![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
PerAspera
Feb. 5th, 2009
08:53 am - ultimate madness
This is like going back to the dentist's office after managing to avoid it for a couple of years. You know it's something you'll feel better about after it's over, but you can't escape feeling awkward when you walk in. The tough part is explaining why you haven't been around for so long.
I wish I could tell you I've been a missionary in Africa. Or held for ransom in Iraq. Or hospitalized after a serious bus accident.
But none of those things are true.
I've actually been back at Ampersand Manor following the death of my brother Artie. Returning home brought me back into the incredible soap opera with my unfaithful wife Wayward and her companion in lust Zero. This time the story was complicated by Wayward's DEPRESSION and her increasing inclination to kill herself.
Since I've been back, Wayward has run away to be with Zero twice. Zero has broken up with her twice. Wayward has attempted suicide twice. After both attempts she was committed for psychiatric evaluation -- the first time for a week; the second, for ten days.
Both times, when leaving the hospital Wayward assured me she had not changed her mind about killing herself. In fact, she had been collecting the pills she was given instead of taking them. She had toyed with the idea of trying to kill herself while she was at the hospital.
After Wayward's most recent attempt to kill herself, I received a phone call from Zero. He was distraught and tearful. He blamed himself for pushing Wayward over the edge by insisting their relationship was over. He told her he was engaged to another woman and planned to leave town. He himself was being medicated for chronic headaches and bipolar disorder. Wayward's actions were hurting him as well as herself. He asked me for advice.
This is crazy, I thought to myself. I am an island of sanity in an ocean of madness. Over the phone I thanked Zero for his concern for Wayward. I recommended he return any of Wayward's belongings and refrain from any further contact with her.
Since then I have heard no further mention of Zero from Wayward. She says she is grieving for the lost relationship and has no desire to live. On the other hand, she feels remorse for the terrible anxiety her suicide attempts have caused her son. She promises the next attempt will be successful.
As for me, Wayward promises to be honest whenever she leaves the Manor. If she says she is going shopping, that's what she will do. If she plans to stay the night at her cousin's house to help her redecorate the twins' room, that's where she will be. And if she plans to do herself in, she will tell me.
She also promises to tell me if she is planning to meet other men for the purpose of starting another adulterous relationship.
Today I find myself facing a pile of correspondence containing bills from hospitals, ambulance companies, doctors and laboratories. At least one of them has turned an unpaid bill over to a collection company already.
I'm thinking maybe my sanity isn't such a good thing. Maybe the ultimate madness is believing I'm not crazy.
Jan. 27th, 2009
03:08 pm - Happy Birthday to Nancy & Rich
I've been thinking about posting to LJ so my friends in the community will know I am still alive. I can't think of a better way than to greet two wonderful people on their shared LJ birthday. May your special day be extra-special this year! May you have joy in cosmic proportions. May you have smooth seas and a following wind. May the bird of happiness nest on your rooftop. May all good things come your way. Best wishes. RA
Aug. 3rd, 2008
09:50 am - the world is subtly different
My brother Artie passed away at 11:15 AM, Friday, August 1st. He never regained consciousness after his daily hygiene the day before. Even so, all he did was grimace and moan as the aide moved his body to clean him. He never moved again afterward. He never spoke. There was only the sound of his breathing and the raspy gurgle called the "death rattle."
I watched Artie all day Thursday and visited his beside several times during the night. About 5 AM his breathing became shallower and more frequent. I woke my half-brother Hutch, who was sleeping on the couch in the living room about 7. I told him I thought Artie was very near the end. It didn't seem possible his body could go on with such little breaths.
The Hospice nurse arrived about 9:30. He took Artie's vital signs. The blood pressure had been dropping for several days and was almost non-existent. Artie's heartbeat was irregular. The nurse decided to stay with us.
Artie's adopted mother arrived about 10:30. She had been planning to sit with him for a few hours so I could have some relief. I had told her earlier that Artie would not be with us much longer. Even though old enough to be Artie's mother, she had been his close friend for over thirty years. Until he became ill, Artie was named to be executor of her estate. They played bridge together every Saturday and talked over the phone several times a week.
At 11:15 Artie made what seemed to be a tired sigh and his breathing stopped. Artie's "mom" and I cried and hugged each other. Hutch's eyes were misty but he didn't actually cry. Gary, the nurse, gave us a while before he sent us out of the room to do what needed to be done.
I remember thinking that Artie had left us quietly and unnoticed sometime before. The organs of his body were simply going through the motions of their assigned tasks like an engine that continues to run as long as there is fuel in the tank. The cells within the body have no knowledge of the consciousness that shares the space they occupy. It was only Artie's body that had ceased to function.
It was something of a comfort to become absorbed in the details of starting the laundry and throwing away the soiled disposables. I lost the feeling the object in front of me was Artie -- it was something that had contained him for a while. Whatever Artie had been or whatever he had become was no longer within it.
I helped dress the body in a fancy set of pajamas we found in Artie's closet. He probably wore them once in his life, but they were too nice to throw away. I helped carry the body to the gurney so it could be taken to a funeral home. Within 24 hours it would be on an airplane on its way to a research facility or a medical school anatomy class. Artie wanted his death to help others. Because he had cancer, organ donation wasn't possible. But donating his body to science seemed a good alternative.
Yesterday we had a memorial celebration for Artie. It was held at his "mom's" house. All of Artie's closest friends were there. We shared things we remembered about Artie. I learned several things I hadn't known.
It was a very emotional time for me. But it was a comfort to feel that I wasn't alone in my grief. I've always felt happy to know someone I cared for was loved by other people, too. (Not in the sense Wayward took it, of course.)
When we returned home, Hutch and I made a loose set of plans for the financial and practical details that need to be accomplished. It seems to be a mountain-sized undertaking (a poor word choice!) but I'm looking forward to putting this part of my life behind me. It will feel good to be able to make plans for the future.
One thing I've noticed is a sense that something is different. I can't describe it exactly. It's like a voice that I've become used to hearing has become silent. Or a fragrant plant in a corner of the garden has lost its scent.
I've lost something that meant a great deal to me. The loneliness I sometimes feel has a deeper shade of darkness. There is less joy in the world than there used to be.
Everyone I loved as a child is dead. I feel vulnerable and lost. I miss my brother more than I can say.
Jul. 25th, 2008
07:42 pm - an open letter to my dying brother
Artie:
I've been thinking about writing this letter to you for several months. I think the idea occurred to me when I first realized the cancer you have been fighting is close to winning the battle.
I've seen you change from a completely independent, mobile person to a completely dependent, bed-ridden invalid.
I've witnessed your progress from an intelligent, sociable person into a confused, non-coherent individual who is increasingly non-communicative and withdrawn. Lately you start sentences, beginning with the same words several times and never finishing your thought. You cannot distinguish between the control that adjusts your hospital-style bed and the telephone or the remote control for the TV.
You refuse to eat. I suspect it is your way of controlling the only part of your life you have left.
I see you trying to sleep as much as you can. I think it is because your oncologist says you will probably pass away in your sleep. I heard you tell one of your friends that every time you go to sleep, you hope to wake up in Heaven. Sleeping passes the time and it brings you closer to the eventual end.
It hurts me to hear you talk this way. Even though I understand. As awful as it is for me to see the open wounds on your abdomen and the terrible discharge, I know it must be worse for you. It is your body being consumed by the cancer and there is never a moment of escape. At least I can take a shower and close the door to my room and be away from it for a little while.
I confess that sometimes I feel angry at you. Especially when you call for help in the middle of the night because you need your blankets adjusted because you are too cold or too hot, or because the water in your pitcher is gone or too warm to drink.
Sometimes I think you act more helpless than you really are. I think you could take the pill in the cup beside your bed or pick up the phone or roll on your side so I can remove the bed linen you soiled.
It isn't fair for me to think these things, but sometimes I can't help it.
When I first thought about writing you, I imagined I would tell you what I learned about Buddhism from the Jack Kornfield tapes I have heard. His words helped me to lose my fears about the future. They allowed me to find peace by accepting that all things in the universe change. It has been an important part of my life for many years and I think the same ideas could help you.
But now I believe you are sincere in your conviction that Heaven awaits you when the time comes. It seems odd to me because I've never known you to be particularly religious. Like me, you think organized religion is both hypocritical and fraudulent. It is snake oil for the soul. But who am I to say you are wrong about the Hereafter? Maybe I will fall back on the same comfortable promises when I am near the end.
All the same, in spite of your announcements that you are ready to die and your declared impatience to reach the end, I sense that what you really want is assurance that there is still time left.
So I am left with no idea about what I might say to you that would help ease your mind or bring you comfort. I can tell you that I love you. I feel my life has been enriched by the chance to be with you during the time we've had together.
I respect and admire you for the plans you have made to help others after you have gone. What strikes me most is that this is how you have lived your life. You have been a dear friend, a compassionate fellow-worker, a loving counselor, and a kind spirit to those in need.
In the end, all I can say to you is "thank you." Thank you for being my brother. Thank you for being part of my life. Thank you for letting me be close to you.
In whatever journey lies ahead, fare well.
May. 14th, 2008
10:45 am - Hamlet's dilemma
Recently I find myself recalling the first few lines of Hamlet's soliloquy. The idea of making a conscious choice to live or die didn't mean a great deal to me in high school when I first read the play. But now, after spending the last six months with my terminally ill brother, Artie, I have a better sense of what Shakespeare was talking about.
As you know, Artie was in the hospital or a skilled nursing facility for months recovering from an operation last December. On April 30th, he was allowed to return home with continued care from a Home Health service. After only ten days at home in my care, Artie suffered a massive relapse into a new variety of pain that a drawer-full of medications couldn't combat. It appeared to be some kind of digestive issue, because the pain started within minutes of eating or drinking something other than water. (I'm certain it wasn't anything I did, unless I've learned to sleepwalk to the car barn three times a day and dip into the rat poison.)
On the Saturday before Mother's Day in the U.S., Artie's abdominal pain developed without any connection to the consumption of food or drink. It was like someone had a voodoo doll and was poking its mid-section with anything handy. The consulting nurse with our Home Health agency had no suggestions and advised me to take Artie to the hospital.
I rushed Artie to the Emergency Room where we waited nearly four hours before the doctor on duty gave him something for the pain. Five hours after that, Artie was upstairs in the cancer ward. He was feeling good enough to ask for and eat a turkey sandwich and chips. This was after nearly ten days of not being able to eat more than a cupful of anything or showing any desire for food at all.
Since he started receiving the industrial-strength pain killers at the hospital, Artie has resumed eating normally. He looks forward to meals and calls ahead to have substitutions of his favorites. He seems more like himself. He is chatty and cheerful. It's like he is finally able to relax knowing he is near an endless supply of pain medication.
Being free of pain is Artie's number one concern. He has made his pact with the universe. He is happy to "pass on" at any moment so long as he feels no pain. That is his condition for being or not being.
Perhaps, in some way, Artie is luckier than most of us. He has found his answer to the biggest dilemma we have to face.
NEXT CHAPTER: An Open Letter to My Dying Brother.
May. 2nd, 2008
08:00 am - conflict and the potential outcome
This is technically the day after the day after.
My brother Artie has been back in the once familiar confines of his home for two days, this being the second. As we could have expected, the transition from being a resident at a Skilled Nursing Facility (or "SNF" in the lingo of the health care industry) back into his home ("El Rancho" in the argot of the Ampersands) has not been completely smooth.
None of the familiar patterns applies any more. Artie isn't part of the routines of the SNF that he has become used to over the past few months. He can't summon assistance in the middle of the night by pressing a button. Nor can he expect an instant change of bed linen if he has what is euphemistically called an "accident". He doesn't have someone to bring him meals he can enjoy without rising from bed, and he doesn't have a series of cheerful, friendly people helping him put on his clothes, encouraging him to join a group for physical therapy or wheelchair exercise, or giving him a sponge bath, or any of the myriad events that became "life as normal" for him.
Now that he is home again, he finds life isn't the same as he remembers. He can't get out of bed at 5:30 in the morning if he feels like it -- not yet, anyway. He can't trundle into the kitchen and brew a pot of tea and enjoy drinking it while he dabbles with email on the computer in his office or he plays his favorite PC game. He can't wander into his 70s-era sunken living room and flop into a plush easy chair to watch his big screen TV. Nor can he jump into his car and race off to a favorite haunt for the buffet lunch.
Life at home now is trying to make it through the night without having an accident or needing help managing his blankets or getting a refill for his pitcher of water. He can't get up in the small hours of the morning because he needs help with his wheelchair. He can make a pot of tea so long as everything has been set out for him the night before. But he can't get into his office without switching from the wheelchair to his walker, and he can't do that without help.
Of course, my role at the Rancho is to provide help if I can. I'm not very kind by nature and my patience runs thin at times. I need whatever sleep I can get at night and you don't want to be around me if I don't. I don't like cleaning up messes -- even the kind I make for myself. Given Artie's disposition to have his own way and his penchant to believe he knows best, you can guess how fractious and contentious the past two days have been.
There is a reason crypts are located below Ampersand Manor. I suspect there are similar mysteries hidden in the dilipated tool shed behind hacienda at El Rancho that is always kept padlocked. I have no doubt if matters continue as they are, one of the Ampersand scions is destined to wind up haunting the prairie when the full moon rises. And you have odds on which one of us is most likely to be the one doing the haunting. He'll be sneezing because he's allergic to grass and weed pollen.
The only thing that may postpone the inevitable carnage is the legions of home health care workers that are scheduled to begin arriving after the weekend. Thanks to the largess of our beloved government, Artie will be visited by a nurse to check his various wound dressings, an aide to help him bathe, two kinds of physical therapists to help him improve his mobility and help him become more independent, and a social worker to sweeten his otherwise sour disposition.
I plan to use the time to "dig around" in the tool shed, if you know what I mean, take an inventory of the "gardening tools" and make sure the kitchen equipment is in tip-top order and very, very sharp.
I'll let you know how things turn out. [Fadeout with evil laugh.]
Apr. 15th, 2008
05:22 pm - poised and stupefied
I have no idea how it started. Sometimes when I am shaving and I'm looking in the mirror pretending I can see with my glasses off, I imagine I am standing before a group of students. It is an opportunity to lecture on any subject I desire without fear of objection or contradiction. I suppose it is like the fantasy of directing a symphony while listening in private to recorded music.
It was like that this morning, only I wasn't shaving or standing myopically in front of a mirror. In fact I was sitting in front of Artie's computer, poised and stupefied at the same moment. Anything I did would open certain possibilities and close others.
At that precise moment it struck me as extraordinarily odd and marvelous that the cells in our bodies do whatever they do without any comprehension their activity is responsible for our being alive. Think of it: the cells in our body are totally unaware we exist. Yet if they stop working, we would eventually die.
We know the cells exist. We know quit a bit about what their day is like and what makes them happy. But they know nothing about us. All we are is a gooey, gloppy universe of warm, wet other cells. If a cell got curious and took a trip through the body, it would be stunned to see how many cells there were. But it would have no idea what purpose was being served and why so many cells were hanging out together.
Even more wonderful and weird, if we got out our super-dooper electron scanning microscope, we might see that each cell in our body, in fact EVERYTHING in our body is made of groups of atoms arranged into molecules. Any particular atom we might bring into focus might know what kind of other atoms were nearby, but it would be less than clueless regarding the purpose of the molecule of which it was a part and the fact it was necessary for the survival of a living cell.
All atoms heavier than hydrogen were born in the hearts of stars billions of years ago. Since then they've been parts of molecules in clouds of gas floating in space, in planets, in minerals, and in thousands or millions of living cells. From an atom's perspective, one place is as good as another. And as interesting.
As unaware of us as our cells are, the atoms of which the cells are built are even less cognizant of our existence. Further, if anything happened to us, the atoms inside us would be blissfully unaware and uncaring. We know something about them, but they know absolutely nothing about us. All the same, an atom slipping out of place in a molecule could cause a cell to die. As we depend on our cells to survive, our cells depend on the atoms and molecules inside them.
All this was mildly interesting to my imaginary students, but I could tell they hadn't guessed what I was leading up to. I cleared my throat.
If the atoms in our body are unaware of the cells that depend on them for life, and if the cells are unaware of the body that depends on them, isn't it possible that all of us are parts of some gigantic consciousness we cannot perceive that depends on us for it's survival?
When we turn our telescopes outward into the universe, we are like atoms observing the existence of other atoms, or cells staggered by the numberless swarms of other cells. If there is a transcendent reality beyond our comprehension, we would never be able to perceive it exists using the powers of our senses or our deductive reasoning even though we may be vitally necessary for its continuation.
If such a thing existed, it might be aware of us while we had no direct knowledge about it. It might be concerned about our general condition and act in such a way as to improve our state of being. Or it might assume everything is working well and pay little attention to infectious philosophies or destructive behavior on our part. We might conclude other beings such as ourselves are all there is. In fact, what else could we conclude? Yet the truth could be quite different.
I am hesitant to call this hypothetical cosmic consciousness a deity. But it is interesting to think each of us is a part of its being. Collectively we are infinitely more than we could ever be by ourselves, yet as individuals we are the bricks of which the temple is built.
I have no idea what my students are thinking as they gather their books and drift away into the mist from which they were created. I hope they will have something to say when next they look into the mirror, or wonder about the night that has no end.
Of course, such speculations could also be utter nonsense.
Apr. 10th, 2008
04:48 pm - death and taxes -- not necessarily in that order
After much agony and dread and worry, it is done. Or at least, nearly done. With a few days to spare.
Since becoming unemployed, filling out the annual income tax form has become a major headache for the patriarch of the Ampersands. Part of it is the unimaginable explosion of effort required when your income isn't nicely earned from one or possibly two employers over the course of the year. The Deity forbid you are self-employed, or you are pressed by circumstances to sell investments purchased many years in the past to pay bills very much in the present.
Until you have dealt with the repercussions of self-employment and estimated tax payments, you probably imagine having a root canal is the worst experience a person might suffer. While you are mistaken, I sincerely wish you may never know the truth. The horrors inflicted by the IRS upon the self-employed are many times worse than the Inquisition at its height.
But I have decided it is more than the mind-destroying paperwork, the convoluted forms and the self-contradictory directions surrounded by the threat of dire consequences accruing to the most trivial mistake that make tax season so formidable.
It is having to perform a rite of self-evaluation that leaves no space for face-saving excuses or gracious claims of circumstance. It is the iron rule of the ledger: every cent must be accounted for twice.
My practice is to use Turbo-Tax. I believe it accommodates most of the strangeness in the U.S. tax code. It tries to be gentle as it ferrets out all conceivable sorts of income a person might have. It grimly compares every earned cent against the amount declared the previous year, silently showing how much worse your fortunes have fared. It gamely attempts to find ways to shelter what little you'd made from the relentless tax engine. In the process you suffer the knowledge that to enjoy most deductions you must earn more than it costs to pay the rent and put food on the table.
On the whole, paying taxes is a humbling and humiliating exercise. It's no wonder I put it off later every year.
Even so, this year Turbo-Tax offered me a unexpected, somewhat pleasant surprise. There is something called Earned Income Credit that reduces your tax obligation when you earn substantially less than the poverty level. It's kind of like winning a prize for being the worst bowler on your team. I've never qualified for it before. I'm pleased and insulted at the same time.
The second unexpected surprise was the announcement that by filing my taxes, I would qualify for the economic incentive rebate our elected tormentors have enacted as a stimulus to our failing economy. It's the classic handout of a fish instead of a fishing pole. What I need is a job, not a free trip to the grocery store. But I'll take the groceries and be happy at least for a while.
What I feel most happy about is knowing I don't have to worry about doing my taxes again until next year. Now I can focus my attention back on Artie. Wait till you hear what happened when Artie became eligible for Medicare. By having MORE health insurance, Artie was almost tossed out into the street. It is unbelievable!
Mar. 6th, 2008
04:51 pm - Health Care in America
It's quiet at the Rancho. Most everyone in the surrounding area is settled in waiting for the forecast latest winter storm of the season to arrive. Anyone in the process of commuting home from work is heavy-footing it in the hope of avoiding the first of the snow flakes predicted to fall any time now.
It is my second morning of the day. I just finished a rejuvenating two-hour nap. The nap was the highlight of a rare day that didn't include a big chunk of time at the skilled nursing facility where my brother Artie is staying. In the health business, such places are called "Sniffs". Sometimes you have SNF benefits as part of your insurance coverage. In Artie's case, he was given limited SNF benefits because his care was being overseen by a "case manager."
My original understanding was that case managers worked for the hospital or providing institution. I believed their role was to coordinate care and make sure the patient was being properly administered. For example, I thought the case manager was the person to see if physical therapy staff weren't showing up twice a day as promised. Or if the wait for pain medication was longer than an hour. (Can you imagine lying in bed, unable to get up, in acute pain while listening to the nursing staff yakking it up in the hall outside your room? Artie waited almost three hours in that exact position a few nights ago.)
What I have since discovered is that case managers may have their salaries paid by the hospital or SNF, but they are actually toadies for the insurance companies. The job of the case manager is to make sure the insurance company is okay about paying for the care being provided to the patient. They don't represent the patient's interest at all.
Yesterday Artie's case manager met with us for about fifteen minutes. I had being trying to reach her for three days and had been ignored or put off with one excuse after another. I was anxious because my brother's pre-approved care limit had expired Monday of this week. We were told his care would probably be extended as long as he continued to make progress with his physical therapy. Which he has. Our understand was not exactly correct, as it turns out. The case manager finally appeared on Wednesday to let us know Artie was approved for another week. BUT she implied this might be his last at the facility.
This has been the pattern for as long as I can remember. As soon as my brother starts making progress being able to stand or walk with assistance or even sit in a real chair for more than ten minutes, his health insurance decides he needs to move to a less expensive care facility. Twice now they have made this decision giving us less than 48 hours advance notice.
Well, the only thing less expensive than an SNF is home care. Home care means a nurse comes to the house for about an hour every day or every other day. Given that Artie is not able to get out of bed on his own, or walk without support; given that his abdominal wound is nowhere near healed; given he is connected to four different collection bags that must be constantly maintained; and given that he comes down with a new infection every ten days or so, I don't see home care as a very feasible option.
But this is where it gets interesting. The other option available to us is Hospice care. Hospice care is covered by insurance. It includes coverage for rental of a hospital bed, daily visits by nurses and physical therapy workers, help for house cleaning if needed, companionship, urgent care when needed, and any pain medication that may be required. The only drawback is, they aren't there to help the patient recover -- they are there to help him die.
In other words, Artie's "health" insurance will provide coverage to let him die, but they won't continue to help him get better. Does that strike anyone else as odd? It seems perverse to me.
There is one other scenario the case manager explained to me yesterday. And this option seems like a proverbial win-win situation. Since Artie starts receiving Medicare on April 1st and his current health insurance becomes secondary, the case manager suggests we should bring him home trusting that he will develop another infection relatively soon. At that time we can take him back to the hospital. Medicare will take over paying the bills. And here's the good part: Medicare provides up to 100 days of SNF care!
In other words, we can bring Artie home in a medical transit van, trust his condition to get worse, then truck him to a hospital so the infection can be identified and a drug prescribed, then truck him back to the same facility he is at right now.
Of course, Artie will have to start all over again with his physical therapy.
I'd almost rather go the Hospice route.
Feb. 10th, 2008
05:45 pm - Love and Guilt
Guilt and love are connected. I never realized that before. Maybe I did, but I repressed it.
Today my half-brother was in town. He took my place for the early companionship visit to the hospital to be with my brother Artie. He intended to leave by Noon because he has a three-hour drive back home. On his previous visits I have taken the opportunity presented by his presence at the hospital as a chance for me to have a day off. As you know, such opportunities have been rare. I've taken five days off out of the past 62. Two of those occasions were due to inclement weather, one was so I could spend the day clearing up some of the damage from the ice storm earlier this year.
I enjoyed my time to myself this morning. I fixed a nice breakfast and ate it in front of the TV set. I nosed around on the Internet looking for answers to questions about the possibility of a new Star Wars movie (not likely) and who will star in the new Indiana Jones movie (Harrison Ford and Karen Allen). After that I watched a movie about Geronimo and catnapped during most of it on the couch in the living room.
By Noon I noticed the first pangs of guilt. Today was Artie's 60th birthday. How could I not be with him on such a significant occasion? On what scale did my need for a day to myself measure against such a monumental benchmark in Artie's life?
Love on one hand, guilt on the other. Both imperatives percolated in my brain and my heart. In the end, I decided to dress and clean myself up. I made the 45 minute drive to the hospital and gave up my rare day off.
Artie was surprised to see me. He had told his nurse I wouldn't be coming. She had argued with him saying his brother would not miss the chance to be with him on his birthday. I could tell she was thrilled to have been proved right when I saw her at the 2nd Floor East Nurse's Station.
I felt happy to see Artie's pleased expression as I slipped into his room. At the same time I inhaled the unpleasant and depressing smell of an unwashed body connected to plastic bags half full of dreadful bodily fluids. I couldn't believe I was doing this to myself when I had a perfectly legitimate reason not to. Rather than waste the time thinking about it, I let my instincts take over. I made sure Artie brushed his hair and his teeth. I checked to make sure his bedding wasn't bunched up beneath him. I refilled his water bottle and generally slipped back into the dozen purely maintenance things I do every day.
When the opportunity arrived for me to leave, I took off. Artie was tired and wanted to take a nap. I was desperate to get away and pretend I have a life of my own.
It's hard to know what my motivation was today. I'd like to think it was my love for my brother and my desire to make his day as special as possible, but I am afraid it was more guilt than love. If that's true, how am I to be honest with myself?
If I lie to myself about my care and concern for Artie, am I lying about other feelings as well?
Feb. 5th, 2008
04:50 pm - we do agree, don't we?
I haven't posted anything in a while because not much has changed in my life and because I haven't found any insights I felt worth sharing.
Today I heard a "helpful" discussion on the local TV news from a representative of the Social Security Administration. He calmly asserted that it was a wrong-headed idea on the part of 60 percent of Americans who believe Social Security should provide their basic needs in retirement. According to the spokesman, Social Security was only meant to be one leg of a three-legged stool. The other two legs being personal savings and the retirement benefits provided by employers.
The spokesman went on to say that Americans should plan on saving at least 10 percent of their earnings starting at age 25, and they should avail themselves of the maximum contributions offered by their employer's 401K packages while living comfortably on whatever is left of their salaries.
I'm listening to this and thinking I've never been able to save 10 percent of my income. I've always felt I was doing good to pay my bills and have something left over. I've never had anything like a vacation in my entire life, except in the sense of having time off from work. I could never afford to go anywhere. I've never bought a new car because they were always too expensive. I buy the minimum I can get by with in terms of new clothes. I hardly ever eat out at restaurants except the fast food variety.
My employer has never offered me a 401K program. We had a retirement program once, but my employer canceled it because he said it was too expensive. I used the little money that was in the fund as a down payment on a house. The IRS charged me a 10 percent penalty on the money in addition to requiring me to declare the full amount as taxable income.
For the past 18 months I have been unemployed. After working without a break for over thirty years, I received 6 months of unemployment benefits. I had to pay income tax on the benefits I received even though the benefits failed to pay my expenses.
Now I have no health insurance. When my left eye showed signs of imminent detached retina a few months ago, I had to pay the opthamologist the full "retail" price for laser treatment, although the doctor only received 40 percent of that amount for anyone covered by insurance. If you don't have insurance, you must pay more than someone else for the same treatment.
Does anyone else think the priorities and policies of our federal government are seriously out-of-whack? What is going on here?
My father received generous benefits from Social Security. My younger brother's entire college expenses were paid for by Social Security. My father tried to return the money to the government, but they insisted he must accept it. Now the government is saying they can't afford to pay my generation what it costs to keep a roof over our heads and food in our refrigerators. Was there ever any mention of a three-legged stool when the government first started collecting social security tax? I can assure you there was not.
We have real problems in this country, gentle ones. It is past time we insisted our elected representatives start representing our interests. I guarantee you that I am not unique in terms of my financial situation. Unless we act now, a humanitarian crisis of Biblical proportions will fall upon this country.
Of course, maybe paying billions to President Bush's friends to rebuild Iraq is more important. Yes. You may have a point there.
By the way, in case you are interested, the hospital in which my brother Artie is staying has plans to move him to another facility by the end of the week. The move is being forced by the health insurance company who feels Artie "should" be more recovered than he is. No one on the hospital staff thinks the move is in Artie's best interest, but the insurance company calls the shots.
All of us agree that health insurance companies should make a profit on whatever it costs to provide medical care. We do agree, don't we?
This is an election year. If we don't vote for what we believe in, we have no one to complain about other than ourselves.
Jan. 16th, 2008
09:22 pm - I am a man. I am alive.
I've noticed a curious thing about myself as I spend each day at the hospital with my brother Artie. When I get home, I have the most intense desire to be with a woman.
It's not a sexual desire per se. It is more like a need to find some kind of connection. I'm not wanting any particular person, but I am wanting someone I know. This is hard to explain.
What I need is someone who can convince me they understand.
I need to know that by their touch and by the sound of their voice. I need to know that I'm not wasting my time. That my love and concern for Artie is important.
Men are not very good at expressing their feelings. My father could never say he loved me as his son. When his mother died, he said he was okay. When his only sister died, he said he was okay. When his wife died, he cried and said it should have been him. That time I believed him.
I only know after a day at the hospital trying to help my brother feel inspired to get better, I want a woman's arms around me so bad it hurts.
I can't talk to Wayward about it because she is enamored with Poor Joe. She thinks everything between us is friendship. But what I need is more than that. I need an affirmation that I am a man and I am alive. Only a woman I have known in the biblical sense can give me that message: I am a man and I am alive.
I'm not sure I understand this. Does anyone?
Jan. 7th, 2008
07:07 am - living in the moment
My stack of unread magazines has toppled and been rebuilt a few times, so I never know how current the issue I am reading may be. Given that what may be a recent issue from my standpoint could be ages ago for you, one article struck me as particularly interesting. Its title boldly declares that besides being relative, time itself may not exist.
The article asserts that time is not a factor in any fundamental physical law. All basic physical theorems work equally well whether the factor for time is positive or negative. As you no doubt know, at the quantum level it is impossible to define the exact instant at which anything occurs.
Scientists quoted in the article who maintain the official U.S. time standard at NIST, say the atomic clock does not measure time -- it defines it. In other words, that tiny fractional part of a second represented by the sub-atomic process on which the clock is based CREATES the moment, "ex nihilo" if you will.
It's an interesting idea, particularly as I was sitting beside my terminally ill brother's hospital bed as I was reading the article.
If time truly does not exist in the realm of the sub-atomic zoo which makes up our universe and everything we perceive as reality, what is going on? Is our physical suffering and psychic pain pure imagination?
My brother, Artie, has been moved to a rehabilitation facility. It is a stripped-down hospital that can monitor and continue most medical treatments underway for a patient, but it cannot perform anything additional beyond the most basic diagnostic procedures. Patients are placed in facilities like this when medically they are in maintenance mode and all they need to complete their recovery is physical therapy and time. Whoops! That little four-letter word slipped in.
I believe the idea of separating patients who are on the mend from those whose treatments are being defined or are in progress is a good plan. In the regular hospital, before Artie was moved out, across the hall from him was a patient who was not expected to survive surgery. The patient was a young mother. Her children and the extended family were camped out in the hospital and wandered back and forth down the corridor sobbing their hearts out. Artie had to listen to it for hours on end. Oh, there's that time thing intruding again.
At least in the rehabilitation facility, the patients are deemed to be recovering. Other than the occasional moans of patients in need of their pain medication, the halls are generally quiet. Artie's room is large and bright. It is hospital spartan, but that is to be expected. I bring healthy, good-tasting goodies from home every day when I arrive to spend the day with him. That plus my invaluable company should be enough for anyone.
Today Artie is supposed to begin a regimen of two physical therapy sessions a day. I know he is anxious to get out bed and see something besides a hospital room -- even if it is large and bright. I imagine the goals for today will be limited to having him sit in a chair beside the bed for a while. The chair is adjustable so he can recline less as he becomes stronger.
My conversations with his doctor continue to be encouraging. I expect Artie to be able to resume a moreorless normal life at some point. They say all it takes is time.
What then is going on here? We spend our entire lives caught between two bookends and the space between them is whatever we choose to make it. Live well and prosper, my friends. If you find yourself holding a spare moment, please send a kind thought to Artie. Wish him strength and a speedy recovery -- whatever that means.
Dec. 18th, 2007
05:13 pm - an ice storm complicates a life-or-death situation
It's been a long time between postings. I've been dealing with some tough issues in the real-life arena, not the least of which was a week-long power outage. Rancho Ampersand is about a mile west of the starting point of the historic Oklahoma Land Rush. It's in the vast rolling red clay countryside to the south and east of Oklahoma City not far from Lake Thunderbird.
Perhaps you saw on the TV news about the ice storm we had down here last weekend. It was the worst storm of its kind in state history. Fully one-third of the State was without power. At the Rancho, that meant meant no lights, no heat and no water. Descended from hardy pioneer stock, most people in the area took heart from the fact temperatures stayed around the low 30's and didn't plunge ten degrees lower -- that's when water pipes burst and wind chill can make life really miserable. As it was, folks toughed it out, stayed with friends, or went to shelters.
Before it happened I had no idea how devastating an ice storm could be. "What's a little ice?" I thought. Imagine a solid inch-think layer of ice on everything including power lines, tree branches, sidewalks, streets, cars in driveways, toys left in front yards. The weight of the ice snapped trees like toothpicks. The neighborhood around the Rancho looks like a meteorite smashed to earth just over the hill. Every tree is split and branches lie in mounds as if pounded by an enormous hammer.
Whether prompted by foresight or driven by compulsive worry, my brother Artie and I left before the storm hit to stay with some friends of his in the northwest part of Oklahoma City. We didn't want to miss his cancer surgery scheduled for the Monday after the storm and his friends were less than a mile from the hospital.
It's the surgery I really wanted to talk about.
As briefly as I can put it, the surgery was terrible. The surgeon removed what he had been ordered to take out and he put Artie back together as best he could. The following day, the sutures began to fail because more tissue had been affected by the cancer than the diagnostic tests had indicated. A second round of surgery was urgently needed and my brother's life was literally hanging by a thread.
While he was in surgery, my brother was put on a ventilator to maintain his respiration. Without it, he would not have survived the operation. That created an ethical dilemma for me because Artie left specific directions that life-sustaining medical procedures should not be used. After the surgery, back in the IC ward, for the few moments he was semi-conscious in my presence, my brother looked me in the eye and mouthed the word "no." I had no doubt he meant the ventilator should be removed.
It was the worst time of my life. My brother gave me his trust to insure his wishes were carried out. I knew what he wanted, sort of. But I couldn't do it. I rationalized the circumstances were not exactly what he had considered in his written orders: the ventilator was not present to revive him but to preserve him during surgery and for a short while afterward. The prognosis was for his imminent recovery and not some prolonged indeterminate period of mechanically maintained existence as described in the Advance Directives.
I consulted with the Intensive Care directing physician who argued there was a difference between a Do Not Resuscitate Order and euthanasia. He convinced me I should wait for 24 to 48 hours to see whether my brother was responding to treatment before taking him off the ventilator.
I agreed, but I still felt terrible about it. I slept worse than usual. I called the IC Unit twice during the night to see how my brother was doing. His condition was unchanged.
The next day, Artie looked a little better to me. He was still sedated, but his blood pressure was better. All three attending doctors assured me he was doing better and could be taken off life support in another day or two.
On the second day, the ventilator was removed. I was thrilled. I hoped Artie would be conscious so I could talk to him about what had happened. I wanted to explain. While I was there, he opened one eye a tiny amount. He was struggling to breathe and could barely talk. But I knew he was saying something and brought my ear close to his lips. All he said was, "Kill me." He said it over and over. I didn't know what to say. Soon he fell unconscious again and I staggered out of the room.
I've since heard that people recovering from massive surgery often say such things. But at the time, I didn't know what to think. I felt a huge amount of guilt for not removing the ventilator when I had the chance. What if Artie really didn't want to live and I had taken the opportunity to die away from him? Had I condemned him to a slow, painful death from cancer instead of a quick painless exit after surgery? Was I wrong in thinking him strong enough to face the life he would have after surgery? Did I have the right to impose my will on him?
Two days later, my brother's blood pressure was within normal limits and the doctors began removing some of the monitoring equipment and various tubes connected to his body for who knows what. He looked much better to me. I was very encouraged and managed to stop feeling that I had betrayed his trust. He could speak a bit better but limited himself to just a word or two. I knew his biggest desire was to drink some water. He had drunk nothing since midnight before the first operation -- almost a week before.
My brother begged for a drink. But the doctors weren't sure Artie's plumbing was working yet, and they didn't want to complicate his recovery. He asked two or three more times for something to drink. Each successive request began to sound more like a demand. Within moments he began raving that the doctors in the hospital were aliens. He could tell they were aliens because they couldn't drink water. I tried to reason with him, but it was pointless. I've heard you can't use logic on a lunatic. In the end, the doctor in charge of the IC unit chased me away. They used a gas to sedate Artie.
I was scared at what seemed to be a sudden turn for the worse. I thought perhaps my brother had been brain damaged during the periods of very low blood pressure. How was I going to deal with the situation? I left the hospital tormented by my fears.
The next day, one of the nurses told me my brother's outburst was something called "IC Psychosis." It is a temporary madness thought to be the result of sleep deprivation. As the nurse explained it to me, being drugged into unconsciousness is not the same as being asleep. Patients in the Intensive Care Unit are not really allowed to sleep because they are constantly awaken for tests, or to take blood or administer medication or take part in respiratory therapy. As a result, they become sleep deprived and sometimes develop psychosis.
I wasn't completely persuaded, but so far Artie hasn't repeated his disturbing allegations about the hospital staff. Maybe he has simply learned to keep his opinions to himself.
Anyway, my brother continues to get better insofar as the monitoring equipment shows and the blood tests indicate. He'll be moving out of Intensive Care as soon as a bed can be found in one of the regular wards. He spent some time sitting up today. He is able to drink clear fluids. The amount of pain medicine has been reduced and the time between doses has been increased. I'm hoping he'll be able to spend more time awake and we'll be able to talk.
What I most hope for is vindication of my decision not to pull the plug when it was my responsibility to act in my brother's behalf.
I always try to find some kind of moral in my Live Journal postings. It's not fair to burden you with concerns that relate only to myself. I can think of two things that may be worth passing on:
1) Be as comprehensive as you can when expressing your wishes for resuscitation and using extraordinary measures to preserve life. If there are living choices that you consider worse than death, such that removal of life-sustaining measures is preferable, let your wishes be known. For example, blindness, dialysis, incontinence, impotence, or loss of mobility may be more than you wish to bear. If so, put your desires in writing.
2) If someone you care about asks you to act in their behalf in regard to a life-maintenance issue, talk to them about their wishes and the choices they would make. If at all possible, put their desires in writing and have them sign it.
It is much better to think about the unthinkable when you have the time to be reasonable, than to risk the unbearable consequences of making a mistake when the decision must be made and there is no time left.
Nov. 23rd, 2007
07:57 am - The Day After Thanksgiving
Here in the heartland, today is "Black Friday". It seems a strange label to award the day after Thanksgiving. Whether it is regional or national in scope, I have no idea. As an Ampersand I find myself generally outside the universe of whatever is contemporary or trendy or popular. The great danger is falling so far behind the times I could find myself in the forefront of the rebound movement.
For the Boomers and Sooners the local merchants are opening their doors as early as 4 AM today. They expect early bird shoppers with a yen for leather jackets, cashmere sweaters and imported shoes. By 5 AM the K-Mart stores are open for insomniac shoppers with smaller budgets. When 6 AM rolls around, the consumer electronics stores open offering massive discounts on high definition TV sets, laptop computers, computer peripherals and printers, DVDs and so forth. The operative words are in fine print: "while supplies last". Other words that come to mind are "bait and switch".
I'm still having trouble with the idea of Black Friday.
My brother tells me the local airbase is closed today. Civilian employees are required to take a day of vacation. Military workers have the day off without any impact on their annual leave. The closure creates a four-day opportunity for routine maintenance on systems across the base. I have to wonder who performs the maintenance if all the civilian and military personnel have been sent home. All I can think of is robots, trained seals or aliens. At least for the regular staff, today doesn't seem like such a "black" occasion.
According to Yahoo, today is a big day for pizza. I suspect Mexican restaurants are crowded with patrons as well. This is the only day of the year for turkey enchiladas, unless you can make your own. Most eateries will do well today. It doesn't sound very black for them.
I'd call it more gray than black here at Rancho Ampersand. We went to a restaurant yesterday for our Thanksgiving dinner, so we have no leftovers for sandwiches or the traditional plate full of dressing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and yams liberally covered with gravy and reheated in the microwave. All we have is a single slice of pumpkin pie made by a long-time friend of my brother's. It is missing one bite.
We got the pie when we went to the friend's house to visit and play cards after having dinner together at the restaurant. She's a dear person and she has helped my brother on many occasions, but as so many older women, she has a fondness for the world's most potent floral cologne. It was overwhelming. The coffee she served tasted as if brewed from rose water. The homemade pumpkin pie tasted more of lavender than clove. One bite was all I could manage.
The flowery smell followed us into the car as we drove home. It was on my hand -- the one that had held the coffee cup and the fork I had used to taste the pie. The slice itself was in the trunk in a styrofoam box. Our hostess insisted we take it. As promised we put it into the refrigerator yesterday evening. I made certain the box was tightly closed.
Looking at it today, I have little doubt the pie still reeks of rose petals. It is edible, but horrible. It is all we have of Thanksgiving as I contemplate the meaning of life on the day after.
It seems to me we are surrounded by people offering us things we want. Whether it is food, new clothes, toys, time off or the chance to feel good for a while. All we have to do is pay for it. Unlike the world at large, our friends give us something of themselves. All they ask is that we accept them.
If I can accept my friends and my brother's friends and a piece of pumpkin pie I cannot eat, why can't I accept Wayward's infidelity? I miss having her in my life. Knowing she loves someone else is my Black Friday.
Nov. 10th, 2007
03:05 pm - be happy you can't hear me
My mountain of drudge work is slowly but certainly dwindling. There's a very good chance I will reach the bottom of the stack in time to climb aboard the airplane for my trip to Oklahoma to see my brother.
Whenever I say "Oklahoma" I find myself pronouncing it with the drawn-out phrasing Gordon MacRae made popular in the Broadway musical song of the same name. The song was such a hit it was adopted as the state song in 1953. I remember learning to sing it in grade school.
That was before I learned I was tone-deaf and could sing about as well as President Bush can tell a joke.
The other tune I'm reminded of when I think about Oklahoma is the University's fight song "Boomer Sooner". I have no idea what a "boomer" is, but a "sooner" is what they called someone who crossed the boundary before the formal opening of the Land Rush in 1889. In a word, sooners were cheaters. Their goal was to stake out the best land before anyone else had a chance.
Maybe it's not surprising the sooners are icons in Oklahoma. It takes a lot of grit and determination to live there. Every year tornadoes ravage the state. On May 3, 1999, an F5 tornado narrowly missed Tinker AB south and east of Oklahoma City. It left a path of destruction nearly 3 miles wide. In the 1930's the entire state practically blew away during the great Dust Bowl. The families who left were called "Okies" as immortalized in Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath".
Now, thanks to global warming and diligent effort on the part of Oklahomans, the state is green. The lakes and rivers are at their highest levels in history. While I was there a few months ago, one small town in south-central Oklahoma recorded over a foot of rain in a 24-hour period. A portion of Interstate 40 on the south side of Oklahoma City was shut down because it was under water.
As another sign of the times and the changing face of the state, Oklahoma City may acquire its first professional sports franchise if it succeeds in luring the SuperSonics basketball team from Seattle. Speaking for myself, I hope they pull it off. The OK-city deserves a pro team.
Uninvited, the words to "Boomer Sooner" come to my mind:
I'm a Sooner born
and a Sooner bred.
And when I die
I'll be a Sooner dead.
Rah, Oklahoma!
Rah, Oklahoma!
OK-U.
Nov. 8th, 2007
12:59 pm - or maybe glass slippers
I'm desperately trying to avoid facing my responsibility to attack the mountain of financial paperwork on the table beside me. It's the only thing standing between me and the do-it-yourself divorce kit I bought when I figured out Wayward wasn't staying at her girlfriend's apartment. That's what she had told me when she ran away from home the day after our fifth anniversary.
The first time you face the reality your spouse is cheating on you and that she has been abusing your trust for months is pretty tough. In those days my mental state was swinging wildly from disabling sadness to slavering anger. I was angry when I went to the bookstore to get the divorce kit. While I was in the store my feelings flipped. I thrashed around on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably for a while. Later, slightly embarrassed, I wound up buying the divorce forms and a book on how to keep your marriage intact after an affair.
Now it is four months later. All the sadness and anger is gone. I think all the love is gone, too. There's only the paperwork left. I won't be needing the book on how to stay married.
When I head back to Oklahoma next week, I'll need to turn my thoughts to my brother. I don't want to have half my mind on the manor and what is going on here.
My brother is battling stage 4 colo-rectal cancer. It is neither in his colon or his rectum but that's what the oncologist says it is. He will either have an operation while I am there, or begin another round of chemotherapy. Neither alternative can be expected to be a lot of fun.
My brother was diagnosed several years ago. He's had enough time to think about it that his financial affairs are well organized and his "final arrangements" have been made.
A middle-of-the-night drama the other day made me realize I should face ultimate realities as well. Despite my wishes, I may not live forever in sublime eternal youth.
My current thinking on the subject is to be reduced to ash. I would like the ash to be used in making some sort of useful object out of glass. I imagine myself as a fancy vase or a pair of bookends.
There are many such objects in the manor. I could be just part of the furnishings. In many respects, not much would change from the way things are now. I lead a quiet existence. I don't move around much. You might wander around in the manor for a hour before you noticed me.
Someday the vase or the bookends might break. Maybe as a result of an earthquake or a volcanic eruption. Then the pieces of glass would be recycled. We recycle everything here. The only requirement is it has to be clean. Apparently dirt can't be recycled.
Ultimately I might wind up as a stained glass window, or any number of beer bottles. Imagine that, good old Ampersand hunkered down in your refrigerator keeping the beer cold.
Nov. 6th, 2007
02:20 pm - going through the motions
Wayward has come over to the Residence the past couple of days. I suspect she's lonely for the house and the dog. Maybe she misses me, too. But not enough to end her affair with Poor Joe.
For the most part, we chat a bit when she is here. We do okay so long as we avoid talking about THE AFFAIR.
Wayward's health is abysmal on the best of days. The biggest part of the time she's here is spent in bed, sleeping or trying to sleep. Partly it's a result of Depression, but it's also her only relief from pain and discomfort.
After her nap, Wayward and I generally have dinner together. Most times I cook, but she brings things occasionally. When the meal is over, she leaves.
It's like Wayward is trying to convince herself that some part of the life we shared together still exists. Maybe her story that she feels terrible about hurting me is true to some extent. For my part, I don't understand why she would continue the affair if she feels that guilty about it.
I know she dreads having to tell her friends and family that we are divorced. She's afraid they will turn their backs on her and label her one step below a common trollop.
While I'm listening to this, I wonder why get divorced if Wayward is so worried about it? Why not find a way to make the marriage work? All she has to do is break up with Poor Joe and go with me to counseling. What's the problem? Wayward's worries and her actions contradict each other.
Part of me can sympathize with Wayward's confessed unhappiness. The other part doggedly resists sharing any part of my life with someone who has lied to me, demeaned me and shown such lack of respect as she has. Even before we were married, I told Wayward the two most important things to me were fidelity and honesty. She violated both.
I see Wayward going through the motions worrying about what I need to pack for my trip to visit my brother. She shows concern about Mugs and the house plants. She wants to help if there's anything I need. In my heart it's like I'm watching a character on TV. Nothing Wayward says or does seems genuine anymore. I don't believe her.
We spent some time today filling out absentee ballots. Our custom over the years has been to discuss all the issues together and the candidates in the various races. Then we vote. Most of the time we agree, but not always.
While we were marking our respective ballots, I remember thinking how some issues seem destined to go one way or the other. Counting the votes is just a formality. In the same way, the campaign for keeping some hold on my affections that Wayward was waging with such effort and persistence was a race that had already been decided.
Nov. 5th, 2007
11:22 am - the forgotten holiday
Halloween was successful. I was rescued from the fiendish chest of chocolate by a marauding band of youthful vandals. They had obviously refrained from tasting their loot while on the estate, because no one remained on the front lawn the next morning.
Over the weekend, the decorations put up to lure victims to Ampersand Manor were taken down and put away. I fit all the scary, snarling and complaining objects into two sturdy plastic storage bins.
While I was stowing the behemoth translucent tubs in the loft over the car barn, I could hear the Christmas decorations in the red and green boxes stacked against the wall to my right begin to stir. It was like standing outside the door at a little kids' sleepover.
I could hear a tiny, tinny sound like a toy soldier searching for his drum. After that came the rustling of handmade ceramic nativity figures shifting about. Quiet voices followed, some tired and yawning, some eager and excited. There were more shuffling sounds and some tinkling and soft clanking.
Before long, another box of Christmas decorations began to tremble -- ever so slightly. There were very faint clacking sounds and a few creaks. It must be the nutcrackers, I realized. They were awakening from many months of hibernation.
A whining, scrunching sound of styrofoam rubbing against itself alerted me the china Santa sled and matching reindeer heard the commotion and began to harness up.
It was clear to me the entire collection would be awake soon. Last year we had set expectations when Wayward and I put up the Christmas display immediately after Halloween. It had seemed a shame to invest such effort in decorating the manor only to have such a short time to enjoy it.
But what was I to do this year? Wayward is the Holiday Spirit -- not me. Further, I was planning to leave the residence in a few weeks to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with my brother. By taking Mugs with me, I had thought to let the manse enjoy a few months of peace and quiet. Father Noel was not expected to visit the manor this year.
While I hung poised in my dilemma, more boxes began to vibrate and more voices joined the general tumult. I must do something soon or Christmas would erupt into being completely on its own. Or at least, the topmost boxes might fall and their contents crash and roll pell-mell across the floor.
In desperation, I spied the giant pair of pilgrims standing lonely and largely forgotten in the corner beside the small window. Next to them was a cornucopia full of plastic squash and ears of fake corn. Under the cornucopia was a box of amber glass salt and pepper shakers shaped like turkeys.
I ran over to the pilgrims, lifted them in my arms and carried them determinedly to the top of the stairs at the edge of the loft. The box of turkeys, the horn of plenty, and a heavy container filled with Thanksgiving table decorations soon joined the party.
Behind me I heard combined plastic, tin, china and wooden moans as the myriad Santas, elves, angels, and reindeer grasped it was not yet their time. Gay-colored stockings rolled back upon themselves, nutcrackers re-clinched their jaws and silver bells grew silent. Christmas bowls and mugs and towels settled back into their boxes. The rustling and stirring slowly fell still. The boxes and cartons became motionless.
Of course, I had no intention of really decorating the house for Thanksgiving. It was merely a ploy to convince the Christmas knickknacks to return to somnolence.
As I passed the pair of pilgrims on my way down from the loft, I glimpsed their curiously sad eyes upon me. We said nothing to each other, but I felt their gaze all the way down the stairs, across the garage and into the cold Fall sunshine outside.
Oct. 31st, 2007
11:14 am - the horror of chocolate
Today is Halloween. By tradition this is the day the Lord of the Manor descends the dreary dark steps into the family vaults and the catacombs beneath the mansion. As far as I know, the Ampersands are the only family in our area to have a vault beneath the house, but I've never searched my neighbor's homes. So I can't say for sure.
Making the annual trip in the cellar is not something I enjoy. Generational cobwebs cling to the musty crypts. Foul, chittering creatures scamper unseen in the darkness, hiding from the light of my candle.
There's the sound of water dripping against stone. Creaking noises, as if ancient panels were being pried apart. I hear the rasping sound of a heavy object scraping against the rough-hewn rock floor.
In the farthest corner of the chamber, where the ceiling beams droop and the darkness hangs like a moldy curtain, resides a coffin-shaped box with thick metal bands. Two rust-encrusted iron padlocks hold guard over what lies within.
With shaking hands, I slip the chain holding the key from around my neck. A chance gust of frigid air makes the candle sputter and my heart skips a beat. Within the lock, the key assails my fingers with numbing cold. I fight back by turning it with every ounce of my strength. There's the click of a tumbler too long unmoved. With a metallic scream, the lock swings open.
Barely able to control my shivering, I take a moment to catch my breath. Inserting the bony key into the second padlock, I twist it like a stone knife. There is a loud click, an urgent screech and the casket is unsealed.
With grim determination I lift the lid and reach cautiously inside. Unable to see exactly what I am doing, I remove a half dozen handfuls from inside the coffin-shaped box and place them in the small chest I have brought with me. Fighting the urge to flee, I make myself repeat the process until the chest is full.
Before I can retrace my steps and escape, I must replace the metal straps around the casket, and close the stout padlocks. My heart pounds as I return the key chain to my neck and retrieve the candle.
Behind me the darkness roils and solidifies. I hear the clank of iron shackles against the stone and the rattling scrape of the crypt covers sliding open. I am up the narrow steps in a flurry of heartbeats. The door to the depths is closed and barred.
I am in the kitchen of the manse. Welcoming daylight pours through the windows. I quench the candle and put it aside for the next power outage.
The chest I have filled with such trepidation and terror finds a spot on a small table beside the front door. It waits for the little ghosts and goblins and neighborhood kids in costumes who dare to trespass my porch tonight.
Before I leave the room and begin my day's work about the mansion, I can't resist taking a quick glimpse into the chest. It is full of Hersheys with Almonds, Reece's Peanut Butter Cups, Baby Ruths, Mr. Goodbar, Snickers.
I slam the lid closed and take two full steps toward my office before I hear the voices calling me back. It is evil incarnate. I must find a way to escape. The key around my neck is jumping on its chain. I force myself to take another step. It is like walking into a hurricane. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. If only the night would come and the doorbell ring. I would be safe then. Another step. I feel myself begin to scream.
If you are out tonight in the company of trick-or-treaters, and you happen to pass by the rather gloomy old house with two chimneys and a "wolf sanctuary" sign in the window, and you hear what sounds like screaming from inside, please come up and ring the doorbell. Just help yourself to anything inside the small chest on the table beside the door. Ignore the old man in house slippers making all the noise.
Navigate: (Previous 20 Entries)