrus growing area. The air was clean (we didn't start to get any smog until around 1960) and the town was surrounded by orange and lemon groves. In the late 1940s the town had a population of a few thousand which had increased to over 10,000 by the time I left home in the mid-1960s. It was a college town having, in the early 1950s at least three private colleges. It was a safe (people left their doors unlocked), educated, affluent town of mainly professional people, middle-class businessmen (who commuted to downtown) and college professors. There were no liquor stores or bars allowed in town (I suppose because of the colleges) and no overnight parking on the streets. Almost everyone had a mom and dad. Although I knew a kid who's father had been killed in WWII, I only knew of one who came from a divorced (single parent) home, and I thought that very odd and felt sorry for him. We kids spent our time building forts and playing "cowboys & Indians" or "Army" in the orange groves, playing pick-up baseball games at the park, roller-skating around town or riding our bikes to the foothills to shoot at birds with our BB guns. The wonderful thing about the area is that living here is a year around outdoor experience. So as kids, we were rarely forced to stay inside...and we rarely were. In the 1950s the uniform of the day was a striped T-shirt, a pair of blue-jeans (usually patched at the knees), a pair of Buster Brown leather shoes or canvas sneakers and we were off for the day. If we couldn't find someone else's mother to feed us at lunch (which was unlikely), we might drop by the house for a sandwich and then off again until dinner. Or, if we were going off on an "expedition" we'd have Mom pack us a sandwich. As kids, our free time wasn't regimented into courses of activities by our parents as happens today. We basically entertained ourselves and found things to do, I never remember being bored. Of course during the school year we were confined from 8am to 3pm, after which we'd pedal our bikes home, announce that we were going to play with some friend and were off. Homework was done and inspected in the evening before we listened to the radio or watched our 14" screen television that we got in the early 1950s. I guess there were rich kids in town, but no one in my little play group had money to spare. I remember on hot summer days when Bill and I wanted a nice cold Coke (.10 cents + .02 cents bottle deposit), we would ride our bikes around town looking for empty bottles to turn in for the deposit money at the Market. Often if we could only turn up 5 bottles (a total of .10 cents) we wouldn't have the deposit money so we would stand at the counter, share drink it there, and leave the bottle! Of course even if we did have .12 cents in our pocket, it was better getting the drink for free! Although I lived my whole life there, I think Bill came into town in the mid-1950s and I met him in 5th grade although he wasn't in my class...that would be 1955-56. He was in my 6th grade class and in many of my classes after that. We became instant friends (what wasn't to like about Bill?) and spent a lot of time together. We lived about two blocks away from each other so he was often over at my house camping out in the back yard (or in my tree house) or I was over at his place. Now for the first story (finally!). I've had a few adventures in my life (including a year in Vietnam as a US Marine), but I've always remembered and smiled about this one. Actually, this was my first "great adventure" and it probably whetted my appetite for future ones. It all started on a very windy day, perfect kite flying weather. We were 11 or 12 and were at Bill's house...it must have been around 1956-57. As boys, we were naturally in competition with each other to see who could get their kite the highest. As I said it was a quite windy day and we were amazed at how quickly our kites ascended. Soon we each had to attach another spool of string and our kites were so high that we could barely see them! It was absolutely the highest we either flown kites and soon we were out of string. As it was beginning to get dark and it was dinner time, we had the choice to either start the laborious chore of reeling them in, or (as Bill suggested) I could sleep over and we could leave them up all night! Choice? There was no choice, of course I'd spend the night. We tied the strings off at the front of his house and checked on them constantly until we were told by his folks to come in and "go to sleep!" When we went to bed that night we had every expectation that the kites would be flying high the next morning and were up early to check on them. "Oh, man!" the strings were limp and lay parallel to each other and at a diagonal from Bill's house, across 8th Street and over the houses on the opposite side. We looked at each other and said in unison, "we gotta follow the strings and find our kites!" Thus began the adventure! Of course we challenged each other to "truly" follow the strings. That meant if they went over a house, we would have to go over the house...I think this was a case of the dreaded "double-dog dare!" We started rolling up the string (after all, it cost .50 cents a spool or 25 empty Coke bottles!) but quickly decided it took too long to do it. Since the strings ran at a diagonal from Bill's house toward downtown, it wasn't a quick journey across two homes per block, a street, and then another two homes if it had run perpendicularly...we had to do at least four houses per block at an angle. True to our word, if there was access to the roof (a wall or trellis) we would go over the house and/or garage. We crossed many yards, scaled many walls/fences and on one instance dropped into a yard with a very ugly and bad tempered bulldog! Bill being thin (I was slightly chubby), was a faster runner than I, and was over the next wall as I approached it with the snarling bulldog in hot pursuit. Obviously involved with my own problem, I didn't hear the "crash" of Bill's landing and having escaped the dog was soon laying beside him on some over-turned trash cans (they were metal in those days and hurt!). A shout of "Hey, you kids...get out of my yard" hurried us along and over the next wall. Part of our route lay through a little community of retired China missionaries. To us kids the average age of the people there seemed to be about 80, but they did drive these cool little three-wheeled Auto-ettes (golf carts) around town. Although us kids were admonished to stay out of the community to let the old missionaries live in peace, we had to go where the strings went. Apparently neither the strings, nor Bill or I, were as respectful to their gardens as we should have been, which evoked several very non-Christian shouts toward us and threats of police involvement! Finally, after what seemed like miles (actually blocks) we found our kites (intertwined) on top of a garage on 6th Street. Taking the Pilgrims' threat to heart, we cut the strings, took our kites and found a big old pepper tree to climb up and hide it until the heat blew over! Our clothes were ripped and dirty and we were bruised and bloody (what else was new?). We sat up there for quite a while and went over every step of the journey. We laughed and laughed and decided that we definitely had to do it again! It was great fun! Bill and I had a lot of great times together growing up in the 1950s/early 1960s in our wonderful little protected town...we had a fairly carefree life compared to many others. Bill did mature faster than I did and by the time we were in high school he was into another group of friends which I guess you could call the "social/dating clique." How could he not be, Bill was so cool and good looking that the girls were always chasing him. I fought growing-up (my wife of 42 years is still wondering when I will do so!) and was in the "arrested-adolescence clique" in high school. Bill and I just kind of drifted apart but were always friends until we graduated in 1963. Then we all made new lives/friends, rarely thinking about the "old days" until now as we have grown old ourselves. I think more about our town and all the great kids I knew, and I am regretful that I waited too long to get in touch with Bill. I hope that he had the great life he deserved. Cindy, if you liked this story, I have at least one other I could write up for you. Let me know. I'd also like to know a little about Bill after he left town (and you of course). Best wishes, Dan S.

Okay, I'll admit it. This death has really shaken me. My reactions haven't all been negative. This cloud has a little silver lining. But the whole experience has turned my life and the plans I had for my immediate future upside down. Enmeshed into that are a variety of both expected and unexpected emotions. I have described many of my thoughts and emotions in the last few posts. Now I will describe my behavior. If my plan for the next two years is a whiteboard that has now been erased, then staring at a blank whiteboard is something I find very unsettling. I mean VERY unsettling. No longer is there the impetus to go out and beat the pavement because I need to meet a daunting financial obligation. That obligation dictated much of what I was going to do. I didn't see myself as having the luxury of going to the theater, buying any of the great deals I was getting daily on my email, planning vacations or looking for leisure activities I might find fun to do. My need to work ruled how my schedule looked. I had built my plans around that. I was focused on getting as many substituting days as I could, building a clientele of tutoring students, and seeing how many foreign exchange students I could house. The mandate to do that all was wiped off my whiteboard when Bill died. I didn't know how to handle it. The first few days after I arrived home from up north were vast expanses of nothingness. A day without a schedule? A day without plans? Hadn't heard of one of those in years, maybe decades. But it was more than days, really. It was a matter of an entire future lying in front of me saying, "What are you going to do now?" And I had no idea what I was going to do. The house seemed too still, too quiet. There were days I stayed in bed all day. There were days I didn't get out of my pajamas until after noon. It continues now. There are a lot of things I could be doing but I have also felt tired, listless, fatigued for what seems like no reason. I don't have any energy. I don't want to exercise. I don't want to take on any of the home improvements I had readied myself to do. And I ask myself, "What about Bill's being gone from this earth has made this change? Was knowing that he still existed have a role in my feelings of purpose? Did I think things would just always be a little tense as long as he was alive?" I don't know. All I do know is that since he died, things have become vastly different. Are they good? Bad? I think they are good. I also think I am having trouble adjusting to them.

Laura Deals With It

Laura and Kyle were gone for a long time. By the time they got back, I had met the neighbors, had one party interested in the van and another person interested in the Kawasaki. I had been through the refrigerator, most of the clothes, and all of the kitchen. I had packed several things and had run a couple of loads of laundry. They said the service was nice. Bill had been working with a Life Counselor and had been trying to become a better person, they said. The counselor had gone to Donna's house from 12 - 2 last Sunday and that when he left, Bill had been at peace. Bill passed away at 3:40. His counselor eulogized Bill at the memorial. Laura spoke with him afterward. He said he would talk with me too if I wanted to call him. "What did the counselor say about Daddy?" I asked. "Call him and he'll talk to you, Mom." "No, Honey, what did he say about Daddy when he spoke?" "He said that Dad was working on becoming a better person, that he felt bad about some mistakes he had made, and that he and Dad were friends as well." "What did you say to him?" "I said, it felt like they were all talking about a person I didn't know, that they didn't seem to know the person who had been my dad." They said one of the group members had shared how lonely Bill was when he first joined the group, that he had been in the desert for six months at that time, and he was feeling really, really lonely. What they never seemed to wonder was why he was so lonely. Kyle had spoken with someone who asked why Bill hadn't been invited to their wedding. Kyle suggested it would be better for them to ask Laura and then mentioned how they hadn't had a real wedding and there were only five us there. I like the way Laura expressed her perspective on her dad with the life counselor. She and I both cried a lot thinking that, if he had been making such a huge effort to become a better person, why had he not been making that effort with us? Why did he take the two people who, together with him, constituted a family, and treat them so poorly, only to go out to the desert and treat strangers so well? Kyle suggested that for Bill it was probably easier to start over and reinvent himself with completely unknown friends, than it was to try to make restitution to the two of us. It made good sense. I understand the concept. But it makes me want to scream.

More Emergence

Sunday was the day of the memorial. Laura had checked with the person hosting the service and I had been told that it might be a little 'uncomfortable' if I were to attend. We went for breakfast at the nearby hot springs resort. When we got home, there was a knock on the door. It was a guy named Jeff. He had been Bill's first landlord in the desert, at the clothing-optional spa. He owned the spa too. He was looking for Bill. He said that they went riding on their motorcycles together. Kyle gently broke the news of Bill's passing to him. He was very, very sad. He started talking about what a great guy he thought Bill was. He said that Bill had had to move out of the place he rented from him because he wouldn't allow Bill to keep the dogs there. But they still went on motorcycle rides together and he had considered him a friend. In fact, he said one day Bill called him and said, "Jeff, I am sitting on the motorcycle you're going to buy." He was all the way out in Harbor City. Jeff went there and bought the bike. He loved it and named it Mr. Bill. Kyle let him take a picture of Bill's urn, which he said he was going to post on Facebook. He broke down and cried. Laura and Kyle both said to me, "How can we go to this memorial service and listen to people talk about what a great guy Bill was?" It was to become the theme of the day. They left for the service and I stayed at the apartment to clean up. Bill's place was one half of a duplex. I started emptying out the refrigerator and taking the old food out to the trash can. In the driveway were three people. One person was one of the guys who lived next door, the other two were his parents. They starting asking me about Bill's van. They were thinking of buying it for their church. I suggested they ask Laura and Kyle about it. More of the fellows came out from inside. They told me how much they liked Bill, what a great neighbor he had been, how he had helped them fix broken Nintendos and cars. He had always lent them tools when they needed them. WHAT???? He NEVER lent his tools to anyone! Then the fourth guy came out and told how the first time he had met Bill he had gone over to tell Bill they would be celebrating his 21st birthday that night and hoped the music wouldn't bother him. Later that day Bill came over to their place with a 24-pack of beer and a beautiful (he said 'awesome') picture frame. The guy was so touched that this stranger would do that, that he cried. "I'm not from around here and to have a complete stranger be so kind just blew me away. I couldn't believe it." Neither could I.

Dinner with Donna

Laura told me that the woman who had been caring for Bill, Donna, wanted to go to dinner with us and wanted to meet me. I was almost ill. I think I had been dehydrated during the night on Friday and felt flu-ish Saturday. I decided to try to flush myself with water. The plan was working, but slowly. I was working slowly on packing and cleaning out Bill's things. I was sluggish, not myself. Meeting a woman who had basically replaced me and who had probably heard horrible stories about me was not what the doctor ordered, I was sure of it. There was no way I could imagine getting out of that dinner. If I had said I was feeling ill, the kids would have thought I was having psychosomatic pain because of the situation. Donna might have thought I didn't want to meet her. I didn't want to cancel the dinner because I wanted to get past this mental image of a confrontation with a good person who was convinced I was an evil wife who divorced her husband because he had cancer. I went to dinner. We arrived at the restaurant and a woman came out the door and wrapped her arms around Laura. She was obviously open and loving. That didn't mean she was going to like me. She was very friendly as we were introduced. We shook hands. We sat down. I was across from her. I was fairly quiet for the first half hour. I had a terrible time deciding what would be the safest and tastiest thing for me to eat. As the meal moved along, I engaged more in conversation. Donna gave the latest news on the circle of friends Bill had made through his cancer connections. There was to be a memorial the next day for a close friend who had died on July 9. It had had to be postponed for two weeks, and during that time Bill had passed. Bill was such good friends with the couple, the surviving spouse had decided to include him in the memorial. Donna spoke of how upset the circle of friends had been at learning of his passing. What was beginning to emerge was a picture of my ex-husband as a 'nice and well-liked' guy. Donna thought the world of him, said they had had a 'heart connection'. They spent all kinds of time together. She would sometimes stay at his house with him. She is 75, tall, slender, and full of energy. She said Bill was always kind and always a gentleman with manners. Were we talking about the same person? After a while she took my hand. "How are you feeling? This was probably upsetting to you." I spoke honestly about my shock and sadness. I told her Bill had been the love of my life and, that despite the horrible events during our divorce, I was remembering a lot of good times now, a lot of adventures, travel, and fun. Then she said, "You can ask me anything." Ok, I thought. "Wha....what did he tell you about me?" I was suddenly a little choked up. What had he told her about his wife and why he was suddenly single with pancreatic cancer? I wanted to get to the part where he said I divorced him because he was ill. I couldn't leave that lie out there. "Well, he said he was deeply in love with you. That you were very, very bright, and that he was proud of you. He told me he had been really proud of you, and particularly when you got up and sang." All I could figure out was he was talking about when I sang in a production of Godspell. Apart from that, I don't think he enjoyed much of my singing. "He said he loved your home and he loved the work he had done when he was remodeling it, that he had taken a lot of pride in it." At that point, Kyle and Laura were getting up to leave the table. They had told me they would do that when Donna and I started talking together, that they wanted us to have some privacy. But by then it was late, the baby was cranky and Laura and Kyle both had fatigue etched deeply in their faces. Donna was sliding out of the booth and I was concerned I wouldn't get to tell her why we had divorced. As we were walking out, she said, "Bill and I were not romantically involved, you know." I said, "Thank you. I understand. But I have had a heavy burden on my heart because I had heard Bill had been telling people I divorced him because he had cancer, and that is not true. We had been married for a long time but all through the marriage he had had a gambling problem. We got divorced because one day he told me he was gambling and he wasn't going to stop and there was nothing I could do about it. I loved him. I would never have left him if he had been willing to protect me from his gambling." I think she believed me. But I didn't want to give too much more information. I added only, "He never understood how his gambling and lying about it destroyed the trust in our marriage and kept it from being rebuilt." That's when Laura came over and asked if she had known he was bipolar. She said she had and that there had been times when she could see a change in him. She had also known he occasionally went off the meds for it, and that there had been a couple of incidents where she could see the effects of his mental condition. Donna invited us to come to her house to talk which Laura sweetly declined, saying the baby was too tired and she and Kyle had a lot to do the following day. Donna gave us big hugs and said something to the effect she was so glad she had met me and that she liked me. The next day at the memorial she told Laura she had felt she had a heart connection with me.

Arriving at Bill's

When we got to the desert Laura had to make a couple of payments on the Acura and then we had to go to the crematorium to pick up Bill. Laura had found some things I had never heard of. She got a beautiful white opalescent necklace in which there was a tiny compartment where the crematorium had placed a bit of Bill's ashes. She got a small blue cloisonne heart for me. The rest of Bill was in a beautiful brushed steel urn. She used good taste and discretion in her choices. The mortuary was kind and caring. Kyle said that instead of taking Bill's body away in a bag, they wrapped it in a quilt. Then we went to Bill's place. This is where it started getting difficult for me. It wasn't the messiness. Bill was always pretty messy. It wasn't the nostalgia either. Despite having a great floor plan, lots of amenities and space, it was dark in there. Bill always liked to keep his places dark, but this was getting to me fast. It didn't look like he had made it a home. His furniture was randomly placed, I never did find his dresser, and he was using two plastic storage containers as night stands. Our couch was in front of a new TV, as was the hound end-tables and the lift recliner. Laura and Kyle's old dining set was in the dining area and there was a rocker recliner right smack dab in the middle of the kitchen. One bedroom was all boxes and another held a single bed and the empty box from his giant flatscreen. In the garage were the bulk of the boxes I had packed and sent to him as well as his Schwinn, his electric bike and a big fire-engine-red Kawasaki Ninja. Bill had always loved the power and speed of Japanese superbikes. One trip around the block and Kyle knew it was too much bike for him. What to do with the motorcycle??? We found the bill of sale and accompanying loan papers. He bought the bike last July, and had financed the whole thing. What is paid off on it so far? What is it worth now? Will the dealership just take it back and write off the remainder of the loan? Loan on the car, loan on the motorcycle, some credit card debt.....there are a lot of details that need tending.

Friday

On Friday I was still stunned by my sudden life changes. I sat in bed watching TV. I laid on the couch with my coffee and studied French on my iPad. I have switched from studying Canadian French to French French. They're not the same and I find I like the voices and gentle accents of the Canadian speakers better than the French ones. It is, nonetheless, a good learning experience to switch over to the other kind of French. the lessons are different so it's like expanding on what I learned in the Canadian French. I am not savvy enough at this point to pick up on any other subtle differences between the two dialects. Even with my interest in learning a new language, I still couldn't shake the feeling of uselessness. I had no appointments, I had no job, I had no demands. At 1:00 I got out of my pajamas. I ran two or three errands and ended up at school at 3:40. I love the people there but still don't miss my job. Laura and Kyle picked me up at 6:15 and took me to their apartment for the first time. It's a good-sized one-bedroom with a great floor plan and good square footage. They still aren't settled in but there is great potential. They had several things from Bill's place there. We spent the first couple of hours cleaning up. That evening as we were talking, we noticed a foot-round wet spot on their livingroom ceiling. The pipes above were beginning to leak. They are old, the building was built in 1928, and I'm sure the lead is corroding. Kyle could stick his finger right up in the wet spot and make a hole. They put down a bowl to catch the drips. I hope the entire ceiling doesn't get so waterlogged that it comes crashing down in our absence. The next morning we left early for the desert.

Give Yourself a Break

I called a friend at 3:30 on Thursday. I was having a tough time. Could she and I go out for coffee that evening? She said she'd arrange care for her four children and would come to my house at 6:30. We went to the little french cafe we like where we listen to Edith Piaf, eat croissants and crepes, and drink caffe au lait. I told her how panicked I was that my life plan had suddenly been erased. My need to make money to support my ex-husband no longer existed. I didn't have to sub, tutor, and house foreign exchange students unless I wanted to. The pressure to earn was off. What am I going to do with the rest of my life? She said, "Give yourself a break. I love sitting around with no plans. Enjoy it. You don't have to have a plan right away. Pray about it. God will let you know in time what it is He wants you to do. Be patient. What's your rush? And don't get yourself in a situation where you end up stressed out. Don't do that."

Five Days

My family had a get-together at my sister's pool on Monday. It had been planned a couple of weeks ahead, before we knew Bill was so close to passing. I was glad I was with them when Bill went. They are my only family around except, of course, for Dad who lives with me and isn't really the same person he was even four years ago. My siblings were a good comfort yet I felt that they, too, didn't understand why I'd be grieving a man who had been such a poor husband to me and who had also embarrassed me so many times in their presence. The next day, Tuesday, I drove home. I met a friend for lunch about 90 minutes away. The drives up and back were good times to let out my feelings. I didn't want to be grieving. On an intellectual level, I know it's understandable to feel sad, but on an emotional level, I felt I shouldn't be grieving because Bill had caused so much pain. Wednesday I took care of the baby for Laura. He was very, very tired because he had been out in the desert until late Tuesday night. It was a fussy baby day. I was exhausted and he was wailing by the time I left for an appointment at 5:40. I came home afterward and went to bed. Thursday was a day without plans until 2:45. I sat around in my pajamas wondering what I was going to do with the rest of my life and coming up with no answers. My future was stretching out like a giant blank slate before me and I was forcing my self to fill it in. I got in the shower at 1:15. It was then I realized it was my first shower in five days.

Didn't Quite Make It

On Saturday Laura and Kyle watched Bill for five hours while he slept. He was no more than a skeleton and was being kept pain-free. Laura said she didn't know if they were going to be able to rewrite his will. As it turns out, he didn't leave everything to me, only the retirement account I had turned over to him in June. When he wrote the will he was probably thinking there would be very little money left in the account. He had planned on using the money to buy himself a house and that there would have been very little left in it upon his demise. As it stands, he only spent $2000 of it and there is quite a bit left. I don't know what else is in the will. On Sunday Laura called and said the air conditioner had gone out in Bill's apartment and could they use some of his money to stay in a motel. I said yes, because they were out there on his business and cleaning up his stuff. That afternoon I got a text, "He just passed....." I was sitting with my sister and her husband. I cried. They comforted me. Laura called. She had been on the way out to see him when it happened. It was sad, weird, relieving, freeing, surreal. Bill died. I just hadn't thought it was going to happen for a few years. That was five days ago, and my world is still spinning.

The Will

I am on my vacation. That's right. Bill is dying and I am on vacation. It hasn't been without it's difficulties but I figured there wasn't much I could do by staying at home except take care of the baby for the kids. Outside of that, I can't do anything else. I am now the EX-wife, not the wife. As I have gotten used to the idea of not having to pay any more spousal support to Bill, I have allowed myself to do a little dreaming about this impending freedom. So far, I have decided to spend some time in France and will seek out an immersion program to get on the fast track learning French. At this point I don't want to pursue the teaching positions at Cirque du Soleil, I just have a passion to learn the language. It reminds me a little of what Diane Keaton's character did in 'Something's Got to Give'. She got divorced and decided to learn French. Whatever that is, whatever drives that desire, is also working on me. I have also decided to see Ireland. I want to do these two things within the next 16 months. In addition, I think it's time for me to seriously look for a place to live up near my sisters and brother. Today I looked at four houses with a realtor friend of my sister. The prices up here are quite accessible for me. Two of the four homes were great possibilities. One needed a little fixing up and the other was turn-key ready, just move in your stuff. The fixer is a more practical choice for me but the 'ready' one was stunning. I don't have to decide. I told the realtor this was just a fact-finding mission. I took photos of all of the places and sent some to Laura. She called me right away. She and Kyle had left work early to go out to see Bill. He has starting urinating blood. He told Laura he wanted to rewrite his will. When she found his current will, the one he wrote after our divorce was final, he had left everything to me and had made me and his friend David the co-executors. David said he doesn't want any part of it. They will rewrite this weekend. Bill wants to leave most of it to Laura and some to KJ. The woman? I don't know. The cancer center? I don't know about that either. The truth? What he really does? That might be a mystery/surprise, too. I also learned that while he was being transported to the desert on Sunday, he was muttering something to Laura, something to the effect that she would never get the money. It is likely that he was mistaking her for me. Nevertheless, it might be a dicey rewrite.

Surprising Timing

Yesterday was the first day of school. It would have been the first day of my last year of teaching if circumstances surrounding this divorce hadn't put me in a situation where I had to retire a year early. Nevertheless, I have felt wonderful about school starting and my not being there. I visited some colleagues on Monday, not envying their daunting classroom tasks, knowing all too well that what they are doing now is only the beginning of a long journey. Then I went off to have a pedicure. I didn't feel even the slightest twinge of nostalgia. Walking into classrooms only made me how tired and overwhelming this can be. Wednesday morning I lolled around in bed until 8:20, approximately the time school started, then rolled out for a leisurely cup of coffee. At 9:25 I loaded my bike onto the rack and drove to the marina for a nice long bike ride. I rode for over an hour. As I was putting the bike back on the rack, my cell phone rang. It was Laura. She asked if I was going to be home and if I could watch KJ. I said I would. When I got home, Dad's caregiver said David, Bill's friend, had come over and asked that I call him as soon as I got in. He had asked his ex-wife to get Laura's number the night before. She didn't want to be in the middle. It had ended up with me passing David's numbers to Kyle because Laura had misplaced her phone. When Laura arrived I asked if she had found out what David wanted. She said yes. He told her Bill is in the hospital and has been there for two weeks. His liver and kidneys are shutting down. He's not doing well. He might be on his death bed. Laura visited him. He was thin, yellow, only somewhat coherent, and there was a bag collecting fluids from his stomach. The onus is on her now. She has to get durable power of attorney, has to take over his finances, pay his bills and clean out his apartment. He will go to a woman's house after he leaves the hospital and will have no need for a home of his own. The woman is a former nurse and will take care of him. Hospice will begin. I told Laura that I would help her with whatever she needs me to do. But tomorrow I leave to go to north for my annual vacation. It is likely he will pass while I am away. I said I'd go out to his place with her and help pack on the weekends during September. My emotions are raw now. I am sad, confused, conflicted, torn, and just generally feeling bad. I didn't want him to spend his final days this way. I wanted to be the one who cared for him during his exit from this world. Even though he hadn't been a really good husband, we had had many good times, we had passed many milestones together, he was the father of my child, he had been both my best friend and my worst enemy. And now he would be leaving this world far away and in the company of strangers.