Holding on to LIFE

Sometimes the end comes quickly.  But sometimes it comes slowly, after years and years of a downhill spiral or months and months of deterioration.  Which is better?  Who can say.

For my mother it's been a slow progression along with times when she fooled us into thinking the end had come.  Close brushes with death, high fevers and serious infections we thought she couldn't overcome, but she did.  A fighter to the end.  Even now as she's endured a major stroke, she is hanging on, leaving all of us hanging on in the balance.

I'm reminded of a scene in Rocky when he's in the boxing ring, knocked down by Apollo Creed, struggling to get back on his feet, and eventually he does.  One of the commentators says, "What is keeping him up?"

I guess some people have a very strong determination when it comes to surviving/winning in life.  No matter how many times they're knocked down, they just keep coming back.

My mother has lived a long life, that's for sure.  No one would blame her for wanting to bow out at this point and go join hands with Dad in heaven.  But something is keeping her here.  I don't know what that is, but perhaps it's us--her family.  If she feels a very strong tie to us, her daughters, maybe she simply doesn't want to let go.  Perhaps her motherly instincts are telling her we need her so she thinks she has to hang on.

But it's a painful roller coaster ride of emotions for us watching her go up and down, back and forth between living and dying.  I sat at her bedside last Wednesday watching and listening to her breathe, loudly at first, then very softly later on.  Her mouth was open and drooping on one side--the telltale signs of a stroke.  We were told she was dying so we sat at her bedside, ready for anything.  I wasn't sure I really wanted to be there for the end because I've never watched someone die before and I didn't know if I could handle it.

I went home in the afternoon and didn't know what to do with myself.  Nothing seemed to be the right thing to do.  Every time the phone rang, I feared the worst.  I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't write, couldn't rest.  This state of limbo is just torture on the living.

The next day my mother woke up and was hungry for breakfast.  She amazed all the nurses as well as all of our family.  They did not expect her to recover.  And even though we all breathed a sigh of relief, we know the end is still coming.  It's a day to day situation in which she sleeps a lot, doesn't eat very much, doesn't really speak much, doesn't walk around, doesn't participate in daily activities that keep people feeling vibrant and happy--and therefore her quality of life is not one to be desired.

I'm preparing myself for the day when she will leave this world.  I have to.  As hard as it is letting go, hanging on is also painful.  I want her to be at peace.

The Art of Deciding What's Art

Art.  How do we judge it?  How do we critique a painting, a drawing?  And whose opinion matters most?  The art teacher?  The audience?  Or the artist himself/herself?

My daughter is an art minor.  She's struggling to come to terms with her art teacher who doesn't seem to like her drawings.  His feedback leaves her in the dark because he really doesn't offer much.  Just tells her to start over again.  She's very frustrated and I don't blame her.  One of the main reasons why I dropped the one art course I'd signed up for in college was because I'd had enough of drawing the same bottles and vases over and over again from ten different perspectives.  My daughter wants to draw people, specifically faces.  I did, too.  I guess this teacher doesn't find faces very interesting.  That's too bad.

So when you see a painting in an art gallery, what makes you like it?  What makes you dislike it?

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!

I visited two places today for different reasons, but both related to writing projects. One was the library to do some research on children's picture book markets.  I learned some interesting little tidbits but that's for another day.

At the neighborhood drugstore, I perused the greeting card racks, checking out the latest funny birthday cards to help me write some new ones of my own.  The trick is to figure out what's out there, how it's written, and whether or not the punch line delivers.  I tried to note the different categories of funny birthday: drinking jokes, age jokes, gift gags,  puns, put-downs, compliments, etc.  There were an awful lot of age jokes.  Trouble is the editor I've been sending (and selling) my work to doesn't want age gags.  He's got enough of those.  Okay.  So, I had to concentrate on the other categories.  A greeting card writer has to walk that line between coming up with something so outrageous it'll never sell and coming up with something so similar to what's already out there no editor will buy it from you.  Hmm.  Such a dilemma.

I laughed, I chuckled, I smiled, and sometimes I said, "Huh?"--not getting the joke.  (Or I said, "Eww!" if I thought the card was nasty.)  We all have our own idea of what's funny, right?

So, maybe you can give me a little feedback.  What kind of card do you like to receive?  What sort of card tickles your funnybone?

Connecticut was nice but there's no place like home

Mystic, Connecticut--a lovely place to visit.  If you like boats, they've got boats.  If you like water, they've got water.  Restaurants?  Hope you like fish.  And how about pizza?  Well, you simply must visit Mystic Pizza.  I did this past week.  Actually, it was my second visit to the quaint little restaurant where the famous Julia Roberts movie was filmed.  The actors and actresses pictures adorn the walls and a continuous screening of the movie runs on a TV set up on a wall.  As you sit there munching on a "slice of heaven", you can alternately check out the photos and watch the movie.  Or neither.  You can simply talk to the person you're with while gobbling your pizza.

There was a young boy with his family seated in the booth across from us.  He was a giggler.  I couldn't really hear what his family members were saying, but he giggled at just about everything. I glanced his way once or twice wondering what was so funny.  Sometimes he seemed to be giggling at nothing since no one had said anything.  Ah youth.  I wonder if I ever acted that way.  Laughing at nothing.

Now on to the hotel.  The Whaler's Inn.  A nice place to stay.   A few flights up the stairs, unlock the door and step into a carpeted room with light blue walls, a fireplace, desk, kingsized bed and a chair or two.  Not to mention a jacuzzi in the bathroom.  This one had a couple of broken buttons from perhaps overzealous hot tub lovers?  Very noisy things, those jacuzzis when being filled or drained of water. The irony to me was that it was quieter there during the day than at night.  I could have slept easily during the day if I'd been inclined to do that.  But of course I wasn't.  I wanted to explore Main Street during the day.  So I did.  A nice bookstore, lots of cute little shops.  A view of the water, boats, a drawbridge.

All in all, a nice, relaxing trip.  Except for not being able to sleep at night.  I guess I just can't sleep anywhere else but in my own bed.  

As Dorothy once said, "There's no place like home."

My House, My Home, My Haven

I'm trying so hard to remember.  But my memories are like little particles of dust, flitting around on a breeze--here and then gone, where I don't know.  I do know it was August of 1997 when we moved into this house.  At that time it was a bold new adventure and every day felt new and different and wonderful.  I had to pinch myself to believe it was really  happening.  My dream of owning my own home after living on the third floor of a tiny, sardine can-like apartment for thirteen years had finally come true.  Even when one of the former owners said to me, "You can do anything you want now.  It's YOUR house," I could scarcely believe it.  I kept going to bed at night thinking I was going to wake up the next day only to find out it was all just a dream.  I had "nightmares" for a long time that I was back in my old apartment and that same sense of dread and frustration swept over me.  Prior to that apartment, I'd lived on another third floor somewhere else and I can clearly recall walking out onto the rickety porch thinking, "Am I going to live here forever?  Is this all there is for me?  Where is my Prince Charming who's going to come sweep me off on his white horse?"

But back to the present. Now I have my house.  And as I walked from room to room today, I racked my brain trying to remember those first few days here.  It was so exciting I felt like a kid in a toy store.  I couldn't wait to fill these rooms with all of our things and maybe some new ones as well.  Unfortunately though,  today I can't remember exactly how I felt or what I was thinking.  I do know my kids were little then and they certainly added a sense of wonder and discovery to the whole experience.

But after I'd gotten past the initial newness and excitement, as always happens with human beings, boredom and same old sameness set in.  I struggle to feel those same feelings now.  Now it's just a house.  The rooms are not anything special or unusual.  It's just the place where we store our stuff.  And boy is there stuff!  Too much of it really.

But I don't mean to suggest I'm not grateful for everything I have.  I simply miss that "falling in love" kind of feeling one gets from having something new, something you've always wished for, something you've struggled to attain for many years and at last have managed to attain.  But like the person who finally gets that prince on a white horse--once you've got him, it seems that some of the thrill is gone.  Maybe for many people, it's the chase, the dream, the struggle that keeps them alive, keeps them striving, keeps them hopeful.  As long as there's a goal dangling around out there in the universe--there's a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to keep going.

I do like my house.  But I think I need to fall in love with it all over again.

Bungee Jumping--Wheeee!

So today I found out why I've been having back pain.  The results of my x-rays revealed that lovely little hereditary condition (thanks, Dad) called arthritis.  I now know I have it in my right knee, two index fingers, and my lower back.  At this rate I'll be falling apart by the time I'm 60.  At some point I'll have to give up typing, bike riding and pretzel-twisted sexual positions.  You can either laugh or cry at these revelations.

In another two weeks I'll be 54.  Oh, I don't even want to look at that number!  Maybe I'll just turn it around.  Yes, that's it.  45.  I'll be 45.  Sure, that's it.  Perhaps if I think I'm really 45 I'll act more like 45.  And they better not be sending me anymore of those freakin' AARP letters!  Sorry, wrong address, must be a mistake.  You want the neighbor next door.  She has gray hair, after all, I don't.  I'm not ready for the rocking chair yet, baby.  Hey, I still exercise, speed walk, bike ride, lift weights, and take in an occasional belly dancing class.

I'm holding onto my "youth" as long as I can.  I refuse to age.  "Not gonna do it", as the elder George Bush would say.  Nope.  My husband calls me his "old lady."  Yes, he knows I hate that.  He loves to make me grit my teeth and give him that "I'm gonna kill you" kind of look.  Don't worry, that's just his way of teasing me.  He knows how to push my buttons like nobody else.

But I'll have the last laugh.  Lots of people think he is older than I am when in fact I am older than him.   And at a recent family get-together (his side), five of us were seated on two couches--my husband, his younger brother, youngest sister, oldest sister, and myself.  One of the kids at the party (who is a teenager) tried to guess who was the youngest of all I just mentioned.  She picked me.  In truth, I am the second oldest of the five.  So that made me feel pretty darn good.

Yes, some people think age is just a number, and I suppose it is.  But creeping closer to that Senior Citizen club doesn't interest me too much.  I love being around young people.  I love their energy, enthusiasm, zest for life, fun-loving ways, sense of adventure.  Life has so many possibilities when you think you have many years, rather than a decade or two left to live.

So, I'm not counting out doing something really wild and crazy somewhere within the next five years or so.  It just might happen.  I understand people who go through mid-life crisis.  They examine their lives and say:  How the hell did I get to be this age?  Have I done everything I ever wanted to do?  If not, damn it, I'm gonna!

Excuse me now.  I've gotta go sign up for a bungee jumping class.

Where For Art Thou, Spring?

Okay, the calendar says it's Spring now, but I think it's lying.  Sure, it is.

I've just returned from a bike ride with my daughter.  The wind was whipping through my hair, my bare hands were turning into icicles, and despite the layers of clothes I wore, my whole body was freezing.

Spring, my ass!  The first thing I reached for upon entering the house was a cup and tea bag and then to the nearby stove to boil some water.  Hot!  Gimme something hot!

I should have worn gloves.  And a hat.  But no.  I believed that calendar on the wall and ventured out thinking there'd be a nice warm sun shining down, instead of a cruel, cold, biting wind.

It's not really spring.  Only in my mind.