Tonight we are dog sitting for our friends, Melinda and Elizabeth (and their two kids, Meda and Aden). Their dog is a lively, wiry English Springer, full of energy and obsession. She is fine in the house -- calm and relaxed -- but once on a leash, she becomes fixated on the possibility of a bird or small animal crossing her path. The family is off for a family reunion in Port Townsend and they asked us to watch Josie for the weekend.
So, we packed an overnight bag and shipped out for tonight. We could have continued to stay with Josie at the mansion by the lake, but the gift of this house is their king sized bed. Normally, I am not a fan of king sized anything, but after sleeping in a double bed for the past 7 months, I am so ready to claim my own space in something larger. When Elizabeth told me they had a king sized bed I jumped for joy. We decided we would splurge and spend tonight in the larger bed! Now, when I want to cuddle with Ann, I have to search for her. Now, when Ann starts snoring because her allergies are acting up, she can saw away on her side of the bed. Now, when I want to stretch out sideways on the bed, I can point my head north and my legs to the southwest.
Luxury.
Joy.
Bliss.
At least for one night.
Then back to the mansion with Josie in tow as she will help in my quest to teach Ben, the German shepard, how to feel more comfortable around other dogs. Josie is oblivious to other dogs. Solely focused on birds, when other dogs approach she stands at attention and lets them sniff her. Only after she has deemed the horizon clear of feathered friends will she take a split second to sneak a sniff at her canine visitor. I think this will be good for Ben who sees every other dog as either his bully or his victim.
Third house and now our third dog...
The end of our vagabond life is in sight, though. The house remodel is nearly finished. We can move our bedroom stuff up to the master bedroom this weekend. Now we wait for the inspection and then we can move back in even though our builder has some finishing touches to complete...like the outside house painting. Of course, we'll still be living out of boxes as this is the busiest time of the year for teachers and we'll not have a moment's breath to move all of our crap from the basement to the house until the middle of June.
But even that, the middle of June, is fast approaching. Whew.
Another friendship crisis at school today. That makes 11 in 2 months. We only have 22 students and 11 of them are struggling with their friends. Approval ratings are dipping slightly...we're all growing tired of each other.
And I grow tired tonight as well...good night, good night!
Friday, May 12, 2006
Friday, May 05, 2006
Iranian Friendships
My day...
Two girls in tears. Two girls in gasping sobs. I must negotiate between their dispute. I talk with one girl for half an hour while the rest of the class works on their projects for their BIG NIGHT performance in two weeks. The other girl sits at her table and whimpers.
Then I ask the other girl to come to my desk and tell her side of the story. It's a complicated story involving one crazed theatrical (she's a playwright) mother, a passive father, another therapist mother who allows her 10 year old daughter to watch R rated videos (like The Wedding Crasher!) and another father who is absent while off in on some business trip one week after the next selling his healthy snacks. Oh, and it involves the two girls -- one who is confident, dramatic, popular, and talented; the other who is insecure, slightly overweight, formerly a bully (at her previous school) as well as a victim...but both girls very sweet and very good friends...up until today.
When...in the midst of teacher playing therapist and trying hard not to say what I really feel...another student comes up and says, "The music you're playing isn't any good. Can we listen to the Classical I-Tunes station, though it's not really classical."
And I say, "Sure," while I'm handing the sobbing girl at my desk another box of tissues. So the girl who thinks my music sucks (how can anyone hate the Be Good Tanyas?), comes around my desk, messes with my computer (where the speakers are hooked up) and selects, Classical Iranian Music from the I-Tunes radio menu.
The rest of the afternoon, while I counsel the friendship back together, we listen to traditional Iranian music -- drums, chanting, the whole kit and kaboodle -- and the rest of the class works like a hive in honey season.
Go figure.
And in the back of my mind I'm thinking, "So, if someone is monitoring my computer, will I get arrested for playing 'subversive terrorist' music to a class of 5th graders?"
I'm glad, oh so glad, it's Friday. If I have to deal with one more friendship crisis (this makes number 10 in the past four weeks), I will throw up my liver...I swear.
At least I'll have good background music while I'm puking or while I'm being arrested by Homeland Security...or both!
Two girls in tears. Two girls in gasping sobs. I must negotiate between their dispute. I talk with one girl for half an hour while the rest of the class works on their projects for their BIG NIGHT performance in two weeks. The other girl sits at her table and whimpers.
Then I ask the other girl to come to my desk and tell her side of the story. It's a complicated story involving one crazed theatrical (she's a playwright) mother, a passive father, another therapist mother who allows her 10 year old daughter to watch R rated videos (like The Wedding Crasher!) and another father who is absent while off in on some business trip one week after the next selling his healthy snacks. Oh, and it involves the two girls -- one who is confident, dramatic, popular, and talented; the other who is insecure, slightly overweight, formerly a bully (at her previous school) as well as a victim...but both girls very sweet and very good friends...up until today.
When...in the midst of teacher playing therapist and trying hard not to say what I really feel...another student comes up and says, "The music you're playing isn't any good. Can we listen to the Classical I-Tunes station, though it's not really classical."
And I say, "Sure," while I'm handing the sobbing girl at my desk another box of tissues. So the girl who thinks my music sucks (how can anyone hate the Be Good Tanyas?), comes around my desk, messes with my computer (where the speakers are hooked up) and selects, Classical Iranian Music from the I-Tunes radio menu.
The rest of the afternoon, while I counsel the friendship back together, we listen to traditional Iranian music -- drums, chanting, the whole kit and kaboodle -- and the rest of the class works like a hive in honey season.
Go figure.
And in the back of my mind I'm thinking, "So, if someone is monitoring my computer, will I get arrested for playing 'subversive terrorist' music to a class of 5th graders?"
I'm glad, oh so glad, it's Friday. If I have to deal with one more friendship crisis (this makes number 10 in the past four weeks), I will throw up my liver...I swear.
At least I'll have good background music while I'm puking or while I'm being arrested by Homeland Security...or both!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
house to bedroom
I am in a room, now, that is the size of our living room (the room we did not remodel), but this room is filled with oil paintings, four torch-like sconces, and an entire wall of cherry wood cabinetry. The couches in this room are leather (yes, there are two, and the floor is hardwood. An ancient rug given to the room's owner by some East Indian friend, stretches the length of the floor. Outside the window, the world is in bloom -- pinks and purples and oranges and peaches and yellows. In the backyard, a swimming pool and more colors busting open the nostrils of spring. Across the street, there is a gabled house with a balcony, equally virulent blossoms, and sculpted hedges the shape of overgrown Chia pets.
We are sleeping in a room the size of our original house (640 square feet) with a hot tub on the balcony just outside our window. The view from our bedroom and the hot tub is to the east where we can count the peaks of the Cascades and watch the rowers on Lake Washington work their way against the wind.
It is as if we have been transported to a resort hotel and only our daily getting up and preparing for work reminds us that we have not yet retired to such a deluxe life.
I love our friends who own this house, but every day I am amazed at how the manuver through their lives without one turn of the head, or a nod of consideration that beneath them lies 6000 square feet of structure, four floors of opulence, and a house large enough to accommodate 6 full-sized bathrooms.
The irony of it all is that they live in the basement, two rooms they've remodeled to make it warm and cozy. They cook in their exquisite kitchen and spend time, as I am tonight, in their study, but the other 5000 square feet is relatively untouched -- a collection of furniture, art, and dust.
Each night they cook their meal at 8:30 and sit down to eat by 9. The food is purchased at a variety of stores, where Steven spends his days shopping for just the right herb or piece of meat or the special endive that is only sold in one store in the International District. This is only after four hours of golf for which he rises each morning at 4:30. 18 holes of golf every week day, no matter the weather, and then a day spent searching for basil and rosemary, tender duck or substantial pork.
The price of staying here is my helping to "Dog Whisper" their enormous German Shepard, Ben. Ben is a sweet dog who has never once been given boundaries or limitations. He has destroyed countless pairs of shoes, numerous garden tools, and has a special affinity for bathrobes of which he's torn up 7 in his 4 years of life.
So Ben and I rise at 5 and walk the lake path every morning and then again in the evening. We work on not fearing other dogs (Ben is enormous, but hides behind Steven when another dog approaches or lunges out of fear to bite the head off an unsuspecting lab, or his favorite, a yorkie... the smaller the opponent, the more he fears it.) Tonight, we walked past the neighbor dogs who lunge at the gate setting Ben into a frantic spasm of growling and barking. I immediately threw Ben to the ground and made him lie in a submissive pose until the two large dogs settled down and stopped their slathering and huffing. Then we walked past the gate four more times and nary a bark or snivel was heard.
A small success in a rather long day of work where the drama of friendships dominates the curriculum.
It makes me want to train dogs for the rich.
But there is something uncomfortable about this temporary home. I think it is guilt, but it could be just an unfamiliarity with wealth of this magnitude.
I do find it ironic that Doris, Steven's wife, is an art teacher. An art teacher living in a mansion. A living, breathing oxymoron.
And perhaps the oxymoronic experience is partly what I'm feeling.
Still...
...what am I to do, but take another hot tub, eat another arugula salad, and take the dog on endless walks to overcome his low self esteem. A dog with low self-esteem...
Only in America.
We are sleeping in a room the size of our original house (640 square feet) with a hot tub on the balcony just outside our window. The view from our bedroom and the hot tub is to the east where we can count the peaks of the Cascades and watch the rowers on Lake Washington work their way against the wind.
It is as if we have been transported to a resort hotel and only our daily getting up and preparing for work reminds us that we have not yet retired to such a deluxe life.
I love our friends who own this house, but every day I am amazed at how the manuver through their lives without one turn of the head, or a nod of consideration that beneath them lies 6000 square feet of structure, four floors of opulence, and a house large enough to accommodate 6 full-sized bathrooms.
The irony of it all is that they live in the basement, two rooms they've remodeled to make it warm and cozy. They cook in their exquisite kitchen and spend time, as I am tonight, in their study, but the other 5000 square feet is relatively untouched -- a collection of furniture, art, and dust.
Each night they cook their meal at 8:30 and sit down to eat by 9. The food is purchased at a variety of stores, where Steven spends his days shopping for just the right herb or piece of meat or the special endive that is only sold in one store in the International District. This is only after four hours of golf for which he rises each morning at 4:30. 18 holes of golf every week day, no matter the weather, and then a day spent searching for basil and rosemary, tender duck or substantial pork.
The price of staying here is my helping to "Dog Whisper" their enormous German Shepard, Ben. Ben is a sweet dog who has never once been given boundaries or limitations. He has destroyed countless pairs of shoes, numerous garden tools, and has a special affinity for bathrobes of which he's torn up 7 in his 4 years of life.
So Ben and I rise at 5 and walk the lake path every morning and then again in the evening. We work on not fearing other dogs (Ben is enormous, but hides behind Steven when another dog approaches or lunges out of fear to bite the head off an unsuspecting lab, or his favorite, a yorkie... the smaller the opponent, the more he fears it.) Tonight, we walked past the neighbor dogs who lunge at the gate setting Ben into a frantic spasm of growling and barking. I immediately threw Ben to the ground and made him lie in a submissive pose until the two large dogs settled down and stopped their slathering and huffing. Then we walked past the gate four more times and nary a bark or snivel was heard.
A small success in a rather long day of work where the drama of friendships dominates the curriculum.
It makes me want to train dogs for the rich.
But there is something uncomfortable about this temporary home. I think it is guilt, but it could be just an unfamiliarity with wealth of this magnitude.
I do find it ironic that Doris, Steven's wife, is an art teacher. An art teacher living in a mansion. A living, breathing oxymoron.
And perhaps the oxymoronic experience is partly what I'm feeling.
Still...
...what am I to do, but take another hot tub, eat another arugula salad, and take the dog on endless walks to overcome his low self esteem. A dog with low self-esteem...
Only in America.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Moving on up...
This is our last night at Little Norway (housesitting gig). Tomorrow we move the last of our stuff to our friend's mansion...yes, 6000 square feet of mansion. I shall get lost in the house, I know, but for 3 more weeks, I must live under someone else's roof and not my own.
And I may be sans computer for awhile, which will provide me with lots and lots of reading by the time I hook up ours at home. Happy blogging, my dears.
But I am thankful we are moving back, sort of, to our side of the tracks. Living in the "north end" of Seattle is like an episode of the Twilight Zone. The traffic is amazingly awful (it took us an hour to get from here to our house today...it normally takes 15 minutes), the people are amazingly rude, and the money spent at the grocery stores and local mall is amazingly horrific. I am happy to be moving back to the grocery store that has two whole aisles devoted to Mexican items, another aisle for Asian items, and a special row in the meat section for parts of the animal I never knew were edible. I'm happy to be back in the 'hood where people say hello, every corner has a church where the congregants actually sing and faint and wear Sunday hats the size of bird baths, and the skin color is not all one hue, nor the pocketbooks all filled with enough money to gag on.
Little Norway has been a perfect respite and a perfect "nursing" home for Chester's final days, but I'm ready for a neighborhood that's a bit more real and less Stepfordish than this one.
So, we're moving on up to the mansion tomorrow (hot tub, pool, leather couches, six bathrooms) and then by the middle of May, into our own humble abode.
There is no place like home.
No place.
My biggest concern is how I'll feel moving back home without Chester. I will most certainly cry, just as I did today when a large lab licked my chin with his velvet tongue, his eyes half closed and his tail wagging.
And then the vet called and told us that Chester's remains were ready to pick up. I cried just hearing the message.
I shall cry again and again and again when I pick up the box with his remains and then figure out where to store them until we decide where to spread them. We plan on making a garden stone with some of the ashes, but then there are many hikes we've taken where Chester deserves to be laid at rest.
So soon we shall head to the mountains and I shall cry again.
Last night I dreamt that Chester was chasing a greyhound through a large field.
I woke up crying and smiling. He always did love the tall ones!
Thinking of all of you over the next few weeks and will attempt to get back in touch soon.
Signing off for now...
na
And I may be sans computer for awhile, which will provide me with lots and lots of reading by the time I hook up ours at home. Happy blogging, my dears.
But I am thankful we are moving back, sort of, to our side of the tracks. Living in the "north end" of Seattle is like an episode of the Twilight Zone. The traffic is amazingly awful (it took us an hour to get from here to our house today...it normally takes 15 minutes), the people are amazingly rude, and the money spent at the grocery stores and local mall is amazingly horrific. I am happy to be moving back to the grocery store that has two whole aisles devoted to Mexican items, another aisle for Asian items, and a special row in the meat section for parts of the animal I never knew were edible. I'm happy to be back in the 'hood where people say hello, every corner has a church where the congregants actually sing and faint and wear Sunday hats the size of bird baths, and the skin color is not all one hue, nor the pocketbooks all filled with enough money to gag on.
Little Norway has been a perfect respite and a perfect "nursing" home for Chester's final days, but I'm ready for a neighborhood that's a bit more real and less Stepfordish than this one.
So, we're moving on up to the mansion tomorrow (hot tub, pool, leather couches, six bathrooms) and then by the middle of May, into our own humble abode.
There is no place like home.
No place.
My biggest concern is how I'll feel moving back home without Chester. I will most certainly cry, just as I did today when a large lab licked my chin with his velvet tongue, his eyes half closed and his tail wagging.
And then the vet called and told us that Chester's remains were ready to pick up. I cried just hearing the message.
I shall cry again and again and again when I pick up the box with his remains and then figure out where to store them until we decide where to spread them. We plan on making a garden stone with some of the ashes, but then there are many hikes we've taken where Chester deserves to be laid at rest.
So soon we shall head to the mountains and I shall cry again.
Last night I dreamt that Chester was chasing a greyhound through a large field.
I woke up crying and smiling. He always did love the tall ones!
Thinking of all of you over the next few weeks and will attempt to get back in touch soon.
Signing off for now...
na
Thursday, April 27, 2006
A skeptical lot
I spent today in a workshop with my co-workers learning about the current brain research as it connects to teaching and learning.
Now my brain hurts.
It was a fascinating day, but I was also intrigued watching and listening to our faculty's skepticism about what they were hearing. We are a snobby group, intellectually speaking, and I find tonight I am in a bit of a funk about it all. Even though today was eye-opening for me, I also realized how arrogant teachers can be.
Luckily, our presenter, Nicole, saw through the bullshit in a second. I talked with her at lunch and she asked me, "So, how well do you think your faculty works together?"
Me: "Not very."
Nicole: "Ahhhhh..."
Me: "But they have good intentions, they're just resistent to change."
Nicole: "Yes, they find comfort in their intelligence and then hide behind it, intellectualizing their way out of moving forward."
I fell in love with this very heavy African American woman who commanded our attention just like my own 6th grade, six-foot tall teacher who commanded my attention almost 40 years ago. Erma Miller. There was a woman who knew how to claim space. Nicole did as well.
After lunch, with the precision of a brain surgeon, she cut apart the resistence of our faculty with thoughtful, insightful, and honest questions until, I think...I hope...she overcame the resistance and helped us move forward. It was brilliant to watch. Inspiring, but I think my neurons are now firing at half speed because of all the information she pumped into us.
Meanwhile, I keep thinking about how my teaching partner and I need to have that talk with our students about claiming space and about the difference between claiming negative space and claiming positive space.
Lately, it's been a lot of negative claiming. And if I have to have one more discussion about friendships I think I'll puke up my liver. You should see me...on the outside I'm all teacher-as-therapist talking about boundaries and respect and using language like "What I hear you saying is..." and "When she says that to you, how does that make you feel?"
On the inside I'm screaming to myself, "Jesus fucking Christ! Just get over it!"
But my head keeps nodding as I listen to girls tell me that so and so did this or so and so said that and the tears start flowing and the hormones start erupting. Peyton Place meets 5th grade. Oy.
I suppose it's not a good mix...me, pre-menopausal (I turned quite the shade of crimson this afternoon during a mini-hot flash) and my students (all girls, as I teach at an all girls school) pre-menstrual. New blood meets old blood.
Not a pretty mix.
And today I learned that when the brain sees read, neurons fire like it's the Fourth of July, overstimulating the brain so that it downshifts and does not work at full capacity. A whole new perspective. Color theory in the classroom!
But tomorrow is Friday and we are off to the beach to look at nudibranchs and moonsnails, enjoying the sun and warmth the forecasters have assuredly predicted. Please may it be so. Nothing that a little sun and sand and invertebrate anatomy can't do to overcome friendship drama.
Not a bad gig, this here teaching. Even if days like today make my brain hurt.
Now my brain hurts.
It was a fascinating day, but I was also intrigued watching and listening to our faculty's skepticism about what they were hearing. We are a snobby group, intellectually speaking, and I find tonight I am in a bit of a funk about it all. Even though today was eye-opening for me, I also realized how arrogant teachers can be.
Luckily, our presenter, Nicole, saw through the bullshit in a second. I talked with her at lunch and she asked me, "So, how well do you think your faculty works together?"
Me: "Not very."
Nicole: "Ahhhhh..."
Me: "But they have good intentions, they're just resistent to change."
Nicole: "Yes, they find comfort in their intelligence and then hide behind it, intellectualizing their way out of moving forward."
I fell in love with this very heavy African American woman who commanded our attention just like my own 6th grade, six-foot tall teacher who commanded my attention almost 40 years ago. Erma Miller. There was a woman who knew how to claim space. Nicole did as well.
After lunch, with the precision of a brain surgeon, she cut apart the resistence of our faculty with thoughtful, insightful, and honest questions until, I think...I hope...she overcame the resistance and helped us move forward. It was brilliant to watch. Inspiring, but I think my neurons are now firing at half speed because of all the information she pumped into us.
Meanwhile, I keep thinking about how my teaching partner and I need to have that talk with our students about claiming space and about the difference between claiming negative space and claiming positive space.
Lately, it's been a lot of negative claiming. And if I have to have one more discussion about friendships I think I'll puke up my liver. You should see me...on the outside I'm all teacher-as-therapist talking about boundaries and respect and using language like "What I hear you saying is..." and "When she says that to you, how does that make you feel?"
On the inside I'm screaming to myself, "Jesus fucking Christ! Just get over it!"
But my head keeps nodding as I listen to girls tell me that so and so did this or so and so said that and the tears start flowing and the hormones start erupting. Peyton Place meets 5th grade. Oy.
I suppose it's not a good mix...me, pre-menopausal (I turned quite the shade of crimson this afternoon during a mini-hot flash) and my students (all girls, as I teach at an all girls school) pre-menstrual. New blood meets old blood.
Not a pretty mix.
And today I learned that when the brain sees read, neurons fire like it's the Fourth of July, overstimulating the brain so that it downshifts and does not work at full capacity. A whole new perspective. Color theory in the classroom!
But tomorrow is Friday and we are off to the beach to look at nudibranchs and moonsnails, enjoying the sun and warmth the forecasters have assuredly predicted. Please may it be so. Nothing that a little sun and sand and invertebrate anatomy can't do to overcome friendship drama.
Not a bad gig, this here teaching. Even if days like today make my brain hurt.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Listening?
I'm listening to Ann on the phone with her mother:
Ann: um, uh, um-um, yes, why?
Mother: long silence (I can't hear the other end of the so-called conversation)
Ann: umm, uh, um, yes, yes, oh?
Mother: Long silence
20 minutes later
Ann: He's a convict, mom. You don't really know him.
Mother: Long silence, though it's not really silence because I can hear her lilting accent even from here (I'm in the study, Ann's in the kitchen)
Ann: Um, I...oh, um-um...
Mother: Long silence, though I think she's still talking about her Mexican boyfriend who was released from prison last month
Ann: Mom...are you there? Shit...she cut out...Gretchen? (She calls to me...)
Me: Yes?
Ann: What do I say to her? She's in panic mode. She hasn't heard from him in over a week and she's worried that he might have been hurt. God, she's freaking out over some guy she thinks she knows but she doesn't know him!!!
Me: She'll hear nothing you say, so what can you do?
Ann calls again. The conversation continues like this for another 20 minutes. Then the phone cuts out again.
Now I can hear Ann doing the dishes, organizing them in the basin and slamming the doors to the cupboards.
Oh, and the phone rings. Mom again.
Ann: This is the phone number of the place where we're housesitting. We're moving out this weekend and staying with Steven and Doris. (God, she actually asked about Ann's life...it won't last long)
Mom: Short silence.
Ann: I'm not going to hold my breath. You don't know this guy. You don't know if he's the real thing or not. Already, this silence from him. Jeez, mom, I've heard it before with all the other men where they don't call you, they use you...
Mom: Interrupting...
Ann: I know, but...
Mom: Interrupting again...
Ann: Mom this is a whole other game. He's a convict. A drug runner. He just needs your money. You need to take care of yourself. Take it slow, mom. If he's going to be there for you, he'll be there for you in a year or two years. Why do you have to rush into all of this?
Mom: Quick response...
Ann: Well, that's your gut talking to you and you need to listen...
This goes on and on...and Ann is clearly upset, as she should be. Knowing her mom, I'm certain she's justifying every action she's taken so far with this man.
Meanwhile, Ann talks to her mother like she "gets it", but she doesn't get it...how many times has Ann had this conversation with her mother?
I can't listen anymore. I'm going to go watch Mariska Hargitay in yet another rerun of Law and Order SVU!
Ann: um, uh, um-um, yes, why?
Mother: long silence (I can't hear the other end of the so-called conversation)
Ann: umm, uh, um, yes, yes, oh?
Mother: Long silence
20 minutes later
Ann: He's a convict, mom. You don't really know him.
Mother: Long silence, though it's not really silence because I can hear her lilting accent even from here (I'm in the study, Ann's in the kitchen)
Ann: Um, I...oh, um-um...
Mother: Long silence, though I think she's still talking about her Mexican boyfriend who was released from prison last month
Ann: Mom...are you there? Shit...she cut out...Gretchen? (She calls to me...)
Me: Yes?
Ann: What do I say to her? She's in panic mode. She hasn't heard from him in over a week and she's worried that he might have been hurt. God, she's freaking out over some guy she thinks she knows but she doesn't know him!!!
Me: She'll hear nothing you say, so what can you do?
Ann calls again. The conversation continues like this for another 20 minutes. Then the phone cuts out again.
Now I can hear Ann doing the dishes, organizing them in the basin and slamming the doors to the cupboards.
Oh, and the phone rings. Mom again.
Ann: This is the phone number of the place where we're housesitting. We're moving out this weekend and staying with Steven and Doris. (God, she actually asked about Ann's life...it won't last long)
Mom: Short silence.
Ann: I'm not going to hold my breath. You don't know this guy. You don't know if he's the real thing or not. Already, this silence from him. Jeez, mom, I've heard it before with all the other men where they don't call you, they use you...
Mom: Interrupting...
Ann: I know, but...
Mom: Interrupting again...
Ann: Mom this is a whole other game. He's a convict. A drug runner. He just needs your money. You need to take care of yourself. Take it slow, mom. If he's going to be there for you, he'll be there for you in a year or two years. Why do you have to rush into all of this?
Mom: Quick response...
Ann: Well, that's your gut talking to you and you need to listen...
This goes on and on...and Ann is clearly upset, as she should be. Knowing her mom, I'm certain she's justifying every action she's taken so far with this man.
Meanwhile, Ann talks to her mother like she "gets it", but she doesn't get it...how many times has Ann had this conversation with her mother?
I can't listen anymore. I'm going to go watch Mariska Hargitay in yet another rerun of Law and Order SVU!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Chai, it's not just a drink...
We painted today. We painted the kitchen. Well, some of it. The cabinets go in soon, so we needed to put the "accent" color on the walls before the cabinets and before the tile backsplash. The bamboo floors are in and the house is completely different...completely.
We were a bit leary of the accent paint color, though. At least when we opened the can and saw it. Ann said, "It looks like those Espresso Milkshakes you like to drink in the summer" and it did, but the color was "Chai" as in the tea, as in the new trendy drink served at Starbuck's and not espresso at all.
But once it was on the walls it was perfect -- warm and colorful, not too overwhelming or unpredictable.
Who knew? Chai...
In between the painting of the first coat and the second, we came back to "Little Norway" (the housesitting gig) and took a nap. Then we both woke up and cried, missing our little man. It's been a week since he died and most days are okay, but the mornings and evenings suck because 1)they are so quiet and 2)no one is happy to see us when we wake up or get home.
And now, it seems, weekends will be hard too as we aren't bound to any canine schedule. We wander a lot or drive the car around wondering what we should do next since it doesn't involve walking the dog, feeding the dog, letting the dog in, letting the dog out or taking the dog somewhere.
Our tears today were sadness that our "new" house shall not be Chester's house anymore and though we are excited to move back in, it will be bittersweet as there will be no dog bed at the foot of our bed, no dog food dishes in the kitchen, and no wagging tail chasing squirrels in the backyard.
Perhaps the next dog will be named Chai?
I think not. I think not.
We were a bit leary of the accent paint color, though. At least when we opened the can and saw it. Ann said, "It looks like those Espresso Milkshakes you like to drink in the summer" and it did, but the color was "Chai" as in the tea, as in the new trendy drink served at Starbuck's and not espresso at all.
But once it was on the walls it was perfect -- warm and colorful, not too overwhelming or unpredictable.
Who knew? Chai...
In between the painting of the first coat and the second, we came back to "Little Norway" (the housesitting gig) and took a nap. Then we both woke up and cried, missing our little man. It's been a week since he died and most days are okay, but the mornings and evenings suck because 1)they are so quiet and 2)no one is happy to see us when we wake up or get home.
And now, it seems, weekends will be hard too as we aren't bound to any canine schedule. We wander a lot or drive the car around wondering what we should do next since it doesn't involve walking the dog, feeding the dog, letting the dog in, letting the dog out or taking the dog somewhere.
Our tears today were sadness that our "new" house shall not be Chester's house anymore and though we are excited to move back in, it will be bittersweet as there will be no dog bed at the foot of our bed, no dog food dishes in the kitchen, and no wagging tail chasing squirrels in the backyard.
Perhaps the next dog will be named Chai?
I think not. I think not.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Spelling and Sympathy
We've received many wonderful cards and emails from family, friends, and even our students and their families. My favorte is a loving message from a very sweet young girl in my class who gave me a card that reads (on the front): "Going through a rough time? Look on the bright side. Remember every cloud has a silver lining, put on a happy face, and if that doesn't work...
(inside of card)
1. Carefully cut out the smiley face below
2. Rip it into a thousand tiny pieces
3. Flush it down the toilet!
There! Don't you feel a little better now?"
This is only topped by her hand-written message. "I am so sorry Chester pasted away."
Yes, pasted...I like the image of Chester pasted somewhere in the spirit world!
Onward!
(inside of card)
1. Carefully cut out the smiley face below
2. Rip it into a thousand tiny pieces
3. Flush it down the toilet!
There! Don't you feel a little better now?"
This is only topped by her hand-written message. "I am so sorry Chester pasted away."
Yes, pasted...I like the image of Chester pasted somewhere in the spirit world!
Onward!
Monday, April 17, 2006
Dogs
And what if they lived forever
What then?
Would your heart be so hollow,
Your hand empty?
Would you get tired of them,
The morning walks,
The evening walks,
Carrying the 50 pounds of dog food
Out of the car and up the stairs?
Would you wish for quiet
And no more snoring
Late at night when your dreams
Are really worries
And the night is filled with echoes?
Would you wish for cats
Who purr and never bark
Who only need a patch of sun
On a wool couch
Or a touch of cream with their tuna?
Would there be no more room in your
Bed for the twitching leg
Or the scruffy whiskers against your
Chafed and sallow elbow?
Would you wish to paint their noses
Some other color than black
Or hide their squeaky toys in a
Tall closet just beyond their reach?
Would your mind eventually focus
On the waiting taxes or the dirty dishes
Or the mismatched socks stuffed
In the back of your dresser drawer?
Would you tire of the tangled leashes
Or the holey bags stacked in an
Overflowing basket just as you
Walk out the door?
Would the fluffs of fur gathered in the
Corner of the kitchen and the den
And the bedroom be forgotten, piling
Higher, growing larger until they became
Pieces of soft and cushy furniture?
Would the smell of their ears or
The sound of their paws
Or the huff of their breath
Become a burden of odor and repetition?
Would you forget about love,
Say goodbye to sweetness,
Dangle your toes in the icy ocean
And be unimpressed?
Would the richness of a crisp morning
Taste as bitter as cold coffee
Or the rain on a spring morning
Fall like fire on your skin?
Could you truly know happiness
Or silliness
Or weariness
Or sadness
Or frailness
Or folly
Or gloom
Or anticipation
Or impatience
Or worry
Or exhilaration
Or irritation
Or persistence
Or integrity
If they lived for ever?
They do not.
So you will never know
And that
is just one more mystery floating
on the ripple of air
Formed by the wave
Of a once proud tail.
What then?
Would your heart be so hollow,
Your hand empty?
Would you get tired of them,
The morning walks,
The evening walks,
Carrying the 50 pounds of dog food
Out of the car and up the stairs?
Would you wish for quiet
And no more snoring
Late at night when your dreams
Are really worries
And the night is filled with echoes?
Would you wish for cats
Who purr and never bark
Who only need a patch of sun
On a wool couch
Or a touch of cream with their tuna?
Would there be no more room in your
Bed for the twitching leg
Or the scruffy whiskers against your
Chafed and sallow elbow?
Would you wish to paint their noses
Some other color than black
Or hide their squeaky toys in a
Tall closet just beyond their reach?
Would your mind eventually focus
On the waiting taxes or the dirty dishes
Or the mismatched socks stuffed
In the back of your dresser drawer?
Would you tire of the tangled leashes
Or the holey bags stacked in an
Overflowing basket just as you
Walk out the door?
Would the fluffs of fur gathered in the
Corner of the kitchen and the den
And the bedroom be forgotten, piling
Higher, growing larger until they became
Pieces of soft and cushy furniture?
Would the smell of their ears or
The sound of their paws
Or the huff of their breath
Become a burden of odor and repetition?
Would you forget about love,
Say goodbye to sweetness,
Dangle your toes in the icy ocean
And be unimpressed?
Would the richness of a crisp morning
Taste as bitter as cold coffee
Or the rain on a spring morning
Fall like fire on your skin?
Could you truly know happiness
Or silliness
Or weariness
Or sadness
Or frailness
Or folly
Or gloom
Or anticipation
Or impatience
Or worry
Or exhilaration
Or irritation
Or persistence
Or integrity
If they lived for ever?
They do not.
So you will never know
And that
is just one more mystery floating
on the ripple of air
Formed by the wave
Of a once proud tail.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Thank you...
First, both Ann and I want to thank all of you bloggers in bloggersville for such warm and loving thoughts about our sweet, sweet Mr. Pajama Pants (aka, Chester).
We spent a nice weekend with our friends, Jeanne and Lisa, at their river cabin up over the mountains. It snowed. So fitting. Ann said Chester was shaking the clouds, eeking out the last bit of snow for us. We picked out river stones for our garden that reminded us of Chester. We'll make a garden stone for him when his cremation ashes come home and place it right next to Abbie's.
Ann just said, "Having the rocks in the car reminded me of the weight of him in the back seat on our way home. It didn't make the car feel so empty."
Yes, empty. We feel it deeply, his loss, his absence, his clicking toe nails on the floor.
But we also know there is relief that he will not have to walk down the road of suffering he was headed for with such certainty. The vet, a sweet man, very gentle and soft-spoken, told us he was touched by how much we did for Chester these past 10 months since the diagnosis of a brain tumor. "You did more than most would," he said, "And that shows such love you and your family have for each other."
We sobbed.
We sobbed for a long, long time.
But Chester had an amazingly good last day. Friday morning we rose early and fed him a hard-boiled egg and half a bagel. He smiled. Then we walked at Ravenna Park, one of his favorite new walks since our house-sitting stint, and the sun warmed us all despite the wintery temperatures. Next stop, our house to let him pee on his old haunts, followed by dinner of half a bagel, another hard boiled egg, and roasted chicken, huge hunks of it! He smiled again.
Finally, we ended the day with a walk at Seward Park, truly his favorite spot on earth. With his illness and medication, he was never able to walk more than 30 minutes before exhaustion set in. This was essentially his third walk for the day and to make the trek through the park takes, on a good day, about 40 minutes. Chester took over an hour this time, but stayed right in his pack spot, behind me and in front of Ann, the whole way. He wagged his black tail with the four white hairs at the tip the entire time and smiled, smiled, smiled like he hasn't done for months.
By the time we got to the vet, we knew he'd had one of the best days of his life.
He died at 6 pm on Good Friday. Peacefully, calmly, and with dignity. We surrounded him with our arms and with our love -- his faithful pack.
This morning, Easter morning, we toasted the day with toasted bagels together with Jeanne and Lisa, and both Ann and I waited to see if Chester, like Jesus, would rise again.
On the way home, we stopped along the highway at a beautiful bend in the river and said one last goodbye to him. It was hard to come home, even though it's not our home, but our housesitting home. We still fell apart wondering why he wasn't at the door to be let in, why he wasn't at his bowl waiting for dinner, why he wasn't there to monitor the unloading of bags, the setting up of laundry. More than once I have tried to fill his dog bowl with water only to catch myself and cry some more.
This is hard, this letting go, but we know he had a good life, a very good life, and was surrounded by love every minute of every day. Yes, he is with Dakota, his earth twin, and he is also with my former dog, Abbie (his soul twin sister) and with my dad's dog, Sasha, and Ann's former dog, Cocoa. He is not alone.
And we aren't either. We know there are many more tears to come...like tomorrow when we must tell our students (we bought our classes bagels for the same goodbye ritual and salute)...but the tears our, I guess, a further celebration of a beautiful, wonderful dog who shared our lives with his wagging tail, his happy smile, and his ever-loyal and faithful loving stare.
Thank you again, everyone...truly.
We spent a nice weekend with our friends, Jeanne and Lisa, at their river cabin up over the mountains. It snowed. So fitting. Ann said Chester was shaking the clouds, eeking out the last bit of snow for us. We picked out river stones for our garden that reminded us of Chester. We'll make a garden stone for him when his cremation ashes come home and place it right next to Abbie's.
Ann just said, "Having the rocks in the car reminded me of the weight of him in the back seat on our way home. It didn't make the car feel so empty."
Yes, empty. We feel it deeply, his loss, his absence, his clicking toe nails on the floor.
But we also know there is relief that he will not have to walk down the road of suffering he was headed for with such certainty. The vet, a sweet man, very gentle and soft-spoken, told us he was touched by how much we did for Chester these past 10 months since the diagnosis of a brain tumor. "You did more than most would," he said, "And that shows such love you and your family have for each other."
We sobbed.
We sobbed for a long, long time.
But Chester had an amazingly good last day. Friday morning we rose early and fed him a hard-boiled egg and half a bagel. He smiled. Then we walked at Ravenna Park, one of his favorite new walks since our house-sitting stint, and the sun warmed us all despite the wintery temperatures. Next stop, our house to let him pee on his old haunts, followed by dinner of half a bagel, another hard boiled egg, and roasted chicken, huge hunks of it! He smiled again.
Finally, we ended the day with a walk at Seward Park, truly his favorite spot on earth. With his illness and medication, he was never able to walk more than 30 minutes before exhaustion set in. This was essentially his third walk for the day and to make the trek through the park takes, on a good day, about 40 minutes. Chester took over an hour this time, but stayed right in his pack spot, behind me and in front of Ann, the whole way. He wagged his black tail with the four white hairs at the tip the entire time and smiled, smiled, smiled like he hasn't done for months.
By the time we got to the vet, we knew he'd had one of the best days of his life.
He died at 6 pm on Good Friday. Peacefully, calmly, and with dignity. We surrounded him with our arms and with our love -- his faithful pack.
This morning, Easter morning, we toasted the day with toasted bagels together with Jeanne and Lisa, and both Ann and I waited to see if Chester, like Jesus, would rise again.
On the way home, we stopped along the highway at a beautiful bend in the river and said one last goodbye to him. It was hard to come home, even though it's not our home, but our housesitting home. We still fell apart wondering why he wasn't at the door to be let in, why he wasn't at his bowl waiting for dinner, why he wasn't there to monitor the unloading of bags, the setting up of laundry. More than once I have tried to fill his dog bowl with water only to catch myself and cry some more.
This is hard, this letting go, but we know he had a good life, a very good life, and was surrounded by love every minute of every day. Yes, he is with Dakota, his earth twin, and he is also with my former dog, Abbie (his soul twin sister) and with my dad's dog, Sasha, and Ann's former dog, Cocoa. He is not alone.
And we aren't either. We know there are many more tears to come...like tomorrow when we must tell our students (we bought our classes bagels for the same goodbye ritual and salute)...but the tears our, I guess, a further celebration of a beautiful, wonderful dog who shared our lives with his wagging tail, his happy smile, and his ever-loyal and faithful loving stare.
Thank you again, everyone...truly.
Friday, April 14, 2006
In Memory of Chester1993-2006
In celebration of Chester’s life we would like to remember all the reasons we loved him, and love his memory still:
His tail signaled great things…grandmother’s cooking, hidden treats in a raincoat, four-legged visitors, promises of walks in the park, the discovery of chicken bones dropped by crows, contentment with his quiet position on the bed wedged between us, and the anticipation of a trip in the car. He wagged his tail from side to side and up and down and in a special move, around in a circle like a helicopter. We trimmed his tail at the Dog Wash and played with it despite his growling protestations. On the end of his black tail, four white hairs beckoned us on the trail. It was his flag and our comfort.
His sounds sent messages…the impatient moan for his morning walk; a gentle “woof”, just once, to be let in; the excited high-pitched squeal at the discovery of a raccoon in the cherry tree; the slurping lap of water; the jingle of his collar against an ice cream bowl; the stomping of his back legs when begging for a bagel or some toast; the extended yowl when dinner was prepared and delivered; the ha-rumph when he laid down; the huff of air as he cleared his nostrils to better smell the fresh air, his head stretched out the back of the car window; the gratification-pant of a day well-spent with his family; his yips and hoots while he dreamt; the occasional snap and snarl when irritated; and the smacking of his lips as he fell asleep. Our silence will echo with the memory of his dogged-determination to get and keep our attention.
His prance that set the pace of our lives…the way his paws and body lifted when he greeted friend or foe; the silly gallop that greeted us when we got home; the hobby horse, bucking bronco when we pulled out the leash; the way he sat, still and ready, in his assistant chef position, anticipating the clean up; the shuffle of his toes against the hardwood; the “chase-of-the-crows run”, head down and surreptitious; the running paws as he dreamed of chasing squirrels; the lean against the leash when he wanted to smell for chicken bones or hamburger buns; his stubborn walk as we circled back home begging us for just another mile, just another sniff; the slurpy walk through marshes, padding wet paws occasionally lifted like a pointer or a great hunting dog; and the wading up to his chest in the lake or the river or the ocean, feet firmly planted on the earth. May your tired legs run with new energy in the blue sky of all dogs.
And his friends…past and present…Moses and Ruckus and Mario and Tomas and Buster and Sandy and Chloe and Dakota and Monty and Franklin and Josie and Frankie and Sasha and Sasha (yes, two), and Hope and Ringo and Keenan and Shelby and Ben and Brio and Lulu…yes, especially Lulu.
And his face – those eyes, those ears, that broad forehead – they way he could stare us down with such burning amber love; the professorial pondering late at night; the happy smile; the concerned worry; the ancient knowledge of scent and sound; the way one eyebrow lifted at the sound of his name; the droopy eyes as he fought sleep; the willingness to tend the pack even in his dreams; the tilt of the head; the muzzle laid softly against our thigh or curled up like a deer bedded down in a tall field of grass; the Rin-Tin-Tin look when scouting out the valley of some great hike; the look of anxious concern as he turned to make certain we were following; the hanging head when he gave into weariness; the curl of his lip when it stuck on his canine tooth; and the gentle kiss when we asked for it. May we never forget that face. May we never forget those eyes. May we never forget those soft, buttery ears.
It’s hard to say goodbye to such a friend. There is no way, in fact, and so we we’ll let our tears sing our farewells, remembering the softness of a spirit who still lives with us in so many ways. It’s hard to say goodbye and so we won’t. Three cheers to Chester and a toast of roasted chicken!
Thursday, April 13, 2006
It's easier to be mad than sad...
She doesn't even know me
Doesn't know
I sleep with a pillow
between my legs
to level out my back
And she doesn't know
how I hate the sound nail-
biters make when chewing
the fleshy skin around the cuticle
the little nibbles that soon turn
red and bloody
She doesn't know the
inside of me or
even the outside, how I
break out in a rash
in the spring, then again in
fall because of Alders,
the weedy tree that blooms
after they've clear cut a lot
for a row of townhouses
or a new Walmart
She doesn't know that
peppers, no matter what
color,
give me gas
or that I can't stand
spicy foods
because they make
my stomach hurt
late into the night
or that I prefer dark
chocolate to light
or blueberries when
they're fresh and
never as jam
that I drink skim milk
with cocoa
or that I dunk my
whole grain seeded
bread
into my soup
just long enough
to make the bread limp
and drippy
She has no idea
that at night
when I can't sleep, I count
backwards and then
again by fives and then
by threes
just to bore myself
back into my dreams where
a soundtrack plays loudly and
wakes me humming a song each
morning...usually Sondheim,
"a weekend in the country
how exciting,
how terribly fun"
...or this morning, a classic,
"When you're a Jet,
you're a Jet all the way..."
She doesn't know I'm
47
no longer 12
no longer 8
no longer 4
She doesn't know I'm
really older than
she is
in so many ways
though the numbers
don't add up
the years are all wrong.
She doesn't know
how each morning,
I count my steps
into the kitchen
then count the seconds
as the steamer heats the milk
then count the seconds
as the coffee swirls into the foam
then count one
two
three
four
five,
it must always be five,
turns of the spoon,
then count my steps
back to the bedroom
where I wake my lover with
one kiss on the forehead,
and the thud of the
mug on the nightstand,
then walk back to the kitchen,
counting my steps
and the dog's steps as well
to pour cereal, then milk
one, two, three, four, five
She doesn't know how seconds
pass in my life
how seconds skip right
into hours
how I am content
and sometimes sad
and a little tired of
the weather, and the gray,
and the rain
but overall,
I am content, at peace,
and working on my
humility
and
forgiveness
She doesn't know me, has
never tried, is so wrapped up
in sarcasm and spite
she doesn't have time to feel
jealous
just bitter
with that smile
of hers
and the giggle
that always follows
the curve
of her mouth
she spits her bitterness
my
direction
always
with the wind at her
back and tells me
to RELAX,
in capital letters
as if
as if
as if
she knows me
and now I cannot
RE-LAX
because I'm wiping
spit off my face
and off my new glasses that
she
doesn't
even
know
I
picked
up
just
to-
day
No,
I cannot make sense
of what she doesn't
know.
Doesn't know
I sleep with a pillow
between my legs
to level out my back
And she doesn't know
how I hate the sound nail-
biters make when chewing
the fleshy skin around the cuticle
the little nibbles that soon turn
red and bloody
She doesn't know the
inside of me or
even the outside, how I
break out in a rash
in the spring, then again in
fall because of Alders,
the weedy tree that blooms
after they've clear cut a lot
for a row of townhouses
or a new Walmart
She doesn't know that
peppers, no matter what
color,
give me gas
or that I can't stand
spicy foods
because they make
my stomach hurt
late into the night
or that I prefer dark
chocolate to light
or blueberries when
they're fresh and
never as jam
that I drink skim milk
with cocoa
or that I dunk my
whole grain seeded
bread
into my soup
just long enough
to make the bread limp
and drippy
She has no idea
that at night
when I can't sleep, I count
backwards and then
again by fives and then
by threes
just to bore myself
back into my dreams where
a soundtrack plays loudly and
wakes me humming a song each
morning...usually Sondheim,
"a weekend in the country
how exciting,
how terribly fun"
...or this morning, a classic,
"When you're a Jet,
you're a Jet all the way..."
She doesn't know I'm
47
no longer 12
no longer 8
no longer 4
She doesn't know I'm
really older than
she is
in so many ways
though the numbers
don't add up
the years are all wrong.
She doesn't know
how each morning,
I count my steps
into the kitchen
then count the seconds
as the steamer heats the milk
then count the seconds
as the coffee swirls into the foam
then count one
two
three
four
five,
it must always be five,
turns of the spoon,
then count my steps
back to the bedroom
where I wake my lover with
one kiss on the forehead,
and the thud of the
mug on the nightstand,
then walk back to the kitchen,
counting my steps
and the dog's steps as well
to pour cereal, then milk
one, two, three, four, five
She doesn't know how seconds
pass in my life
how seconds skip right
into hours
how I am content
and sometimes sad
and a little tired of
the weather, and the gray,
and the rain
but overall,
I am content, at peace,
and working on my
humility
and
forgiveness
She doesn't know me, has
never tried, is so wrapped up
in sarcasm and spite
she doesn't have time to feel
jealous
just bitter
with that smile
of hers
and the giggle
that always follows
the curve
of her mouth
she spits her bitterness
my
direction
always
with the wind at her
back and tells me
to RELAX,
in capital letters
as if
as if
as if
she knows me
and now I cannot
RE-LAX
because I'm wiping
spit off my face
and off my new glasses that
she
doesn't
even
know
I
picked
up
just
to-
day
No,
I cannot make sense
of what she doesn't
know.
That was then, this is now...
The house originally (well, circa 1950's style though the house was originally built in 1900) and the house as it stands today (circa 2006, with all new siding and a hunky addition on the back).
And Chester, trying to convince us that he still can chase ducks if given half the chance.
We went shopping with our designer to look for lights yesterday. What a trip. I've never seen so many lights. Thousands. And very few of them we actually liked. But Denise, our designer, said that's how it would be, that we'd only see a few that appealed to us.
And when I say designer, don't get the wrong idea. She's really a normal woman with good taste...something we're not and don't necessarily have. When she was working with the store rep, Ann and I sat at a table under some heavy wrought-ironed fixtures and discussed our options and preferences. It struck me then that there were thousands of different lights in the store and out in the world you could find someone who could find something to like in the store. In other words, every light would have a home. Hard to believe when looking at some of the over done, shiny and jeweled fixtures, but they must sell stuff like that otherwise why would they have it in the store?
Later that evening, we had dinner with our best of friends, Jeanne and Lisa at a nice Mexican restuarant. We sat under the same light fixtures we saw in the store that morning, the ugly ones though they worked in the restaurant.
Last year at this time, the four of us were in Mexico, soaking up the sun and salt water, eating fish tacos and watching Alma, the house caretaker, make us chicken mole, chile rellanos and flan. Last night's meal was good, but it couldn't compare to Alma's meal.
Still it was wonderful to hang out with our friends and talk about house remodels and the Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan. Lisa, the most non-religious or spiritual person I know, is not a fan of dogs, but loves Cesar even though he talks about ENERGY being the way all animals (including humans) communicate. Until we talked about energy in scientific terms, Lisa was not ready to accept energy as anything else but spiritual. She's very good natured about it, but it was interesting to watch her squirm a bit during the discussion.
When we got home, we watched bad TV (another rerun of Law and Order) while Chester slept beside us on the bed. He got up, turned to the right, shuttered a bit, and we knew...time for a seizure.
It's amazing how calmly we respond now, having been through the ordeal too many times to count. Ann held his head, I ran to the bathroom to get the valium, and then we lifted his tail so I could inject the amber liquid into his rectum. The shuttering stopped, followed by the usual heavy sighs and twitching paws. His heart beat wildly and we inspected his belly where the sore is slowly healing. The second I tried to put on some ointment, he popped up looking at me as if to say, "No way, lady. You ain't touching my sore. Not on your life."
Usually, after a seizure, he's extremely disoriented and it takes a couple of hours for him to settle down and relax. Last night, he did his usual routine of going outside about 5 times to pee, but then laid right down on his bed and fell asleep. He got up a couple of times during the night and this morning he is wobbly and drugged (we upped his meds again), but as far as seizures go, this was an easy one.
I'm not particularly spiritual or religious myself, though I do believe in nature as a force that lives within us all and all around us. Energy, as a way of communication, makes perfect sense and there are times when I am blown away by energy's circumstance.
For instance, we have this silly dog calendar where every day is a different picture of a dog and an explanation of either a dog's behavior or physical feature. As part of my morning ritual, I make coffee and turn yesterday's dog calendar page to the current day's dog. This morning, the picture for Thursday, April 13, struck me hard. It was an exact image, close up, of my former beloved dog, Abbie. Spitting image. I cried.
"She's here," I thought and with Chester's current decline, I knew it was a message of some sort. I could analyze the implications, the message of the "energy", but there's no need. She was a wonderful dog -- loyal, silly, and so happy to be on the trail of my life. Fossilguy is right...her death was painful and difficult for me, the first step down in my spiraling, deepening depression, but now, the dull ache I feel when seeing a picture that looks like her but is not her is pleasantly sweet and comforting.
Chester must have sensed my energy while I was looking at Abbie's non-picture because he nuzzled my leg while we stood in the kitchen as if to say, "Yes, I know, but really, it is time to make coffee and get on with life."
And so I shall.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Til death do us part...
There's something remarkable about
the way they love you
Dogs,
that is,
or any animal, I suppose, but
this morning,
with white flowers blooming and
blue china plates painted across
the sky
it is a dog's love on my mind.
This dog's love.
He rests right now,
as a matter of fact,
on the little rug just outside
the office door and
sighs, licking his lips
ever so slightly, adjusting
his black fur and back legs
with a kick and a turn.
He wants a walk.
I know this as I do every
morning
because his impatience clicks
on hard wooden floors
from the water dish
to the hallway rug
wearing a path in the
steadfastness of his love.
Even his lapping of water,
a quiet slurp that wakes me in the
blackest of nights
is a comfort,
a thirst more powerful
than dream.
He knows, as he drinks, I'll rise up within
the hour
and smell the burst of morning air
as I swing open the back door,
watch him pad down the walk,
circle three times in the yard
then lift his head along with his leg
in relief.
He knows.
But now he knows to wait.
He knows when my desk chair
groans under the weight of my rising
he must rise, too.
That is his promise.
That is his vow.
But when he's quiet,
like now,
when he's finally surrendered to
the idea that perhaps he will
not walk today
or at least not right now today
I still know he is
there, always there
waiting,
wagging behind closed eyelids
his muzzle slightly flared
with each puff out
followed by each breath in.
It is all so simple
Can you see it?
To paint such a picture of
a dog is
to paint something remarkable
Even now as he shuffles his sleepy self
into the office and lays his heavy head against
my thigh
he attempts, one more time,
to remind me of my promise, my vow
Food.
Water.
Tenderness.
Rubs behind the ears
and one above the tail,
And a walk
or two
daily.
Til death do us part.
the way they love you
Dogs,
that is,
or any animal, I suppose, but
this morning,
with white flowers blooming and
blue china plates painted across
the sky
it is a dog's love on my mind.
This dog's love.
He rests right now,
as a matter of fact,
on the little rug just outside
the office door and
sighs, licking his lips
ever so slightly, adjusting
his black fur and back legs
with a kick and a turn.
He wants a walk.
I know this as I do every
morning
because his impatience clicks
on hard wooden floors
from the water dish
to the hallway rug
wearing a path in the
steadfastness of his love.
Even his lapping of water,
a quiet slurp that wakes me in the
blackest of nights
is a comfort,
a thirst more powerful
than dream.
He knows, as he drinks, I'll rise up within
the hour
and smell the burst of morning air
as I swing open the back door,
watch him pad down the walk,
circle three times in the yard
then lift his head along with his leg
in relief.
He knows.
But now he knows to wait.
He knows when my desk chair
groans under the weight of my rising
he must rise, too.
That is his promise.
That is his vow.
But when he's quiet,
like now,
when he's finally surrendered to
the idea that perhaps he will
not walk today
or at least not right now today
I still know he is
there, always there
waiting,
wagging behind closed eyelids
his muzzle slightly flared
with each puff out
followed by each breath in.
It is all so simple
Can you see it?
To paint such a picture of
a dog is
to paint something remarkable
Even now as he shuffles his sleepy self
into the office and lays his heavy head against
my thigh
he attempts, one more time,
to remind me of my promise, my vow
Food.
Water.
Tenderness.
Rubs behind the ears
and one above the tail,
And a walk
or two
daily.
Til death do us part.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Vet's day = Good Day
Contrary to our often somber mood about Chester, he's still kickin' and kickin' in a lively fashion.
He's developed a sore under his belly, right next to his penis. A gaping hole, actually, so we took him in to see our friendly neighborhood vet, Dr. Jones, a lovely gay man with a gravelly voice.
In order for Chester to see the vet he must be muzzled lest he take off sweet Dr. Jones' face or hand or nose or elbow. Then, just how I used to hold a sheep when the vet came for a checkup, I brace Chester against my body, his muzzle in the palm of my strong right hand, my left arm wrapped around his chest.
At first, the old guy submits, leans right into me and relaxes, calm and submissive like the Dog Whisperer encourages. Then, as the vet pokes around a bit, the growling starts, then the jerking to get his muzzled teeth around the doctor's ear or chin. But I hold on, not as firmly as you might think, but firm enough to let Chester know he will not get loose.
The doc shaved Chester's underbelly, pulling at mats that have developed because of his nightly diaper (for his incontinence) and his bulging fatty tumor that sits just to the right of his penis and, in fact, makes his penis point sideways. (On a windy day, Chester can spray a mighty mile!)
We talked with the vet about Chester's progress and this is what he said:
1. He's amazingly still alive.
2. There is some neurological damage to his back legs (he bent up his feet and they stayed like that until eventually, they straightened out).
3. His heart murmur is a bit worse, but doesn't seem to be doing anything other than making him tired if he walks too long.
4. In generally, he's in good shape for a dog with a brain tumor and a gaping infected hole under his belly.
Bad news? Just a bit...the gaping hole could be an infection or it could be cancer. We'll know in about a week or two if he responds to the antibiotics.
When we are alone with Chester, we worry that perhaps we are keeping him alive because it is too hard to imagine our lives without him. Today, in fact, I realized that I haven't cried much because I know how much energy that kind of crying is going to require and frankly, I don't want to require it of myself until I really have to. Also I know that the last time I cried like that I was immersed deep in a heavy state of depression. I always want to keep the depression at bay, but I have yet to learn how to cry meaninfully and not let the sadness overcome my saneness.
Perhaps this is yet another lesson Chester is offering me.
So we worry and wonder exactly when is when and will we know when the when is the right when.
But then we go to the vet, bracing ourselves for bad news and Chester prances in because he knows he's going to get treats from the receptionist, treats from the vet tech, treats from lovely Dr. Jones (despite all the poking, prodding, shaving, and examining), and we realize how very alive Chester really is.
I need to spend more time enjoying that.
Of course...we must now put on an "Elizabethan Collar" or lampshade (as I call it) on his head tonight so he doesn't lick the sore spot under his belly.
We tried to put it on at the vet. Not a good idea. He snapped and snarled and looked like a fighting bull, crouching his body back against the wall ready to strike if we pressed any harder.
We'll see if we have better luck tonight.
So, as always, we wait...will he respond to the meds or won't he? Will he have another series of seizures or won't he (it's been 6 weeks since the last ones)?
But every day he is our lesson in the NOW...in pleasure and patience, in whimsy and in rest.
He is still a joy and still ready to be here with us now...we must and can only do the same.
He's developed a sore under his belly, right next to his penis. A gaping hole, actually, so we took him in to see our friendly neighborhood vet, Dr. Jones, a lovely gay man with a gravelly voice.
In order for Chester to see the vet he must be muzzled lest he take off sweet Dr. Jones' face or hand or nose or elbow. Then, just how I used to hold a sheep when the vet came for a checkup, I brace Chester against my body, his muzzle in the palm of my strong right hand, my left arm wrapped around his chest.
At first, the old guy submits, leans right into me and relaxes, calm and submissive like the Dog Whisperer encourages. Then, as the vet pokes around a bit, the growling starts, then the jerking to get his muzzled teeth around the doctor's ear or chin. But I hold on, not as firmly as you might think, but firm enough to let Chester know he will not get loose.
The doc shaved Chester's underbelly, pulling at mats that have developed because of his nightly diaper (for his incontinence) and his bulging fatty tumor that sits just to the right of his penis and, in fact, makes his penis point sideways. (On a windy day, Chester can spray a mighty mile!)
We talked with the vet about Chester's progress and this is what he said:
1. He's amazingly still alive.
2. There is some neurological damage to his back legs (he bent up his feet and they stayed like that until eventually, they straightened out).
3. His heart murmur is a bit worse, but doesn't seem to be doing anything other than making him tired if he walks too long.
4. In generally, he's in good shape for a dog with a brain tumor and a gaping infected hole under his belly.
Bad news? Just a bit...the gaping hole could be an infection or it could be cancer. We'll know in about a week or two if he responds to the antibiotics.
When we are alone with Chester, we worry that perhaps we are keeping him alive because it is too hard to imagine our lives without him. Today, in fact, I realized that I haven't cried much because I know how much energy that kind of crying is going to require and frankly, I don't want to require it of myself until I really have to. Also I know that the last time I cried like that I was immersed deep in a heavy state of depression. I always want to keep the depression at bay, but I have yet to learn how to cry meaninfully and not let the sadness overcome my saneness.
Perhaps this is yet another lesson Chester is offering me.
So we worry and wonder exactly when is when and will we know when the when is the right when.
But then we go to the vet, bracing ourselves for bad news and Chester prances in because he knows he's going to get treats from the receptionist, treats from the vet tech, treats from lovely Dr. Jones (despite all the poking, prodding, shaving, and examining), and we realize how very alive Chester really is.
I need to spend more time enjoying that.
Of course...we must now put on an "Elizabethan Collar" or lampshade (as I call it) on his head tonight so he doesn't lick the sore spot under his belly.
We tried to put it on at the vet. Not a good idea. He snapped and snarled and looked like a fighting bull, crouching his body back against the wall ready to strike if we pressed any harder.
We'll see if we have better luck tonight.
So, as always, we wait...will he respond to the meds or won't he? Will he have another series of seizures or won't he (it's been 6 weeks since the last ones)?
But every day he is our lesson in the NOW...in pleasure and patience, in whimsy and in rest.
He is still a joy and still ready to be here with us now...we must and can only do the same.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Ann's mother
Ann's mother is French.
Ann's mother is also a woman without boundaries.
It is true that she tutored a prisoner when she lived back East and he was imprisoned for some sort of "smuggling" charge... that's the most we can get out of her. "You know how it is," she says, "He was picking berries for his family and someone asked him to carry something across the border."
Yes, well.
She tutored him in English while he was in prison. 25 years her younger, he then wrote her "wildly romantic" love letters, though when Ann read them she said they were like love notes from a 10 year old and very uninspired.
Ann's mother moved to Arizona and lo and behold, he was transferred to a prison in Texas. She never saw him there, but continued to get love letters that she'd fawn over every time Ann talked with her on the phone. Soon, the conversation of "Jose" became something Ann refused to listen to, though the dream of "being with the love of my life" was all good old mom wanted to talk about.
Remember, he's in prison and she is not. Not one single conjugal visit.
Not even a kiss.
Just letters.
She counted down the days until his release and at the end of March, he was released and deported back to Mexico.
They met there, on a balcony of some hotel that we're certain Ann's mother paid for.
She also paid for the removal of his gold "grills" from his teeth, all meals, and god knows what else.
She sent Ann an email, long and involved and written completely in French. I think this is because she did not want me to read it, but I also think she is planning on writing a book about her life and writing in French is not only more natural for her, she thinks it is more romantic.
The email begins, "The first chapter..." and ends, "Stay tuned for the second chapter..."
She's written two other books. Trust me, you won't find them on any bookshelf (other than the shelves of relatives), but they are as fantastical as her email about Mexico and her convict Romeo.
Ann just throws up her hands. "What can I do?" she exclaims, "She's 68 years old."
This is not an uncommon affair for Ann's mother. Yes, she left Wisconsin in a cab and ended up being a call girl in DC. Yes, she lived with a man who said he was Japanese (more prestige) who turned out to be Korean and a swindling masseuse. Yes, she "married" an African man (who lives in Africa) who happened to be married to another woman and then got married to a third shortly after Ann's mom "married" him. He still owes her a significant amount of money, but since he is unfaithful to her, she decided to find "another man" because, as she told me on a visit, "it's important for a woman my age to have sex, no?"
Now there are phone calls between Ann and her sister (who lives nearby their mother). They share their mother stories and worry over the telephone lines about sexually transmitted diseases, whether or not their mother will try to smuggle him back into the US, and yes, they worry about their inheritance, though Ann is pretty much resolved to the fact that they'll be no money from that side of the family. In fact, she sends HER mother money for birthdays and holidays and has paid for a TV, a DVD/VCR, and countless other accessories.
Ann's mother is eccentric. There is no two ways about it, but she is also kind and savvy. She lives simply (buys her clothes at Goodwill) and works hard (childcare, mostly, but also cleaning jobs and work with the elderly).
Still, we can't help thinking that she is mentally ill. She is like one of those Enquirer stories of the women who fall for men they can't have. She gets attached, works herself into a lustful lather, lives on this high for a few months, even a year or two, then crashes -- the men leave her, lie to her, take her money, run off with someone else -- and she goes into a funk, calling Ann up on the phone to tell her how sad she is, how angry she is, how none of it is her fault and really, they were good men, but hey, they were men who have strong sexual appetites.
Chapter two should be interesting. Sad, but interesting.
Ann's mother is also a woman without boundaries.
It is true that she tutored a prisoner when she lived back East and he was imprisoned for some sort of "smuggling" charge... that's the most we can get out of her. "You know how it is," she says, "He was picking berries for his family and someone asked him to carry something across the border."
Yes, well.
She tutored him in English while he was in prison. 25 years her younger, he then wrote her "wildly romantic" love letters, though when Ann read them she said they were like love notes from a 10 year old and very uninspired.
Ann's mother moved to Arizona and lo and behold, he was transferred to a prison in Texas. She never saw him there, but continued to get love letters that she'd fawn over every time Ann talked with her on the phone. Soon, the conversation of "Jose" became something Ann refused to listen to, though the dream of "being with the love of my life" was all good old mom wanted to talk about.
Remember, he's in prison and she is not. Not one single conjugal visit.
Not even a kiss.
Just letters.
She counted down the days until his release and at the end of March, he was released and deported back to Mexico.
They met there, on a balcony of some hotel that we're certain Ann's mother paid for.
She also paid for the removal of his gold "grills" from his teeth, all meals, and god knows what else.
She sent Ann an email, long and involved and written completely in French. I think this is because she did not want me to read it, but I also think she is planning on writing a book about her life and writing in French is not only more natural for her, she thinks it is more romantic.
The email begins, "The first chapter..." and ends, "Stay tuned for the second chapter..."
She's written two other books. Trust me, you won't find them on any bookshelf (other than the shelves of relatives), but they are as fantastical as her email about Mexico and her convict Romeo.
Ann just throws up her hands. "What can I do?" she exclaims, "She's 68 years old."
This is not an uncommon affair for Ann's mother. Yes, she left Wisconsin in a cab and ended up being a call girl in DC. Yes, she lived with a man who said he was Japanese (more prestige) who turned out to be Korean and a swindling masseuse. Yes, she "married" an African man (who lives in Africa) who happened to be married to another woman and then got married to a third shortly after Ann's mom "married" him. He still owes her a significant amount of money, but since he is unfaithful to her, she decided to find "another man" because, as she told me on a visit, "it's important for a woman my age to have sex, no?"
Now there are phone calls between Ann and her sister (who lives nearby their mother). They share their mother stories and worry over the telephone lines about sexually transmitted diseases, whether or not their mother will try to smuggle him back into the US, and yes, they worry about their inheritance, though Ann is pretty much resolved to the fact that they'll be no money from that side of the family. In fact, she sends HER mother money for birthdays and holidays and has paid for a TV, a DVD/VCR, and countless other accessories.
Ann's mother is eccentric. There is no two ways about it, but she is also kind and savvy. She lives simply (buys her clothes at Goodwill) and works hard (childcare, mostly, but also cleaning jobs and work with the elderly).
Still, we can't help thinking that she is mentally ill. She is like one of those Enquirer stories of the women who fall for men they can't have. She gets attached, works herself into a lustful lather, lives on this high for a few months, even a year or two, then crashes -- the men leave her, lie to her, take her money, run off with someone else -- and she goes into a funk, calling Ann up on the phone to tell her how sad she is, how angry she is, how none of it is her fault and really, they were good men, but hey, they were men who have strong sexual appetites.
Chapter two should be interesting. Sad, but interesting.
Friday, April 07, 2006
A work of fiction...
On our second date we talked about our families. At first it seemed like the natural next step, to exchange details of hometowns and siblings while eating at the trendiest Thai restaurant in the city. Soon, though, it became apparent that what we shared in common was not just a love of dogs and long hikes in the mountains, but mental illness.
"My father," she began, "had affairs."
"I suppose most men do," I laughed my reply thinking of the money Dr. Phil and Oprah make on such assumptions.
"We were a secretive family," she continued, "and that is why I was so fascinated by my father's story once I decided to find out the truth behind the secrets."
"Is there such a thing," I asked. "Truth, I mean." I held my tea cup like a hand warmer, close to my face, my ring tapping quietly against the white curve.
"I suppose not, but I was interested in that too, in how memories create truths and that if you could gather up enough memories, somehow a truth might emerge. Or so I hoped."
"And what truth did you find?"
She smiled at me and I think it was in that moment I realized I would fall in love with her. "I interviewed one of my father's mistresses."
"Oh." There was no other response. I sipped my tea. "How did you know who to interview if it was all a secret?"
She went on to tell me the stories, the woven texture of her childhood and the family friends who held pieces of the mystery. She'd found out the name, had even suspected this was the name, and then pursued her, thoughtfully, mindfully, and patiently.
They met at a local hometown restaurant and in the end, clarity followed. There was no bitterness. There was no understanding. There was just this mistress sharing her side of the story with a woman, once a girl, who lived on the edges of it.
"That's quite a story," I sighed. The food had arrived and we divided the small portions of basil noodles and swimming angel next too the sticky rice on our plates. "But I can top it."
She looked up then, her left eyebrow raised and said, "Sounds interesting."
"My mother had an affair with the neighbor. A cab driver, she ran away with him when I was 17. Just jumped in the cab and headed to D.C."
We stopped eating.
"He left her there...no money, no car, no way to get home."
"What did she do?" I could tell she sympathized with my mother. Just wait, I thought, just wait.
"She became a call-girl, a high-priced prostitute working for a so-called dating service."
"Your mother," she stammered, "Oh my."
"It gets better," I laughed, the kind of laugh that comes out more like a huff than a giggle. "After a series of husbands, she just recently ran away with the boyfriend she met while tutoring him in jail."
"Wait, wait," she put her hand up and her fork down. "She was tutoring him because he was in jail or she was?"
"He was in jail, and he recently got out. He's been deported back to Mexico and she is meeting him there, actually has met him there and they are probably doing it as we speak."
Her cheeks turn red, something I would grow to love later on. "How old is your mother?" she asks.
"68. Her prison lover is in his 40's. He could be my brother."
"But..." and it trails off because I can tell she can't quite think of any question to ask. Nothing has prepared her to ask a question for a situation like this.
"She's French," I say, as if that explains the choices. "She waited over two years for him to be released from prison. She has always fallen for unavailable men."
"I should say," is all she can manage.
"She writes to me about it in French and I read my emails a bit sickened and sad that she doesn't see the pattern, she doesn't see that he is simply using her for sex, for money, for god knows what else."
"This has happened before?"
I look up. I realized I've been staring at water chestnuts floating in an oily browness. "Oh, something like it happens every time she meets a man who she thinks is her Romeo, her Casanova, her ticket to the good life. And then they swindle her or dump her or impregnate someone else and she finds another man, equally inaccessible and equally as parasitic. It's a vicious cycle."
"I should say."
We are silent for a long while, longer than what is comfortable for a second date.
"You win," she says.
I look at her confused, quizzical.
"That's a much better story than mine."
"My father," she began, "had affairs."
"I suppose most men do," I laughed my reply thinking of the money Dr. Phil and Oprah make on such assumptions.
"We were a secretive family," she continued, "and that is why I was so fascinated by my father's story once I decided to find out the truth behind the secrets."
"Is there such a thing," I asked. "Truth, I mean." I held my tea cup like a hand warmer, close to my face, my ring tapping quietly against the white curve.
"I suppose not, but I was interested in that too, in how memories create truths and that if you could gather up enough memories, somehow a truth might emerge. Or so I hoped."
"And what truth did you find?"
She smiled at me and I think it was in that moment I realized I would fall in love with her. "I interviewed one of my father's mistresses."
"Oh." There was no other response. I sipped my tea. "How did you know who to interview if it was all a secret?"
She went on to tell me the stories, the woven texture of her childhood and the family friends who held pieces of the mystery. She'd found out the name, had even suspected this was the name, and then pursued her, thoughtfully, mindfully, and patiently.
They met at a local hometown restaurant and in the end, clarity followed. There was no bitterness. There was no understanding. There was just this mistress sharing her side of the story with a woman, once a girl, who lived on the edges of it.
"That's quite a story," I sighed. The food had arrived and we divided the small portions of basil noodles and swimming angel next too the sticky rice on our plates. "But I can top it."
She looked up then, her left eyebrow raised and said, "Sounds interesting."
"My mother had an affair with the neighbor. A cab driver, she ran away with him when I was 17. Just jumped in the cab and headed to D.C."
We stopped eating.
"He left her there...no money, no car, no way to get home."
"What did she do?" I could tell she sympathized with my mother. Just wait, I thought, just wait.
"She became a call-girl, a high-priced prostitute working for a so-called dating service."
"Your mother," she stammered, "Oh my."
"It gets better," I laughed, the kind of laugh that comes out more like a huff than a giggle. "After a series of husbands, she just recently ran away with the boyfriend she met while tutoring him in jail."
"Wait, wait," she put her hand up and her fork down. "She was tutoring him because he was in jail or she was?"
"He was in jail, and he recently got out. He's been deported back to Mexico and she is meeting him there, actually has met him there and they are probably doing it as we speak."
Her cheeks turn red, something I would grow to love later on. "How old is your mother?" she asks.
"68. Her prison lover is in his 40's. He could be my brother."
"But..." and it trails off because I can tell she can't quite think of any question to ask. Nothing has prepared her to ask a question for a situation like this.
"She's French," I say, as if that explains the choices. "She waited over two years for him to be released from prison. She has always fallen for unavailable men."
"I should say," is all she can manage.
"She writes to me about it in French and I read my emails a bit sickened and sad that she doesn't see the pattern, she doesn't see that he is simply using her for sex, for money, for god knows what else."
"This has happened before?"
I look up. I realized I've been staring at water chestnuts floating in an oily browness. "Oh, something like it happens every time she meets a man who she thinks is her Romeo, her Casanova, her ticket to the good life. And then they swindle her or dump her or impregnate someone else and she finds another man, equally inaccessible and equally as parasitic. It's a vicious cycle."
"I should say."
We are silent for a long while, longer than what is comfortable for a second date.
"You win," she says.
I look at her confused, quizzical.
"That's a much better story than mine."
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Breathing wishes
It's a habit now, to check his breathing, to watch for the rise and fall of his barrel chest.
There are times -- early in the morning or groggy with just an hour's sleep -- I want the breathing to be gone, unobservable followed by my own sigh signifying that this is as it should be, the way we've all wanted it to be.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
There are other times when the lift of his rib cage makes me smile. The twitch of his paws, the way his nose sniffs the air even in his sleep. He is still here and filled with the responsibility of watching over us.
I am torn between my wishes for breath and unbreath.
How much easier it would be for him to make the decision. How much easier it would be for him to choose.
"Now," he'd say, and the breathing would stop, one full, long sigh pushing out the holding on.
In the end, it may happen this way.
Or it may not.
We may have to choose for him.
And it will be his breathing that I watch, first relaxed and calm as the sedative sets in.
Then the next injection when we will sigh goodbye and whisper encouragement and wishes for a gentle journey and watch, holding him and holding each other as his breath quivers and rattles and he lets go as we let go, soft fur between our fingers.
But now he breathes, asleep on his kitchen rug, his eyebrows flickering, his right paw curled as if to ask a question.
There are times -- early in the morning or groggy with just an hour's sleep -- I want the breathing to be gone, unobservable followed by my own sigh signifying that this is as it should be, the way we've all wanted it to be.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
There are other times when the lift of his rib cage makes me smile. The twitch of his paws, the way his nose sniffs the air even in his sleep. He is still here and filled with the responsibility of watching over us.
I am torn between my wishes for breath and unbreath.
How much easier it would be for him to make the decision. How much easier it would be for him to choose.
"Now," he'd say, and the breathing would stop, one full, long sigh pushing out the holding on.
In the end, it may happen this way.
Or it may not.
We may have to choose for him.
And it will be his breathing that I watch, first relaxed and calm as the sedative sets in.
Then the next injection when we will sigh goodbye and whisper encouragement and wishes for a gentle journey and watch, holding him and holding each other as his breath quivers and rattles and he lets go as we let go, soft fur between our fingers.
But now he breathes, asleep on his kitchen rug, his eyebrows flickering, his right paw curled as if to ask a question.
When doing my research for my master's thesis, I read Andrew Solomon's magnificent work, "Noonday Demon". His study of the research on depression discussed how more people who follow through on suicide do so not in the dark of winter, but in the blossom of spring. The thinking is that if you are depressed during the winter -- those dark and dreary months -- you justify your melancholy to the time of year, holding on until spring arrives. But if you stay depressed during the spring months, then your chances of committing suicide dramatically increase. In other words, if the warmer weather, the longer days, and the sheer brightness of the world cannot lift you out of your depression, nothing will.
He went on to talk about how the most dangerous time for him during his depression wasn't when he couldn't get out of bed, but when he was slightly (ever so) motivated to face his depression and get help. Just as he was making the upward turn from his life on the bottom, he found himself more likely to think about killing himself, now that he was more motivated by the drugs and by the therapy.
I thought about this yesterday on my ride home from work. It was 62 degrees (warm for this time of year), the sun was burning a hole in the blue sky, and the smell of spring made my eyes water and my nostrils swell.
I am not depressed, I thought to myself, glad that spring had lifted my spirits, fueled my legs with enough energy to tackle the bigger hill home.
During the winter months I worry that my depression from a few years back will continue. I take a daily inventory...is this depression or is this
A) exhaustion?
B) a lack of daylight?
C) a struggle though manageable?
D) the lack of exercise?
E) all of the above?
Once you've experienced depression, I don't think it ever leaves you fully. It hangs around.
For me, it floats above my right shoulder.
It hums continuously.
It smiles and smirks.
It taps its fingers and checks its watch.
A demon, as Solomon named it.
And the stuggle, the mighty struggle is daily, hourly to
A) ignore it
B) smile back at it
C) turn up my MP3 player
D) sleep with my back to it
E) all of the above
But the true test for me is when March rolls around, the month I dread more than others because it's long and wet and not quite warm enough, not quite sweet enough and full of taunts and teases... the true test is can I make it through to really be surprised and pleased about the arrival of April?
If, by chance, April were to roll around and I found myself feeling dismal and dark, weighted and pasty, I'd know that the depression usually floating on my right shoulder was now inside of me, humming, smirking, tapping the seconds against my brittle bones.
But yesterday, I sighed knowing I'd won...at least for this spring.
The air was rich with cut grass, the warmth of blossoms, and something unidentifiable but as comforting as cookies baking on a summer evening or the smell of a puppie's ears.
I walked Chester when I got home. He was bouncy, actually bouncy, hopping in that hobby horse way that he always used to do when excited to see me, excited to get dinner, excited to be leashed up, excited to leave his mark on every branch, every corner.
His demon stayed at bay, too.
Even when, halfway through our walk, it started to rain...big drops of spring and still 60 degrees...he smiled and lead the way up the hill, past the purple lilacs and flowering cherry trees.
Today, there is still sun, though the clouds are moving across a white sky. Chester is asleep on his rug in the kitchen. He is wobbly today, uncertain about why I am home, he is drowsy and drugged. His demon has returned, tapping at his shoulder.
I want to think it's a dance, but even that analogy seems inadequate. It's tidal, moving in and out, back and forth, pulled by something more familiar than a fat moon or the earth's rotation. As the time draw nears, Chester's and even mine, the hours between high and low tides grows shorter. There are days when he is as alive as the creatures happily floating in the highest waters, and then as weak and precarious as those same critters exposed by the waters drawn back by the spring moon.
And every moment we are changed, ever so slightly...water reshaping our shorelines.
Carved.
Formed.
Twisted smooth.
Reformed.
Carved again.
Pulled and tempted.
Resistant.
Surrendered.
Forgiven.
He went on to talk about how the most dangerous time for him during his depression wasn't when he couldn't get out of bed, but when he was slightly (ever so) motivated to face his depression and get help. Just as he was making the upward turn from his life on the bottom, he found himself more likely to think about killing himself, now that he was more motivated by the drugs and by the therapy.
I thought about this yesterday on my ride home from work. It was 62 degrees (warm for this time of year), the sun was burning a hole in the blue sky, and the smell of spring made my eyes water and my nostrils swell.
I am not depressed, I thought to myself, glad that spring had lifted my spirits, fueled my legs with enough energy to tackle the bigger hill home.
During the winter months I worry that my depression from a few years back will continue. I take a daily inventory...is this depression or is this
A) exhaustion?
B) a lack of daylight?
C) a struggle though manageable?
D) the lack of exercise?
E) all of the above?
Once you've experienced depression, I don't think it ever leaves you fully. It hangs around.
For me, it floats above my right shoulder.
It hums continuously.
It smiles and smirks.
It taps its fingers and checks its watch.
A demon, as Solomon named it.
And the stuggle, the mighty struggle is daily, hourly to
A) ignore it
B) smile back at it
C) turn up my MP3 player
D) sleep with my back to it
E) all of the above
But the true test for me is when March rolls around, the month I dread more than others because it's long and wet and not quite warm enough, not quite sweet enough and full of taunts and teases... the true test is can I make it through to really be surprised and pleased about the arrival of April?
If, by chance, April were to roll around and I found myself feeling dismal and dark, weighted and pasty, I'd know that the depression usually floating on my right shoulder was now inside of me, humming, smirking, tapping the seconds against my brittle bones.
But yesterday, I sighed knowing I'd won...at least for this spring.
The air was rich with cut grass, the warmth of blossoms, and something unidentifiable but as comforting as cookies baking on a summer evening or the smell of a puppie's ears.
I walked Chester when I got home. He was bouncy, actually bouncy, hopping in that hobby horse way that he always used to do when excited to see me, excited to get dinner, excited to be leashed up, excited to leave his mark on every branch, every corner.
His demon stayed at bay, too.
Even when, halfway through our walk, it started to rain...big drops of spring and still 60 degrees...he smiled and lead the way up the hill, past the purple lilacs and flowering cherry trees.
Today, there is still sun, though the clouds are moving across a white sky. Chester is asleep on his rug in the kitchen. He is wobbly today, uncertain about why I am home, he is drowsy and drugged. His demon has returned, tapping at his shoulder.
I want to think it's a dance, but even that analogy seems inadequate. It's tidal, moving in and out, back and forth, pulled by something more familiar than a fat moon or the earth's rotation. As the time draw nears, Chester's and even mine, the hours between high and low tides grows shorter. There are days when he is as alive as the creatures happily floating in the highest waters, and then as weak and precarious as those same critters exposed by the waters drawn back by the spring moon.
And every moment we are changed, ever so slightly...water reshaping our shorelines.
Carved.
Formed.
Twisted smooth.
Reformed.
Carved again.
Pulled and tempted.
Resistant.
Surrendered.
Forgiven.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Unconditional
With Chester's illness I've been thinking a lot about unconditional love. I don't think it exists. Chester's love certainly isn't unconditional...it's loyal and forgiving, but it's also contigent on daily exercise, timely meals, and what Ann and I call "eye contact time"...moments of the day when we just look into his eyes and rub him gently on his head or back or butt (one of his favorite spots).
I think Ann is moving closer to deciding that Chester's quality of life is not the quality we'd like it to be. The meds just do him in. He walks in a sideways motion and has given up on lifting his leg to pee, lest he fall over, embarrassed and uncertain. From 7 in the morning until about 5 in the evening, he just wants to sleep and only occassionally goes out in the backyard to squat on his favorite spot or to get cooler water in his bowl on the back porch.
At 5, he wakes up a bit and would nudges us to take him for a walk or whines at his bowl if we're late on his feeding. He even knows when it's time for his meds, though this morning threw him with the springing forward.
He doesn't smile as much anymore though.
We went for a walk at the park this morning and though he was eager to try to keep moving forward, he was exhausted even by our extremely slow pace.
Ann cried.
I did not. I don't know why. I know I will cry when it's time. I know there are times in the day when tears well up, but this morning, when it was clear that the decision was drawing closer, I didn't cry.
Perhaps it is my way of supporting Ann, maintaining the strong position while she crumbled a bit in the sunshine reflecting off the lake.
Perhaps I haven't accepted it yet, that this little man who has been in my life for only 4 years (though in Ann's over 12), will no longer wake me up at the crack of dawn or escort me on long walks through the neighborhood in his happy cantor .
It's hard to say, but today I have no tears.
Chester doesn't either, which I guess is his daily lesson for me in living in the now.
A nap. That's in the now.
A good meal. That's in the now.
Eye contact time. That's in the now.
Sleeping next to Ann (which he is doing at this moment) that's the best now on earth.
See, there are many, many conditions when one lives in the now.
I don't mind them. It's still love to me. Pure love.
I think Ann is moving closer to deciding that Chester's quality of life is not the quality we'd like it to be. The meds just do him in. He walks in a sideways motion and has given up on lifting his leg to pee, lest he fall over, embarrassed and uncertain. From 7 in the morning until about 5 in the evening, he just wants to sleep and only occassionally goes out in the backyard to squat on his favorite spot or to get cooler water in his bowl on the back porch.
At 5, he wakes up a bit and would nudges us to take him for a walk or whines at his bowl if we're late on his feeding. He even knows when it's time for his meds, though this morning threw him with the springing forward.
He doesn't smile as much anymore though.
We went for a walk at the park this morning and though he was eager to try to keep moving forward, he was exhausted even by our extremely slow pace.
Ann cried.
I did not. I don't know why. I know I will cry when it's time. I know there are times in the day when tears well up, but this morning, when it was clear that the decision was drawing closer, I didn't cry.
Perhaps it is my way of supporting Ann, maintaining the strong position while she crumbled a bit in the sunshine reflecting off the lake.
Perhaps I haven't accepted it yet, that this little man who has been in my life for only 4 years (though in Ann's over 12), will no longer wake me up at the crack of dawn or escort me on long walks through the neighborhood in his happy cantor .
It's hard to say, but today I have no tears.
Chester doesn't either, which I guess is his daily lesson for me in living in the now.
A nap. That's in the now.
A good meal. That's in the now.
Eye contact time. That's in the now.
Sleeping next to Ann (which he is doing at this moment) that's the best now on earth.
See, there are many, many conditions when one lives in the now.
I don't mind them. It's still love to me. Pure love.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Dashboard
Collecting Memories
As Chester's health declines, I find myself grabbing onto memories of him like I'm collecting rare coins.
Here's one:
In the morning, after he wakes me up at precisely 5:28 a.m. (yes, every damn morning on the dot), we make coffee together. Chester sits quietly by my side staring up at me with those eyes like amber gems, longing, mournful, and these days a bit glazed. While the coffee is brewing, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because it's Friday and I'm too tired to make anything else and my class is taking a field trip to the beach so a PBJ sandwich fits nicely into my backpack. Ann gets the other one just because I'm feeling extra special generous.
Chester LOVES bread. (On our second date, Ann and I went for a hike with Chester. He broke into my lunch in the car and ate half my fresh bagel before I snatched it away from him.) He even enjoys peanut butter. It's only of late, with the medication's side effects, that he also likes jelly. (On our walks, he'll now even eat orange peels, which, back in his youth, he'd never even consider edible.)
So, he's sitting next to me like a good Su Chef, doing this funny little repetitive move he's developed where he sits, then gets up for a nano second then sits back down quickly and forcefully. The effect sounds like he's stamping his feet as if to say, "Hey, have you forgotten I'm down here?"
I lay out the bread, generously spread on the peanut butter and then step away to get the jelly. "Don't touch those sandwiches," I warn him and he looks at me like the most innocent creature who ever evolved.
Then, while I'm rummaging through the fridge trying to find one of those tiny jelly jars my mom got us for Christmas (perfect stocking stuffers she thought, but one jar covers only two sandwiches), Chester gets up from his stomping position, walks over to his dog dish, which still holds his breakfast kibble, picks up one piece of dog food in his mouth, walks back over to the sandwiches and pa-tooey's the kibble onto the floor.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. You're feeding me shit."
I laugh.
I walk the minature jar of jelly back over to the bread and peanut butter and commence with the final layer of boysenberry.
Disgusted, Chester picks up the lonely kibble he just spat onto the floor and precedes to crunch it loudly...I am not making this up...he crunches it with his lips turned up to make the noise of the one dry kibble sound as stale as WWI tack bread.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. I'm a dying dog and this is shit you expect me to eat."
Here's one:
In the morning, after he wakes me up at precisely 5:28 a.m. (yes, every damn morning on the dot), we make coffee together. Chester sits quietly by my side staring up at me with those eyes like amber gems, longing, mournful, and these days a bit glazed. While the coffee is brewing, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because it's Friday and I'm too tired to make anything else and my class is taking a field trip to the beach so a PBJ sandwich fits nicely into my backpack. Ann gets the other one just because I'm feeling extra special generous.
Chester LOVES bread. (On our second date, Ann and I went for a hike with Chester. He broke into my lunch in the car and ate half my fresh bagel before I snatched it away from him.) He even enjoys peanut butter. It's only of late, with the medication's side effects, that he also likes jelly. (On our walks, he'll now even eat orange peels, which, back in his youth, he'd never even consider edible.)
So, he's sitting next to me like a good Su Chef, doing this funny little repetitive move he's developed where he sits, then gets up for a nano second then sits back down quickly and forcefully. The effect sounds like he's stamping his feet as if to say, "Hey, have you forgotten I'm down here?"
I lay out the bread, generously spread on the peanut butter and then step away to get the jelly. "Don't touch those sandwiches," I warn him and he looks at me like the most innocent creature who ever evolved.
Then, while I'm rummaging through the fridge trying to find one of those tiny jelly jars my mom got us for Christmas (perfect stocking stuffers she thought, but one jar covers only two sandwiches), Chester gets up from his stomping position, walks over to his dog dish, which still holds his breakfast kibble, picks up one piece of dog food in his mouth, walks back over to the sandwiches and pa-tooey's the kibble onto the floor.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. You're feeding me shit."
I laugh.
I walk the minature jar of jelly back over to the bread and peanut butter and commence with the final layer of boysenberry.
Disgusted, Chester picks up the lonely kibble he just spat onto the floor and precedes to crunch it loudly...I am not making this up...he crunches it with his lips turned up to make the noise of the one dry kibble sound as stale as WWI tack bread.
I swear I hear him say, "Shit. I'm a dying dog and this is shit you expect me to eat."
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
If I were rich...
If I were rich, I wouldn't do those normal things newly rich do.
I wouldn't buy a house so large I couldn't find my shoelaces.
I wouldn't buy a boat or an expensive car or take a trip around the world.
Don't get me wrong.
As much as I'd like to think I would, I wouldn't give most of my money away to a charity either (some, but certainly not as much as I say I would when I didn't have the money in hand).
I would, however, quit my job. If only temporarily, but not because I don't like it or because it's drudgery or because I'm unappreciated and underpaid.
I'd quit my job so I could enroll in classes at the University or even a Community College or even just the Fine Arts Center in my neighborhood.
I'd take classes in glass blowing and carpentry. I'd sign up for philosophy classes and political science. I'd take classes in literature and writing, but also in molecular biology and introductory classes in zoology. I'd take cooking classes and bread making classes and even classes in dress making, though I truly hate to sew.
I'd take music classes -- lessons on the mandolin that now sits on a shelf unplayed for over a year.
If I were rich, I'd just give as much money as it would take to permanently be in class, not having to teach the class or grade the papers, but still be in the presence of people thinking and doing and sharing.
And if the classes weren't good, I'd drop out and find something else to enroll in. Automotive classes even. Or classes in computer science.
Definitely photography classes. And a painting class. I'd try knitting, but I think I would be impatient, that the knitting would get boring despite all the colors and textures I find appealing in the yarn shop.
I'd hire a personal trainer. I'd take a class in me. (Perhaps that's therapy, but nonetheless...) I'd take classes in massage, though I'd only touch bodies I found appealing. No hairy men. Perhaps no men at all.
I'd take classes in rowing and lacrosse and skating with those nifty new skates called Landrollers. I'd certainly take a swimming class...while I'm a strong swimmer, I would want to learn how to make it effortless like those people at the pool who fly past me even when I'm wearing my zoomer fins.
If I were rich, I'd put all the money into my mind and my body. I might buy a few new gadgets, but I actually think I'd pare down my life and just ride my bike to the next class where I could learn about kayaking or skate skiing or astronomy.
I wouldn't take up scuba diving. Too confining and I don't do well on boats.
I wouldn't mind learning some circus routines. And rock climbing.
And I'd love to learn about rocks in general...geology, but not minerology.
I'd definitely take a botany class and practice saying the names of plants using their scientific names.
If I were rich, I'd even start a scholarship fund for people like me who just want to learn. Perhaps a scholarship for teachers who are tired of teaching and who want to spend more time learning what they skim over in classes.
I'd take classes from the Dog Whisperer. I wonder how much he'd charge?
It's selfish, I know, but if I were rich I'd try to soak up as much as I could as fast as I could for no other reason than it makes me feel alive.
I'd eventually go back to teaching, but only part time because teaching really is about learning and when you give your energy to teaching, there's not much left over for yourself or all the classes you wanted to take.
And I'd keep writing, because I have this belief that money will buy me time and with that time I can fill it up however I choose.
It's probably a myth. I probably wouldn't have anymore time nor would I know what to do with it, but I'd like to think I would. I'd like to think I'd be more motivated.
I'd even take a math class...several, though I'd have to hire a tutor to help me understand it all.
But that's the beauty of being rich...at least I think it is...you wouldn't have to figure out what to eliminate. Especially if you didn't buy the gi-normous house or the expensive yacht or the pricey luxury car or take extravagant trips to Italy every month.
You'd just buy knowledge, or access to knowledge, which probably isn't the wisest investment...not really sustainable...but oh what a ride while you had the money!
I wouldn't buy a house so large I couldn't find my shoelaces.
I wouldn't buy a boat or an expensive car or take a trip around the world.
Don't get me wrong.
As much as I'd like to think I would, I wouldn't give most of my money away to a charity either (some, but certainly not as much as I say I would when I didn't have the money in hand).
I would, however, quit my job. If only temporarily, but not because I don't like it or because it's drudgery or because I'm unappreciated and underpaid.
I'd quit my job so I could enroll in classes at the University or even a Community College or even just the Fine Arts Center in my neighborhood.
I'd take classes in glass blowing and carpentry. I'd sign up for philosophy classes and political science. I'd take classes in literature and writing, but also in molecular biology and introductory classes in zoology. I'd take cooking classes and bread making classes and even classes in dress making, though I truly hate to sew.
I'd take music classes -- lessons on the mandolin that now sits on a shelf unplayed for over a year.
If I were rich, I'd just give as much money as it would take to permanently be in class, not having to teach the class or grade the papers, but still be in the presence of people thinking and doing and sharing.
And if the classes weren't good, I'd drop out and find something else to enroll in. Automotive classes even. Or classes in computer science.
Definitely photography classes. And a painting class. I'd try knitting, but I think I would be impatient, that the knitting would get boring despite all the colors and textures I find appealing in the yarn shop.
I'd hire a personal trainer. I'd take a class in me. (Perhaps that's therapy, but nonetheless...) I'd take classes in massage, though I'd only touch bodies I found appealing. No hairy men. Perhaps no men at all.
I'd take classes in rowing and lacrosse and skating with those nifty new skates called Landrollers. I'd certainly take a swimming class...while I'm a strong swimmer, I would want to learn how to make it effortless like those people at the pool who fly past me even when I'm wearing my zoomer fins.
If I were rich, I'd put all the money into my mind and my body. I might buy a few new gadgets, but I actually think I'd pare down my life and just ride my bike to the next class where I could learn about kayaking or skate skiing or astronomy.
I wouldn't take up scuba diving. Too confining and I don't do well on boats.
I wouldn't mind learning some circus routines. And rock climbing.
And I'd love to learn about rocks in general...geology, but not minerology.
I'd definitely take a botany class and practice saying the names of plants using their scientific names.
If I were rich, I'd even start a scholarship fund for people like me who just want to learn. Perhaps a scholarship for teachers who are tired of teaching and who want to spend more time learning what they skim over in classes.
I'd take classes from the Dog Whisperer. I wonder how much he'd charge?
It's selfish, I know, but if I were rich I'd try to soak up as much as I could as fast as I could for no other reason than it makes me feel alive.
I'd eventually go back to teaching, but only part time because teaching really is about learning and when you give your energy to teaching, there's not much left over for yourself or all the classes you wanted to take.
And I'd keep writing, because I have this belief that money will buy me time and with that time I can fill it up however I choose.
It's probably a myth. I probably wouldn't have anymore time nor would I know what to do with it, but I'd like to think I would. I'd like to think I'd be more motivated.
I'd even take a math class...several, though I'd have to hire a tutor to help me understand it all.
But that's the beauty of being rich...at least I think it is...you wouldn't have to figure out what to eliminate. Especially if you didn't buy the gi-normous house or the expensive yacht or the pricey luxury car or take extravagant trips to Italy every month.
You'd just buy knowledge, or access to knowledge, which probably isn't the wisest investment...not really sustainable...but oh what a ride while you had the money!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Food OR Exercise
Pedaling my bike past hospitals and bakeries every day, there is always this internal struggle inside my head: At what age do I get to stop being so competitive?
Throughout my younger years, I was a competitive athlete. I ran, I jumped, I played team sports, I sweated, and I injured myself (it goes hand in hand with competition). Consequently, I never worried about my weight. I ate everything, ice cream and buttered popcorn top on the list.
Now, in my late 40's I find I am left with this choice: Either I stop eating so much or I excerise ten times harder because the rate at which I used to exercise just doesn't burn the calories anymore.
Or
And this thought has only recently entered my thinking...
Or
I accept my current weight and excerise like any other normal middle-aged woman. In other words, be happy with a day off or two or even three...in a week or in a row.
But I can't. Or at least I haven't been able to because whenever I get on my bike or head to the gym, I compete. "I can make it up the big hill I climb every morning in 7 minutes and not 8," I say to myself or "If I pedal at a higher gear, I can catch that guy up ahead on the fancy bike and in the tight shorts."
These thoughts run through my head constantly. Most of the time I am unaware of them except later on in the week when my legs are tired from work and from commuting on a bike and then I just push myself up the hill at whatever rate I can muster.
But other times I catch myself, forgetting that I'm almost 50, thinking I can go faster, be stronger, stretch the ride out a bit longer because, well, that's what "real" athletes do, they push themselves to the next level. And I have always seen myself as a "real" athlete.
These thoughts even invade my dreams.
Like the other night, I woke up in a sweat because I was sitting on the sidelines of another volleyball game and the coach wouldn't put me in and I kept screaming at him that I was much more mature and ready to play than I was in my 20's and that he should substitute me in, but he'd just ignore me or worse, look my direction and shake his head in disgust like I was too old or too fat or too too and there was no way in hell he'd put me in the game.
But in my head in the dream, I was strong, I was smart, I was game ready -- my body was still 20 years old, it was just my head that wasn't, but that was okay because age meant experience and experience meant I wouldn't make the same mistakes I did when my head was 20 and my body was 20, too.
I have these dreams all the time. Mostly they are volleyball dreams, but sometimes I'm playing basketball and occasionally I'm running a race, but it's always the same dilemma -- I'm fit in body (20 years old and strong and ripped and talented) and even more savvy in mind because I'm mature, experienced, thoughtful...none of which I was when I was 20.
But when I wake up, I find that I have a 47 year old body and a 20 year old sensibility. My mind wants to do what my body can't.
And what I can't do is eat like a 20 year old anymore.
Or I can, but I have to stop beating myself up about it.
And I know that that, the beating myself up about it, is the real issue -- forgiveness and patience and knowing I'm good enough -- but somewhere I just feel like there's a switch in my brain and if I could find it, I could turn off the competitiveness and just pedal my bike at a leisure pace or go on a walk slow enough that my friends could keep up with me or not feel shitty about myself when I lay around all day Saturday not doing anything but watching 20 year olds play basketball on TV while I eat cheese and crackers and two bowls of chocolate pudding.
So, I guess the real question isn't at what age can I stop being so competitive, but at what age can I fully and completely like myself no matter the weight, no matter the muscles, no matter the speed at which I pedal a bike?
Throughout my younger years, I was a competitive athlete. I ran, I jumped, I played team sports, I sweated, and I injured myself (it goes hand in hand with competition). Consequently, I never worried about my weight. I ate everything, ice cream and buttered popcorn top on the list.
Now, in my late 40's I find I am left with this choice: Either I stop eating so much or I excerise ten times harder because the rate at which I used to exercise just doesn't burn the calories anymore.
Or
And this thought has only recently entered my thinking...
Or
I accept my current weight and excerise like any other normal middle-aged woman. In other words, be happy with a day off or two or even three...in a week or in a row.
But I can't. Or at least I haven't been able to because whenever I get on my bike or head to the gym, I compete. "I can make it up the big hill I climb every morning in 7 minutes and not 8," I say to myself or "If I pedal at a higher gear, I can catch that guy up ahead on the fancy bike and in the tight shorts."
These thoughts run through my head constantly. Most of the time I am unaware of them except later on in the week when my legs are tired from work and from commuting on a bike and then I just push myself up the hill at whatever rate I can muster.
But other times I catch myself, forgetting that I'm almost 50, thinking I can go faster, be stronger, stretch the ride out a bit longer because, well, that's what "real" athletes do, they push themselves to the next level. And I have always seen myself as a "real" athlete.
These thoughts even invade my dreams.
Like the other night, I woke up in a sweat because I was sitting on the sidelines of another volleyball game and the coach wouldn't put me in and I kept screaming at him that I was much more mature and ready to play than I was in my 20's and that he should substitute me in, but he'd just ignore me or worse, look my direction and shake his head in disgust like I was too old or too fat or too too and there was no way in hell he'd put me in the game.
But in my head in the dream, I was strong, I was smart, I was game ready -- my body was still 20 years old, it was just my head that wasn't, but that was okay because age meant experience and experience meant I wouldn't make the same mistakes I did when my head was 20 and my body was 20, too.
I have these dreams all the time. Mostly they are volleyball dreams, but sometimes I'm playing basketball and occasionally I'm running a race, but it's always the same dilemma -- I'm fit in body (20 years old and strong and ripped and talented) and even more savvy in mind because I'm mature, experienced, thoughtful...none of which I was when I was 20.
But when I wake up, I find that I have a 47 year old body and a 20 year old sensibility. My mind wants to do what my body can't.
And what I can't do is eat like a 20 year old anymore.
Or I can, but I have to stop beating myself up about it.
And I know that that, the beating myself up about it, is the real issue -- forgiveness and patience and knowing I'm good enough -- but somewhere I just feel like there's a switch in my brain and if I could find it, I could turn off the competitiveness and just pedal my bike at a leisure pace or go on a walk slow enough that my friends could keep up with me or not feel shitty about myself when I lay around all day Saturday not doing anything but watching 20 year olds play basketball on TV while I eat cheese and crackers and two bowls of chocolate pudding.
So, I guess the real question isn't at what age can I stop being so competitive, but at what age can I fully and completely like myself no matter the weight, no matter the muscles, no matter the speed at which I pedal a bike?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Imagine...
Imagine, for a moment, that you have an older sister (which I do, but I'm talking about an imaginary one for now)...
Imagine this older sister just turned 50
and when you look at her life you are proud
and slightly envious because all your life
you've really wanted to be like your sister...
you've idolized her in many ways, looked up to her
for advice
for support
for guidance
Imagine she's in a stable marriage to a man who
is a good father to two or three children
...and not married to someone who is still married
to someone else
or married to someone who is a crackhead
or a porn producer
or a swindler
or a liar
Imagine she's financially stable, with a good
job -- a consultant, perhaps, or
a sales rep or even a doctor or a nurse --
and that she's held this job or one like it for years
and her colleagues admire her
and her family is proud of her
and she's never once had to file for bankruptcy
or borrowed large sums of money from
her parents
or her older brother
or her younger sister
Imagine she's confident and self-assured
And responsible
And when she talks to you on the phone
She speaks clearly and passionately
about her life, never giggling excessively, never
focusing solely on herself, never admitting to you in
mumbled phrases about her affairs with
married men
or her sex with her client on the massage table
Imagine she has integrity, that she's
reliable and truthful
And she'd never not pay a bill
or lie to her landlord
or ask her brother or sister to
keep secrets
or blame others for her poor choices
Imagine she's a full-bodied woman
a bit overweight, but healthy and active
not obsessive about what she eats
never asking the waiters to check the oils
used in her meal
or if there are meat products in the salad
Imagine she runs four days a week
but never far enough to get rid of
the belly or the butt or the peasant calves
Imagine she likes herself
when she looks in the mirror
and doesn't see just elbows and knees
and ankles and ribs
Imagine she knows when enough
is enough and doesn't ride her bike
for 20 miles after she's run for
two hours
or then jump in the pool
because she needs to burn off her lunch
Imagine she feels a part of the
family and visits on a regular
basis and is never an
imposition, never upset
because the vacation schedule isn't
exactly what she planned or how she
wants it to be
And at Christmas, she doesn't
drink too much
or call you from a bedroom
at your brother's house
crying that her father is an
asshole
that her brother called her a drunk
that no one loves her
that she's not a part of the family
Imagine she always stays calm
Except on occasions
Like all of us
When the repairman is late
Or the car doesn't work
Or the plane is behind schedule
Or work is particularly stressful
Imagine she has patience
and good judgment
and is able to stand up for herself
when wronged
but let go of it once it's
resolved
Imagine she feels a part of the
world and not
excluded from it
That she contributes to good causes
and does not feel
the world is out to get her
Imagine she's lived in the same house
in the same town
in the same state
all her adult life
and never had to leave
because she owed money
or burned too many bridges
or felt unsettled
or thought it would be
different somewhere else
Imagine she knows how to
love her parents
who are proud of her
because she's claimed positive
space in the world
and not sucked all the energy
from her friends
or her family
or her co-workers
And that her parents can
sleep peacefully at night
knowing she's safe and
financially sound
with a solid job
and a family of her own
and they don't have to wake
up in the middle of the night
sweating with worry or
answering phones
Imagine she's kind
and when you need a familiar
voice you call her up
and she hugs you with her words
and doesn't splatter you with anger
like bacon grease from a hot pan
Imagine you love her
even when you're mad at her
even when she's a bit selfish
or impatient
or difficult
Imagine you love her
because she's solid and whole and
not stuck in some place
you'll never understand
never be able to kick her out of
never be able to convince her she's in
Imagine you feel connected to her
in ways that they write about
in Hallmark Cards
But it's not corny or trite
or laced in pink
Imagine you have an older sister...
whom you love...
I have one
though
Not the one
I imagined...
Imagine this older sister just turned 50
and when you look at her life you are proud
and slightly envious because all your life
you've really wanted to be like your sister...
you've idolized her in many ways, looked up to her
for advice
for support
for guidance
Imagine she's in a stable marriage to a man who
is a good father to two or three children
...and not married to someone who is still married
to someone else
or married to someone who is a crackhead
or a porn producer
or a swindler
or a liar
Imagine she's financially stable, with a good
job -- a consultant, perhaps, or
a sales rep or even a doctor or a nurse --
and that she's held this job or one like it for years
and her colleagues admire her
and her family is proud of her
and she's never once had to file for bankruptcy
or borrowed large sums of money from
her parents
or her older brother
or her younger sister
Imagine she's confident and self-assured
And responsible
And when she talks to you on the phone
She speaks clearly and passionately
about her life, never giggling excessively, never
focusing solely on herself, never admitting to you in
mumbled phrases about her affairs with
married men
or her sex with her client on the massage table
Imagine she has integrity, that she's
reliable and truthful
And she'd never not pay a bill
or lie to her landlord
or ask her brother or sister to
keep secrets
or blame others for her poor choices
Imagine she's a full-bodied woman
a bit overweight, but healthy and active
not obsessive about what she eats
never asking the waiters to check the oils
used in her meal
or if there are meat products in the salad
Imagine she runs four days a week
but never far enough to get rid of
the belly or the butt or the peasant calves
Imagine she likes herself
when she looks in the mirror
and doesn't see just elbows and knees
and ankles and ribs
Imagine she knows when enough
is enough and doesn't ride her bike
for 20 miles after she's run for
two hours
or then jump in the pool
because she needs to burn off her lunch
Imagine she feels a part of the
family and visits on a regular
basis and is never an
imposition, never upset
because the vacation schedule isn't
exactly what she planned or how she
wants it to be
And at Christmas, she doesn't
drink too much
or call you from a bedroom
at your brother's house
crying that her father is an
asshole
that her brother called her a drunk
that no one loves her
that she's not a part of the family
Imagine she always stays calm
Except on occasions
Like all of us
When the repairman is late
Or the car doesn't work
Or the plane is behind schedule
Or work is particularly stressful
Imagine she has patience
and good judgment
and is able to stand up for herself
when wronged
but let go of it once it's
resolved
Imagine she feels a part of the
world and not
excluded from it
That she contributes to good causes
and does not feel
the world is out to get her
Imagine she's lived in the same house
in the same town
in the same state
all her adult life
and never had to leave
because she owed money
or burned too many bridges
or felt unsettled
or thought it would be
different somewhere else
Imagine she knows how to
love her parents
who are proud of her
because she's claimed positive
space in the world
and not sucked all the energy
from her friends
or her family
or her co-workers
And that her parents can
sleep peacefully at night
knowing she's safe and
financially sound
with a solid job
and a family of her own
and they don't have to wake
up in the middle of the night
sweating with worry or
answering phones
Imagine she's kind
and when you need a familiar
voice you call her up
and she hugs you with her words
and doesn't splatter you with anger
like bacon grease from a hot pan
Imagine you love her
even when you're mad at her
even when she's a bit selfish
or impatient
or difficult
Imagine you love her
because she's solid and whole and
not stuck in some place
you'll never understand
never be able to kick her out of
never be able to convince her she's in
Imagine you feel connected to her
in ways that they write about
in Hallmark Cards
But it's not corny or trite
or laced in pink
Imagine you have an older sister...
whom you love...
I have one
though
Not the one
I imagined...
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Inside my head ...or a stream of...
...random thoughts that swirl around me. I've been up, basically since 4:30 this morning. Chester is sleeping more only waking up at 3, 4:30, 5 and 5:30. Ann and I tag team it. I get up at 3 and 5:30 since 5:30 is my time to get up and make coffee and figure out what breakfast we should have (oatmeal, bagels, or cold cereal). Ann gets up at 4:30 and 5 and then sleeps while I putz in the kitchen, Chester begging at my side. This morning at 3 I realized I hadn't put my bike away, so I fell out of bed, put on my rubber clogs, and shalumped my way to the backyard where my bike sat in the rain. Chester peed, long and hot, steam rising from the grass like something from the moors of Sherlock Holmes. I heard Ann get up at 4:30 and then shalump back into bed, but from 4:30 to 5:30 I couldn't fall back to sleep. I kept thinking about crazy things all starting with "what if..." What if there aren't enough students next year and I have to teach alone? What if Chester has a seizure Thursday night and Ann and I both have big events on Friday that we really can't miss? What if I can't get the lightbulb on the back porch (that broke off while I was trying to change it) out of the socket using a potato like the neighbor suggested? What if my broken toe NEVER heals? What if the 10 pounds I've gained this year stays, just like the 10 pounds I gained when I turned 40 never left? What if I'm manic and this not sleeping is the first sign?
And Ann kept snoring, like a bear, against my back. And I kept whacking her gently on the shoulder though by the tenth time it wasn't so gentle. And finally, just as I started to let my mind stop drilling the same questions over and over, I fell asleep to the sound of the classical music on the alarm clock radio.
But I wasn't grumpy. Tired, but not grumpy. I even rode my bike though the moment I clicked into the pedals the sprinkle became rain and then the rain became a downpour and by the time I got to work I was soaked. But I didn't care because it's Wednesday and I don't really teach on Wednesday since the kids are in art class or in health and fitness class and my teaching partner and I get to work and plan and get semi-organized. We even had time to take our Dean of Faculty for coffee, though we walked in the rain and my hair got all curly and my shoes got all wet...still, I wasn't grumpy.
Am I manic? No, I'm just tired, I kept telling myself, and when I'm tired I try to will myself through the day on a manic breeze.
And when we got back into the classroom where the kids were making these amazing pieces of art I hear floating through the air, "I love you, Gretchen" and I mouth to the art teacher, "Who said that?" but I know who it is and she says, "D." which is exactly who I thought it was since she's had a crush on me since the beginning of the year and tells me on a daily basis how funny I am and asks "can I have a hug?" though I've limited her to one a day, which is so fun to watch as she tries to decide exactly when to ask for it, stalking my desk like a vulture waiting for rotten meat and then backing away because it's just not time, not yet. But the spontaneous "I love yous" have increased and I giggle and my teaching partner giggles and the art teacher giggles because she's not really in love with me, she's just got a crush and it's harmless and meaningful all at the same time.
And then we sit through a faculty meeting while the kids attend their internships--learning to bake bread, making pizza, cleaning up the local park, hip-hop dancing, mastering karate -- and even the faculty meeting can't overwhelm me or grump me out. And D. another teacher, makes me cookies to say thank you for helping her out and I eat three, trying not to be rude at the same time I'm trying not to feel guilty because three cookies means more calories and more calories means the ten extra pounds might be permanent. Still, they are the best homemade cookies and I pass them around to the faculty and staff and 10 minutes into the meeting the 2 dozen cookies are gone and someone breaks out yet another box of Girl Scout Cookies, though I don't have any of those because D's are so much better and I've already had 3 though I could've eaten 10.
At the end of the day, the kids return, some muddy from their park trip in the rain others covered in flour from their baking adventures. And the hallway smells like garlic and the parents are waiting by the front office and I see A. the 7 year old sister of one of my favorite students and she squeals with delight because I always tease her and then I see her mother, recently diagnosed with MS, looking healthy and positive and I give her a hug and then hug her again because she's alive. "What a ride," she tells me and I say, "Nothing like an illness to make you live in the now." And she says, "Ain't that the truth," and A, her young daugter repeats the phrase "Ain't that the truth" and then says, "But you said ain't mommy" and D. the student who has a crush on my comes up and asks, "Can I have my hug?" and I grab her tight and say, "You bet!" and then she asks, "Can I just have one more?" and I say yes, not because she needs to get it, but because I need to give it and she smiles and grabs her mom's hand and heads out into the rain.
I put on my soggy bike clothes, strap up my shoes and booties, and climb on my bike feeling not manic but tired, which is probably more the cookies than the lack of sleep, so I decide to forgo the gym and just ride home in the rain, full throttle in the stream of the now.
And Ann kept snoring, like a bear, against my back. And I kept whacking her gently on the shoulder though by the tenth time it wasn't so gentle. And finally, just as I started to let my mind stop drilling the same questions over and over, I fell asleep to the sound of the classical music on the alarm clock radio.
But I wasn't grumpy. Tired, but not grumpy. I even rode my bike though the moment I clicked into the pedals the sprinkle became rain and then the rain became a downpour and by the time I got to work I was soaked. But I didn't care because it's Wednesday and I don't really teach on Wednesday since the kids are in art class or in health and fitness class and my teaching partner and I get to work and plan and get semi-organized. We even had time to take our Dean of Faculty for coffee, though we walked in the rain and my hair got all curly and my shoes got all wet...still, I wasn't grumpy.
Am I manic? No, I'm just tired, I kept telling myself, and when I'm tired I try to will myself through the day on a manic breeze.
And when we got back into the classroom where the kids were making these amazing pieces of art I hear floating through the air, "I love you, Gretchen" and I mouth to the art teacher, "Who said that?" but I know who it is and she says, "D." which is exactly who I thought it was since she's had a crush on me since the beginning of the year and tells me on a daily basis how funny I am and asks "can I have a hug?" though I've limited her to one a day, which is so fun to watch as she tries to decide exactly when to ask for it, stalking my desk like a vulture waiting for rotten meat and then backing away because it's just not time, not yet. But the spontaneous "I love yous" have increased and I giggle and my teaching partner giggles and the art teacher giggles because she's not really in love with me, she's just got a crush and it's harmless and meaningful all at the same time.
And then we sit through a faculty meeting while the kids attend their internships--learning to bake bread, making pizza, cleaning up the local park, hip-hop dancing, mastering karate -- and even the faculty meeting can't overwhelm me or grump me out. And D. another teacher, makes me cookies to say thank you for helping her out and I eat three, trying not to be rude at the same time I'm trying not to feel guilty because three cookies means more calories and more calories means the ten extra pounds might be permanent. Still, they are the best homemade cookies and I pass them around to the faculty and staff and 10 minutes into the meeting the 2 dozen cookies are gone and someone breaks out yet another box of Girl Scout Cookies, though I don't have any of those because D's are so much better and I've already had 3 though I could've eaten 10.
At the end of the day, the kids return, some muddy from their park trip in the rain others covered in flour from their baking adventures. And the hallway smells like garlic and the parents are waiting by the front office and I see A. the 7 year old sister of one of my favorite students and she squeals with delight because I always tease her and then I see her mother, recently diagnosed with MS, looking healthy and positive and I give her a hug and then hug her again because she's alive. "What a ride," she tells me and I say, "Nothing like an illness to make you live in the now." And she says, "Ain't that the truth," and A, her young daugter repeats the phrase "Ain't that the truth" and then says, "But you said ain't mommy" and D. the student who has a crush on my comes up and asks, "Can I have my hug?" and I grab her tight and say, "You bet!" and then she asks, "Can I just have one more?" and I say yes, not because she needs to get it, but because I need to give it and she smiles and grabs her mom's hand and heads out into the rain.
I put on my soggy bike clothes, strap up my shoes and booties, and climb on my bike feeling not manic but tired, which is probably more the cookies than the lack of sleep, so I decide to forgo the gym and just ride home in the rain, full throttle in the stream of the now.
Friday, March 17, 2006
A Day Off...
The school where I teach calls this day the "Head's Holiday"...she (the Head of School) felt that it was important to have a day off in March since there aren't presidents or civil rights leaders in this month.
Ahhhhhhh...how nice it feels...even though I woke at 5:15 with Mr. Pajama Pants. I let Ann sleep in as she has a math workshop to attend to today.
So, I'm doing laundry, did the dishes, paid the bills and when it stops raining for a moment, I shall take Chester (aka: Mr. Pajama Pants) on a walk through the neighborhood, past the mailbox where we shall mail the bills I just paid.
Then a haircut...much needed as I look like Elvis or perhaps Roy Orbison this day. Then I'll pick up Ann and we'll go for an obligatory workout, walk Chester again (in our old neighborhood) and take a gander at the remodel, which as of yesterday, has all new windows. Wow, did that change everthing. As did the new front door. It's amazing what new and clean can do to spruce up a house built in 1900.
Things are moving fast -- new appliances on Tuesday afternoon, cabinetry the week after, and siding as an on-going process. I feel so decadent, though I know our abode is still humble by some standards...then again, a mansion by others. Perspective. It's all about perspective.
My parents and Bookworm and Fossilguy are at the beach and I wish them well. I hope there is no rain, a stiff wind for kites, and lots of leisure time to work on puzzles, read books, and discuss whatever it is that Bookworm brings up about the Sopranos.
I know my parents read this blog, but I must say, they are active "elderly"...yes, mom, 78/79 is elderly...hell, it's past the life expectancy of most Americans. While I'm proud of them for living such rich and full lives, I worry about them so far away at the ocean. Though I think, and don't take this the wrong way folks, but I think, what better place for them to "pass on" if it is their time -- at the beach house where they've spent a yearly expedition with their dear friends eating amazing food and laughing through the most awful weather.
But my mother is too stubborn to "pass on" and my dad needs my mom so I'm certain they'll be flying kites again next year at this time.
Meanwhile, there's a dog to walk and a mound of hair to cut and laundry to fold and a partner to meet and a house to watch grow and a day to spend not thinking about 11 year olds.
Nice. Very. Very. Nice.
Ahhhhhhh...how nice it feels...even though I woke at 5:15 with Mr. Pajama Pants. I let Ann sleep in as she has a math workshop to attend to today.
So, I'm doing laundry, did the dishes, paid the bills and when it stops raining for a moment, I shall take Chester (aka: Mr. Pajama Pants) on a walk through the neighborhood, past the mailbox where we shall mail the bills I just paid.
Then a haircut...much needed as I look like Elvis or perhaps Roy Orbison this day. Then I'll pick up Ann and we'll go for an obligatory workout, walk Chester again (in our old neighborhood) and take a gander at the remodel, which as of yesterday, has all new windows. Wow, did that change everthing. As did the new front door. It's amazing what new and clean can do to spruce up a house built in 1900.
Things are moving fast -- new appliances on Tuesday afternoon, cabinetry the week after, and siding as an on-going process. I feel so decadent, though I know our abode is still humble by some standards...then again, a mansion by others. Perspective. It's all about perspective.
My parents and Bookworm and Fossilguy are at the beach and I wish them well. I hope there is no rain, a stiff wind for kites, and lots of leisure time to work on puzzles, read books, and discuss whatever it is that Bookworm brings up about the Sopranos.
I know my parents read this blog, but I must say, they are active "elderly"...yes, mom, 78/79 is elderly...hell, it's past the life expectancy of most Americans. While I'm proud of them for living such rich and full lives, I worry about them so far away at the ocean. Though I think, and don't take this the wrong way folks, but I think, what better place for them to "pass on" if it is their time -- at the beach house where they've spent a yearly expedition with their dear friends eating amazing food and laughing through the most awful weather.
But my mother is too stubborn to "pass on" and my dad needs my mom so I'm certain they'll be flying kites again next year at this time.
Meanwhile, there's a dog to walk and a mound of hair to cut and laundry to fold and a partner to meet and a house to watch grow and a day to spend not thinking about 11 year olds.
Nice. Very. Very. Nice.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Our house...
What our house once looked like...640 square feet of purplish pink tar shingles...and what it looks like now...more room, no shingles, just orange paint on rotten wood...
This is a long process...I can hardly wait for it to be done as I am ready to make my own mess in my own house once again!
The best black dog...
Ann took this photo. We have many good ones of the boy, but this is by far my favorite. I often say he looks professorial, but this one, with the shadowed eye, the wisps of hair across his muzzle...this is more like a Hollywood photo. Carey Grant.
What a guy...of course, he got me up at 4:30, but hell, I still love him. As my brother reminded me on the phone, "Dogs live in the now. He doesn't know he's dying so why should we focus on it."
Monday, March 06, 2006
Omens
Searching for omens is something humans must do consiously or unconsciously all the time.
Or maybe it's just me.
Last night, after Chester's second seizure in two hours, the cresent moon stared blindly into the cup of the empty Big Dipper. Chester struggled to urinate, circling the small yard like a prisoner taking advantage of his daily hour of exercise. I watched the sky as the breeze from the south pushed a curtain of clouds first over the moon and then the stars, inching out their performance one star at a time.
I sat squat against myself, hugging my last bit of warmth waiting for Chester to release the gallon of water he always drinks after his seizures. To no avail. It would take at least 10 more trips out to the backyard before he finally settled down on his bed and we slept, one ear open, waiting for the possibility of one more seizure.
He had three this weekend. Another omen, I'm sure.
Today the breeze is a gusting wind shaking off the early blooms of the cherry tree and sending clouds racing across a tattered blue sky. The rain comes in fits, never enough to get anything wet, and then passes to make way for blasts of sunshine and filtered shadows.
I went to work for the morning. With a field trip planned to the Aquarium, I didn't feel it was fair to leave my teaching partner in the lurch, so I pulled myself into work just in time to board the city bus and make our way to the waterfront.
On the bus, two old men sat in the last seats across the aisle from each other. With 22 students, everyone seat was used and some of us held on precariously to the straps above our heads, swaying in the middle of the aisle. Our youngest student (not in age, but spirit...she still wears jumpers...something you don't see much in a 5th grader anymore), stood between the two old men. They were drunk and one held a paperbag with the tall label of the beer can protruding from the top. He drank then spit then glared at me while I glared momma cub eyes back at him. He spit again and said loudly, "Ya gonna tell on me, bitch?"
R., the student, looked cautiously at him, then stared panic stricken back at me. I tried, with my eyes, to tell her all would be okay. I tried to manuver my way back to them, to position my body in such a way that the beer man would not be so close to the jumper-clad child. The bus was too full and all I could do was send reassuring messages with one eye while I sent threatening signals with the other.
Finally, we got off the bus. Of course, beer man and his friend did, too. The students waited patiently on the sidewalk as the men walked past them, spitting and laughing. Four girls huddled around R, wrapping their arms around her tiny shoulders.
"You okay, R?" I asked.
"He called you the b-word," she gasped, astonished.
"It's okay, sweetie," I reassured her. "He's not the first and he won't be the last."
Some students laughed, others looked at me in wonder.
I wanted to tell her -- there are constants in the world. Stars, drunks, dying dogs, and sleepy teachers.
Somewhere in there are omens.
Or maybe it's just me.
Last night, after Chester's second seizure in two hours, the cresent moon stared blindly into the cup of the empty Big Dipper. Chester struggled to urinate, circling the small yard like a prisoner taking advantage of his daily hour of exercise. I watched the sky as the breeze from the south pushed a curtain of clouds first over the moon and then the stars, inching out their performance one star at a time.
I sat squat against myself, hugging my last bit of warmth waiting for Chester to release the gallon of water he always drinks after his seizures. To no avail. It would take at least 10 more trips out to the backyard before he finally settled down on his bed and we slept, one ear open, waiting for the possibility of one more seizure.
He had three this weekend. Another omen, I'm sure.
Today the breeze is a gusting wind shaking off the early blooms of the cherry tree and sending clouds racing across a tattered blue sky. The rain comes in fits, never enough to get anything wet, and then passes to make way for blasts of sunshine and filtered shadows.
I went to work for the morning. With a field trip planned to the Aquarium, I didn't feel it was fair to leave my teaching partner in the lurch, so I pulled myself into work just in time to board the city bus and make our way to the waterfront.
On the bus, two old men sat in the last seats across the aisle from each other. With 22 students, everyone seat was used and some of us held on precariously to the straps above our heads, swaying in the middle of the aisle. Our youngest student (not in age, but spirit...she still wears jumpers...something you don't see much in a 5th grader anymore), stood between the two old men. They were drunk and one held a paperbag with the tall label of the beer can protruding from the top. He drank then spit then glared at me while I glared momma cub eyes back at him. He spit again and said loudly, "Ya gonna tell on me, bitch?"
R., the student, looked cautiously at him, then stared panic stricken back at me. I tried, with my eyes, to tell her all would be okay. I tried to manuver my way back to them, to position my body in such a way that the beer man would not be so close to the jumper-clad child. The bus was too full and all I could do was send reassuring messages with one eye while I sent threatening signals with the other.
Finally, we got off the bus. Of course, beer man and his friend did, too. The students waited patiently on the sidewalk as the men walked past them, spitting and laughing. Four girls huddled around R, wrapping their arms around her tiny shoulders.
"You okay, R?" I asked.
"He called you the b-word," she gasped, astonished.
"It's okay, sweetie," I reassured her. "He's not the first and he won't be the last."
Some students laughed, others looked at me in wonder.
I wanted to tell her -- there are constants in the world. Stars, drunks, dying dogs, and sleepy teachers.
Somewhere in there are omens.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A little brain power
Found a way to post Chester/Dash's pictures...just required a bit of READING THE INSTRUCTIONS (and I call myself a teacher!)...
The top picture is of the Dashboard wonder begging from beneath the Thanksgiving table at Fossilguy and Bookworm's house..."Any scrap will do!"
And to the side, the cute boy lying on the couch at our housesitting gig...don't worry, the people who own the house said it was okay to do so, IF the blue sheet was on the couch...which you can see it is!
More later, now that I've figured this picture thing out!
Friday, March 03, 2006
Dashboard Love
"The dog wags his tail, not for you, but for your bread." ~Portuguese Proverb
So, here's my first confession. We own an SUV -- a big, green Toyota 4-Runner. It gets about 18-20 miles to the gallon. My only consolation is that we only own one car and we don't use it that often (we ride our bikes, carpool, or walk to work). But still. It's a blemish on my environmentalist personna.
Oh, and it has a leather interior.
Next confession. Ann and I have no sense of style or fashion. I believe this is because we are lesbians and I realize this smacks of stereotyping, but so be it. We are dykes who purchase a hodge-podge of things simply because they are functional, gifts, or we like them (we pay no attention to trends, brand names, or sticking to a theme). Because of our lack of decorating sense, we've hired a designer to help us with our remodel. It feels very chic and expensive, but it's not really. The designer is very nice and works well within the limited budget we've proposed. We're hoping with her help that our paint colors won't scream middle-aged lesbian anymore.
Okay, with all that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about love these days. Perhaps it's a leftover from Valentine's Day (where Ann and I just gave each other stools for the soon to be kitchen island in the new remodel!), but love has been on my mind because of Chester.
Chester is our 12 and 1/2 year old dog. He's adorable, loveable, and loyal. Everyone who knows Chester loves Chester. Unfortunately, he suffers from seizures, brought on (the vets think) by a brain tumor. To stop the seizures...actually to limit them because he still has them (about every 3-5 weeks), we give him pheno-barbital. We started at 2 pills a day and are now up to 7, increasing the dose with every series of seizures he suffers. For his size and weight, his limit will be 13 a day. So, as we see it, we're about half way there to making the tough decision of putting him down.
The drugs make him a little loopy at first, but the biggest side effect is that he thinks he is starving all the time and spends every night before he goes to sleep, whining and begging for just one more morsel of something, anything. His moans and groans are so loud and long at times, that we have to turn the volume up on the TV just to drown him out.
We've talking a lot about when is the right time to put him down, wondering when we'll know for certain if the time comes. I've done this before, put a dog down, and I knew it was right and felt good about the decision I made, but still, it doesn't get any clearer or easier with the second dog.
Meanwhile, a colleague of Ann's has announced her retirement recently, stating that she wants to go out on a good year. This, she feels has been a good year.
Our discussion last night was, Do we let Chester go out on a good day or do we wait for the inevitable down turn and suffering that's bound to come?
There have been a lot of tears. There has been a lot of discussion about quality of life -- his AND ours as he gets up about 5-7 times a night to go out and relieve himself...this is despite the "diaper" (which we call a Speedo) he must wear while in the house.
We're tired...very tired.
And yet, every time we look at his amber eyes, his pensive smile, and watch his wagging tail flag a breeze, we know we could never put him to sleep while he is in this state.
So, we sleep less, try to catch up on the weekends, and wait for the next round of seizures, which are not only painful to watch, but require one of us to take a day off of work to make certain he doesn't have anymore.
The other night, we went to visit our designer at her house (this way we don't have to pay her travel costs) and had a nice time looking at cabinets and fixtures and laughing about the rich clients she's working with in Medina (a posh suburb of Seattle).
Chester waited for us in the car -- the big, expensive, gas-guzzling SUV dog house --and Ann went out to check on him and give him his medication once during our 2 hour meeting with the designer. At the end of the evening, Ann and I climbed into the over-sized and environmentally damaging car and realized there was something all over the seat and floor on the front passenger side.
After a moment of fear (Oh my god, he's had a seizure while in the car!), we realized that Chester, in his ferocious desire to eat, had tried to eat his way through the dashboard to get to the dog treats in the glove compartment. The dashboard was mangled and torn with bits and chunks of plastic and foam everywhere.
I turned to Ann: So, how do we react to this?
Ann: (long, long pause)...Brown duct tape?
We laughed.
Which do we love more our expensive SUV or our dog? Our dog, of course, but it was a humbling moment, a brief pause when we had to take stock of all we had of value in our lives-- our paid-for expensive car, our new remodel with its fancy kitchen, the money dwindling in our bank accounts -- and weigh it against all we valued in our lives -- each other, our health, a nice home, families who are intact and still all alive, and most importantly our dog, Chester who proved to us that he's not close to being put down with the amount of energy he exerted for the taste of just one more cookie.
Chester has many nicknames -- Boo Boo, Chester-man, Chester One -leaf (leaves cling to him like white on rice), and now DASH, the dog who'd risk plastic and airbags, steel and foam, the possibility of another seizure for the tiniest morsel of food.
Do they even make brown duct tape?
So, here's my first confession. We own an SUV -- a big, green Toyota 4-Runner. It gets about 18-20 miles to the gallon. My only consolation is that we only own one car and we don't use it that often (we ride our bikes, carpool, or walk to work). But still. It's a blemish on my environmentalist personna.
Oh, and it has a leather interior.
Next confession. Ann and I have no sense of style or fashion. I believe this is because we are lesbians and I realize this smacks of stereotyping, but so be it. We are dykes who purchase a hodge-podge of things simply because they are functional, gifts, or we like them (we pay no attention to trends, brand names, or sticking to a theme). Because of our lack of decorating sense, we've hired a designer to help us with our remodel. It feels very chic and expensive, but it's not really. The designer is very nice and works well within the limited budget we've proposed. We're hoping with her help that our paint colors won't scream middle-aged lesbian anymore.
Okay, with all that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about love these days. Perhaps it's a leftover from Valentine's Day (where Ann and I just gave each other stools for the soon to be kitchen island in the new remodel!), but love has been on my mind because of Chester.
Chester is our 12 and 1/2 year old dog. He's adorable, loveable, and loyal. Everyone who knows Chester loves Chester. Unfortunately, he suffers from seizures, brought on (the vets think) by a brain tumor. To stop the seizures...actually to limit them because he still has them (about every 3-5 weeks), we give him pheno-barbital. We started at 2 pills a day and are now up to 7, increasing the dose with every series of seizures he suffers. For his size and weight, his limit will be 13 a day. So, as we see it, we're about half way there to making the tough decision of putting him down.
The drugs make him a little loopy at first, but the biggest side effect is that he thinks he is starving all the time and spends every night before he goes to sleep, whining and begging for just one more morsel of something, anything. His moans and groans are so loud and long at times, that we have to turn the volume up on the TV just to drown him out.
We've talking a lot about when is the right time to put him down, wondering when we'll know for certain if the time comes. I've done this before, put a dog down, and I knew it was right and felt good about the decision I made, but still, it doesn't get any clearer or easier with the second dog.
Meanwhile, a colleague of Ann's has announced her retirement recently, stating that she wants to go out on a good year. This, she feels has been a good year.
Our discussion last night was, Do we let Chester go out on a good day or do we wait for the inevitable down turn and suffering that's bound to come?
There have been a lot of tears. There has been a lot of discussion about quality of life -- his AND ours as he gets up about 5-7 times a night to go out and relieve himself...this is despite the "diaper" (which we call a Speedo) he must wear while in the house.
We're tired...very tired.
And yet, every time we look at his amber eyes, his pensive smile, and watch his wagging tail flag a breeze, we know we could never put him to sleep while he is in this state.
So, we sleep less, try to catch up on the weekends, and wait for the next round of seizures, which are not only painful to watch, but require one of us to take a day off of work to make certain he doesn't have anymore.
The other night, we went to visit our designer at her house (this way we don't have to pay her travel costs) and had a nice time looking at cabinets and fixtures and laughing about the rich clients she's working with in Medina (a posh suburb of Seattle).
Chester waited for us in the car -- the big, expensive, gas-guzzling SUV dog house --and Ann went out to check on him and give him his medication once during our 2 hour meeting with the designer. At the end of the evening, Ann and I climbed into the over-sized and environmentally damaging car and realized there was something all over the seat and floor on the front passenger side.
After a moment of fear (Oh my god, he's had a seizure while in the car!), we realized that Chester, in his ferocious desire to eat, had tried to eat his way through the dashboard to get to the dog treats in the glove compartment. The dashboard was mangled and torn with bits and chunks of plastic and foam everywhere.
I turned to Ann: So, how do we react to this?
Ann: (long, long pause)...Brown duct tape?
We laughed.
Which do we love more our expensive SUV or our dog? Our dog, of course, but it was a humbling moment, a brief pause when we had to take stock of all we had of value in our lives-- our paid-for expensive car, our new remodel with its fancy kitchen, the money dwindling in our bank accounts -- and weigh it against all we valued in our lives -- each other, our health, a nice home, families who are intact and still all alive, and most importantly our dog, Chester who proved to us that he's not close to being put down with the amount of energy he exerted for the taste of just one more cookie.
Chester has many nicknames -- Boo Boo, Chester-man, Chester One -leaf (leaves cling to him like white on rice), and now DASH, the dog who'd risk plastic and airbags, steel and foam, the possibility of another seizure for the tiniest morsel of food.
Do they even make brown duct tape?
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