Intervention

I do a lot of driving because I live so far away from where I work and because I am the only employee that lives in Sarasota or "in town" as they Myakkans would say, I usually am the one that runs errands.

Last Friday afternoon I was doing just that.  I had left work early as I had an appointment to have some blood drawn for medication level testing.  My first stop was the accountant's office to drop off June's books so that they could work on them.  I had run my distance and I was passing the baton to them.

It was a typical summer afternoon with plenty of rain, thunder, and lightening.  For those that have never experienced one of Florida's summer afternoon storms, they are torrential.  There is no soft pitter-patter of tiny droplets that dance from the sky and land gently to the ground.  These are fierce globules of water that have formed gangs and race to the ground to pummel it.  It comes down in buckets; it comes down in sheets.  A film of water forms on the surface of roads daring drivers to hydroplane.  It was raining like this on my way to the accountant's office.  I arrived there safely, said hello, dropped off the thumb drive, and left.

When an opening in the traffic allowed, I pulled back into the 3-lane road and found a good spot in the middle lane.  It wasn't raining as hard as it had been just a few minutes ago and I could comfortably set my wipers to lazy intermittent.   I saw up ahead that the traffic in the right lane stopped to leave a space for a driver to pull into.  Instead, this crazy man who apparently does not cherish life whipped out from in between the cars and drove across my lane and the left lane of oncoming traffic. As I looked in my rear view mirror, all I had time to do was break hard and hope that I wasn't rear-ended .  That shouldn't have been my only concern because suddenly to my left I saw a white car that must have been going faster than me and unlike me didn't have the warning of a possible situation.  As I watched the white car slide closer and closer to my beloved Taurus, I was waiting to hear metal against metal, to feel my car shudder as it was hit.  Instead I saw an incredible thing.

Are you familiar with marshmallow fluff?  Here's a picture of jar of it and next to that is a picture of what mother's in the 1960s used to consider a healthy sandwich.

 

See how the fluff is oozing out of the sandwich?  That is what I saw in between the white car and me.  It was like there was fluff smashed between our two cars prohibiting the collision that never was.  

The driver of the white car eventually stopped and I pulled up next to him and rolled down my window.  He then rolled down is passenger side window and we looked at each other.  He was a handsome late thirties early forties man that was in shock.  The conversation made up of one liners went like this:

He shouted over to me, "Did I hit you?"

"No, you didn't."

"I didn't hit you?"

"No."

"He pulled out in front of traffic!"

"Yes, I know."

"I can't believe I didn't hit anyone."

"Yes, I know."

"I can't believe he did that."

"Yes, I know."

I couldn't expand my vocabulary because the man just kept talking.  I confirmed for him that everyone and everything was OK and we both drove on.

It is not up for debate whether I saw the fluff protecting our cars.  The point is...is that he and I both could not believe there wasn't an accident.  Divine intervention?  The Universe deciding in a split second it wasn't time for this now?  Guardian angels?  Take your pick.  It did happen.  Fluff rules.  

What Could Have Been Wasn't

If I cry one more tear for you
I will have to beat myself up
Until my eyes are swollen shut
And I have blood dripping from my ears.

If I think of you one more time
I will perform the surgery on my own brain
With a sharp knife I can cut out that piece that remembers
And with it gone I can again be whole.

What could have been wasn't
And I will never go back
My ankles would have to turn
So that my feet faced behind me.

The melody is fainter
The road grows smaller in my rear view mirror
I left the party after I fell
When you twirled me and let go.

Beautiful Soul

Saturday is my day to run errands.  I plot my route like an air traffic controller keeping in mind all of the different needs and details each stop requires along with one eye on gas usage.  Going to the grocery store 99.9% of the time is my final destination before home.

Since Winn Dixie has great ground beef, prices, and gas rewards, I shop there.  Winn Dixie has wider aisles and less tumult than Publix.  The cement floor is homely and the clientele watch their pennies.

One of my hangups is I cannot grocery shop comfortably when a store is crowded.  I get anxious to the point where I will forego picking up everything on my list just to get the hell out of there.  The anxiety sometimes makes me feel like I can't breath so I will do the "Can I live without this item until I go again?" thing in my head.  If I can, boom!  It is added to my next grocery store list and I am released from the torture sooner rather than later.

Today there were very few people shopping and I was in my own little world of indecision as I stared at the meat prices matching up which of what was on sale and which of what was buy 1/get 1 free when I felt someone looking at me.  I stood up and looked behind me to my right and saw a young woman maybe in her mid twenties.  She had her straight light brown hair cut short and was pretty.  Her left hand was bent at the wrist in an unnatural position and she held onto the cart with that along with her right hand.  I noticed her stance was off kilter, too.  I smiled at her and she smiled back.  "Am I in your way," I asked.  It wouldn't have surprised me if I was as I become oblivious to my surroundings when deep in thought.  She replied, "No" clearly enough that I could understand her.  That was the final clue that she probably had cerebral palsy or something similar.  I smiled again and once again she smiled back but there was more that was unspoken.  I was treating her as I would anyone else.  I was showing her respect one person for another; I was not transmitting pity or averting my eyes.

There was an older woman about 6 feet away from the young lady looking at the cold food items and I figured it was her mother.  She wore the same no-nonsense clothing and haircut.  Even though they were not near each other or talking, I sensed a strong bond between them. As the daughter grew, the mother allowed her her own space.  The mother had to decide a long time ago how she should behave when it came to caring for her child when she became an adult.  By the way they both respected each other, it was clear they had worked out a healthy balance between hovering and independence.

I went back to concentrating on what I should buy and eventually we passed each other.  I met the daughter's eyes one last time.  After they both were behind me I turned around and saw that because her right leg was shorter than her left she walked on her tip-toes on her right foot.

There was something very beautiful about the young lady.  Maybe I was seeing her soul as it touched my soul.  To me she glided over the floor.  I would have like to have talked to her.  While the muscular dystrophy reeked havoc with her body, her spirit was not disfigured.  It was gentle.  In my mind I untwisted her limbs and unfroze her tongue.

See-Saw

Sometimes it feels like we are this close to living our lives like those on "The Jetsons" until something happens that makes us feel like we are back to "The Flintstones".

On Turning 54

My hardest birthday was my 29th.  I had just one more year left in my twenties and then I would officially be old, at least that was what I was thinking.   It wasn't like I had to come to terms with things like no more partying, acting mature, or putting others ahead of myself.  I had been knee deep in just the opposite since I had turned 21.  My life was full of responsibility with my marriage and two children. It was about losing my youth.  At what point will my hair start to lose its color?  Will I end up being like the women I observed playing Mahjongg with my mother?  As a teenager I promised myself that would never happen.  Will I lose my identity?

Eventually I resigned myself to the fact that I could not fight getting older.  More birthdays came and went without fanfare.  Through the years the changes weren't a big deal until Thyroid Cancer busted through the swinging tavern doors making the kind of entrance that causes the poker players to look away from their cards, the drunk to find the energy to lift their heads, and the piano player to stop mid phrase.

I lost control over my body and rudely learned what being a non-person was like.  I was being harshly judged by ignorance.

I lost control over my future.  How many birthdays did I have left?  I learned that I never really had control over that in the first place.  Another painful lesson.

Each time cancer drove me to learn something, it was like being tortured on the rack forced into stretching my mind to make changes at my core.

Recently I was reading on Facebook someone describing losing two people within weeks of each other.  Both were in their mid to late sixties.  I did the simple math in my head and was slapped with the realization that I am but a mere 12 to 14 years away from their ages.  Everyone has experienced the phenomenon of the relativity of time.  The older we get the faster it goes.  As I look to turn 54 in a few months, the end gets closer and instead of it being blurry I am now able to make out some of the details.  I started to panic because there was so much more I wanted to do and this time crunch thing was squeezing my ribs with vice like strength.

It has been a couple of years since Cancer has held me at gunpoint.  I've had great reports after enduring my second surgery in 2010 and unbeknownst to me I had forgotten the lessons I had learned the primary one being tomorrow is never promised.

Young's Literal Translation of Proverbs 16:18 is "Before destruction is pride, And before stumbling -- a haughty spirit."  These I know to be true from my personal experiences and how prideful is it to believe I am the one with the control?  Nope.  Not going to fall under that delusion again.

Rock on, my fine feathered friends.  Oh - and about my hair and it losing its color - I started with a few white hairs but now it is more like what used to be a small intimate party is a houseful of guests because Word of Mouth can't keep quiet.  Uninvited people keep showing up and you know they will be calling their friends to come join them.  I am not going to cover up those white hairs.  I earned them!

My Taurus, my friend

My Taurus is back in the shop today. This time it is the brakes and all of the lovely parts that make them work properly. This past week I was not feeling all that safe driving it as I had a feeling the problem was serious, and it was. The shop would under no circumstances let me back in the car without having them fixed. I asked the car guy if the mechanic saw anything else wrong and he broke out the list. I was forced into recognizing that it has come to the point of throwing good money after bad. Just as dying people see their life flash before their eyes, my mind played a quick movie of the many years of faithful service that car has given me.

It is time to let go of the car. I need a new one and I define new as used but new to me. If you have any kind of car make/model/important information you can share with me, I would love to hear it! In the meantime, Poppy and I are housebound until around 4 pm when my Taurus will be drive-able again. We need a nap as we are heavy with nostalgia and sadness. This will last until we are in the seat of our new car, that is!!!!!

Bits and Pieces

Eating at my desk

I realize this isn't the prettiest picture I have ever posted but I had to share.  It's like someone that saw an accident and had to share the gory details with anyone that would stand still long enough to listen.

Sometimes I eat a microwave meal (TV dinner for those that are my age) at work because I didn't have time to prepare something before leaving home.  This mess is Swanson's turkey, gravy & stuffing, mashed potato entree.   As I was sitting at my desk eating it while working, I looked down and realized that I was eating the turkey and stuffing from the bottom and the mashed potatoes from the top.  WTF!  I scared myself.  What holy hell does some part of my brain create?

Poppy getting cozy on the couch

Here is a cute picture of Poppy I took last night to get rid of the above thoughts and images.

Tacked onto a tree at the Myakka City post office's parking lot 

For those that aren't in the know, Myakka City has one flashing traffic light and a lot of farm land and livestock.  When the weather affords it and I roll my car windows down, my commute from Sarasota to Myakka can be quite fragrant!  

One of the things I do on my way in is stop at the post office to pick up the company mail.  The pick up service hours (post office jargon for when a post office employee is available and at the window to help customers) this post office offers are Monday-Friday 9:00am - 11:00am then 1:00pm - 4:00pm; Saturday 10:00am - 12:00pm.  Lucky for me the lobby hours are 24/7.   

This morning, as I pulled into my regular parking spot, I noticed the above sign tacked, literally with office type thumb tacks, to a tree.  This tree is located at the end of a parking spot so if someone ignored the length of the parking space they would immediately hit the tree.  Here is my ultra-creative picture I just drew in the paint program so that you would know what I mean:

The green oval is the tree and the grey rectangle is the parking space....in case you couldn't figure that out for yourself and you thought I was attempting a self-portrait.  

I sat in my car looking at the sign trying to figure it out.  Slow down.  Slow down?  I'm in a parking lot.  What was the meaning the artist was trying to convey?  Then I read the response written in black under the colorful command.  I hope you laughed, too.

The beauty of Myakka City

Easier on the eye than my lunch pic, huh?

Lastly, a round of applause for my 2006 Ford Taurus SE:

And you thought FORD stood for Found On Road Dead

Freedom

How does one define freedom?  Is it not owning anything that makes one free or is it owning so much there is no longer a need?  Is it not each one's mindset because each on thinks he is complete?  In the end, is freedom defined in the mind no matter the circumstances?  Reality shifts depending on our perception of it.

Pockets of Sunshine

The world can be a beautiful place.  Maybe not everywhere at the same time but a pocket here and a pocket there joy and happiness are exploding from earth's surface to the heavens.

I eat dinner tonight and I have enough to be full.  I look outside and it is pouring, as is the norm in Florida summer afternoons, and I am inside and dry.

I have my dog sitting on my lap and I feel loved.  He is the best kisser, you know.  When I walk in the door after a long day at work I pick him up and he holds my face with his paws and covers me with kisses.  He bends his head down so that it rests in the crook of my neck.  I try to give him his fill of love back and release him back to the floor when he is ready.

There are pockets of happiness.  Sometimes they are very hard to find and we feel like it is impossible.  There are dark times.  There is always going to be a challenge in one form or another as long as I am alive.

What I need to do is live my life as if I am taking a walk in a forest knowing that at times in my journey the sun has trouble breaking through the tops of the trees but there will be pockets of it, some small and some large, that will warm me and provide light as I hike along.  I may get lost but I need to know I will still have a path whether it is well worn or I am making it as I go.

I also need to remind myself that it is OK to stop to rest.  It is OK to be sad sometimes.  What is not OK is to let the darkness in and take root.  I need to walk through it because somewhere up ahead is another pocket of sunshine.

Barefooted

Is it better to have loved and lost?  Do we crave that closeness, companionship, and touch so much that we are willing to put ourselves out there time and time again?  How many scars does it take for a heart to have trouble beating?  Does the drive to love and be loved back push us and move us to action or do we resist?  And, if we resist, does it cripple us?

http://www.heart.org/HEARTORG/Conditions/More/Cardiomyopathy/Is-Broken-Heart-Syndrome-Real_UCM_448547_Article.jsp

We can literally die from a broken heart. I have read about this and although science comes up with some really mind blowing new things, the poets and the playwrights have always known this.  The grieving half of what was once a whole have always known it.  Science has finally proven it.  Facts instead of prose.

If we have always known it, why do we take the chance?  Why did you take the chance?  To fulfill your own needs?  To make life better, more fulfilling?  To have a family?

Was it by chance?  Did it sneak up on you when you weren't looking?  Some fall in love and some make a decision based upon pros and cons, future plans, and calculations.

Love is tricky.  Defining it is impossible as language can only try to communicate what fills one's heart.  Who we love and how we love are varied and some stand in judgment of others.

One may look at a shoe and describe how it looks, how it works, and for what it is used but until one puts on the shoe one cannot describe how it feels.

Some of us keep trying on different shoes seeking the right pair and as we sit in our chairs we become surrounded by discarded shoe boxes filled with pairs that weren't right, weren't comfortable. Some of us are determined none will do while others are happy with the first pair just knowing that one day they will be broken in and comfortable.

Some are happy to walk through life barefooted.  Is it better to have loved and lost?

Giving Up

Giving up is the beginning of freedom.
Dying to want is the beginning of love.
Letting go is the beginning of living.

It is not by my hand that I shall live.
Although I have considered it, it is not by my hand I shall die.
If I run alongside the river of truth
I will always know my path.

Each day when the flag is lowered and taps is played
Each night when my head rests upon my pillow
I will be done for that day.
I shall not carry the worst or the best to bed with me as they will rot
And I do not wish to entangle myself between the sheets with what is done and gone.

When my bare feet touch the floor
While the birds of the morn are calling
I will lean forward into the new day
To practice.  To maybe get it right.

Roses and Thorns (The completed short story of Rose and Jeff)

PROLOGUE

She could either stay curled up in a ball on her bed or start her day.  One would lead to catharsis and the other to more wallowing in the pain she already felt.  She looked out the window and saw the sun and blue sky.  The cat, which was perched at the end of the bed, got up, stretched, meowed, and jumped down.  Rose watched the feline haughtily walk out of the bedroom.  If the cat could do it, so could she.

Today was going to be the start of the end.  She unfurled herself and laid her head back on the pillows.  As she looked up at the ceiling, she claimed this day the end of guilt, the end of remorse, the end of sorrow, and the end of anger.  Her eyes quickly filled with tears that overflowed onto her cheeks, running down the sides of her face and tickling her ears as their descent slowed and pooled.  She made no sound as she had stopped sobbing so long ago.  Somehow someway she was going to make this pain stop.  She was going to find a way.

Rose wiped her face with her hands as she sat up.  She had lost weight because she hadn't had the energy to eat let alone cook anything.  She felt weak and her long brown hair was a mess of tangles.  Her t-shirt hung off of her shoulders.  Rose lifted her arm, smelled her armpit, and said, “Gross.”

The cat ran back into the bedroom and flying onto the bed came to a quick stop in front of Rose.  She couldn't help but laugh and reaching over petted her.  Rose loved the sound of her cat’s purr.  It was like a little motor boat and the rumble of it represented happiness.

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed Tim’s picture on the dresser seemed to jump out at her in 3D. With a sharp intake of breathe, she refused to again be consumed by her emotions.  She forced her eyes from the photograph to the mirror and this time gasped with disgust.  “Oh my God,” she said as she turned to her cat.  “Lovey, how can you even look at me?”  Lovey answered by rubbing her head against Rose’s arm.

As she walked to the bathroom she peeled off her t-shirt and underwear balling them up and throwing them into the already overflowing hamper.  One arm peeked out from under the lid as if it wasn't ready to say that final goodbye.  The tiles of the bathroom floor felt cool under her feet, solid and sure.  Lovey jumped onto the toilet lid and watched as Rose turned on the shower and tested the water.  Just before climbing in, Rose reached over and tickled Lovey’s chin.

The spray hit the top of her head as she bowed under its stream leaning with both hands on the shower wall.  A flash of memory exploded inside her head.  “You bitch!”  Tim was slurring his words as spittle sprayed from his lips trying to intimidate her by crowding her with his body and height.  Shit.  Breathe.  Breathe through it.  Let it happen and then let it pass.  And so she did.

Rose walked back into the bedroom naked and still wet from the shower.  She no longer felt dirty but she knew the memories would still cause her to feel unclean.  For how long was anyone’s guess.  What did the therapist say?  Everyone grieves at his or her own pace.  What a crock of shit.  Well, maybe it wasn't but she figured she was partly still in the denial stage slowly crawling into the anger stage.  She would rather slide into the acceptance stage like a baseball player slides into home plate.  Sighing, she thought out loud, “This is hard work.”

With patience, Lovey sat in the wicker chair by the window watching Rose pick-up the multitude of dirty clothes off of the floor and then tear the filthy sheets from the bed.  The cat only cracked the whip when hungry.

Rose stuffed everything into the laundry hamper and this time the lid stayed open like a huge yawn.  Laundry will be the next thing she does.  Right after getting dressed.  And eating.  And then blow drying her hair.  Whatever.

As Rose picked out a clean pair of underwear from her dresser drawer, Tim’s picture assaulted her again.  “Dammit!”  She assaulted it back by picking it up and slamming it into the trash can with such violence that the wooden frame flew apart and the glass shattered.  “Fuck you!”  Yep.  The anger phase.

She was breathing hard from the exertion when the next memory lit up her brain.  Fear was squeezing her hard as she wiped his spittle from her face.  Tim’s gait was unsteady as he weaved his way towards the back door grabbing the car keys nearly ripping the hook out of the wall at the same time.  Rose ran up to him and demanded he hand them over to her.  He was in no shape to drive.  All at once he was upon her choking her with his free hand.  “I am not drunk!”

Clarity, just for a second, hit him.  Tim let go of Rose his hand dropping to his side.  She saw remorse and disgust bloom in his eyes.  Quietly he slurred, “I have to go,” and walked out the door.

Her heart was pounding in her chest and sweat slid from her brow into her eyes.  She realized she was sitting on the floor and had no idea when that happened.  Lovey walked over and meowed as she rubbed against Rose’s hip.  Jeez, she still wasn’t dressed.  Her therapist said she had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder with a topping of panic attacks.  Rose was learning all sorts of new lingo but this was not the kind of education she wanted, although she definitely paid for it.

Sitting at the breakfast nook she drank coffee.  The resulting acid in her empty stomach made her nauseous.  Toast would help.  Rose ended up eating four slices loaded with strawberry jam and butter.  Mmmmmmmmmm….sugary sweetness.

Chapter 1

Rose was standing at the kitchen sink washing the dishes that had been left there from both breakfast and lunch.  Calm in her routine, her hands were warm from the sudsy water.  The cotton dress she wore felt soft on her body and with each gentle gust of wind coming in from the open side door the dress kissed her legs.  Looking out the kitchen window, she smiled as her gaze took in, once again, the open fields that were her backyard.  She would never tire of the scene.  It is what she always wanted and as she watched the tall grass sway in the breeze, peace continued to fill her heart and quiet her mind.

She was lost in thought when she heard his boots on the porch and then the squeak of the screen door.  The smell of newly cut hay walked in with him and with five quick steps Jeff was next to her.  His right arm wrapped around her waist and with his left hand he turned off the sink faucet.  Kissing her on the cheek and then the back of her neck, her body relaxed into his.  Jeff had worked outside all day and sunshine clung to his plaid shirt.

“Hey, Girlie,” he said with both arms now holding her around her waist.  They were in their early 40s but she felt like a teenager again whenever he was close.

“Hey, Big Man.  How’s your day going,” Rose asked as she turned around to face him.  He kept her snug in his arms even when she reached up to unbutton his shirt so that she could run her fingers through his soft curly chest hair that she loved so much.  Rose then rubbed her face where her fingers had been and inhaled deeply.  Jeff always smelled so good to her whether just coming in from a hard day’s work outside or fresh from the shower.  She felt Jeff’s kiss on the top of her head and then his chin as he rested it there.  She knew he was looking out the kitchen window, just as she had been doing, and probably thinking about next week - just as she had been doing.  His surgery loomed large even though they both tried to not let it ruin their time together now.  With that thought she went from light to heavy.

Jeff felt the change and taking her by the arms pushed her away from him just enough to be able to see her face.  Automatically she tilted her head up.  Looking into his soft brown eyes, her smile started off as brave and then crumpled.  Rose’s eyes filled with tears even though she wanted so badly to not give in to the desperation she hated to admit she felt.  She couldn’t imagine life without him.  After all that she survived, she couldn’t lose Jeff.  All of those times when she forced herself to keep going when all she wanted to do was lie down and die – she didn’t know if she would be able to keep going this time.  Jeff tucked her protectively under his arm and they walked down the hall to the bedroom.  Their dog, a big black German Shepard/Black Lab mix named Bill, had watched the whole thing from under the kitchen table.  He got up and padded behind them nails clicking on the tile floor.  It got quiet again when Bill transitioned to the carpeted hallway.  Outside their closed bedroom door, he lied down and rested his big head between his front paws.

Chapter 2

Turning her head to see the clock, Rose was not surprised that it was 6:30 pm.  She was wide awake lying in bed next to Jeff.  He was a quiet sleeper and when they first had overnight visits she would check on him like a mother does her newborn to make sure he was breathing. 

The dog had to be let out and fed.  Dinner had to be made, too, but she didn't want to be out from under Jeff’s embrace.  It felt heavy, strong, and good.  Feeling safe, she looked up at the ceiling and let her mind wander. 

She was back at her old house in her old kitchen eating the toast spread with the sweet jam.  The memory, still so vivid even after the decade had passed, made her mouth water so much she had to swallow.  Rose opened her eyes again, this time to look at Jeff.  The desire to touch his black hair and run her finger down his cheek to his lips immediately possessed her.  Holding the impulse back, more important than indulging herself was not waking him up.  To her, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.  Even in the dimness of the room she could see his end-of-the-day stubble and she didn't have to touch it now to know its roughness.  He had teased her enough rubbing it against her face.  His broad shoulder made a peak under the summer blanket and she followed the slope to his slim hip down to his feet.  Rose knew every inch of him.  The day he entered her life, the sun came out on a permanent basis. 

From past experience, Rose knew that Bill was just outside the bedroom door and he needed her care, too. 

At the sound of Rose getting out of bed, Bill sat up and stared at the doorknob willing it to turn and the door to open.  Tada!  “C’mon, Bill.  Let’s go out,” said Rose as she knelt down on the floor and gave Bill a big hug around is soft furry neck.  They walked down the hall together, through the kitchen, and out the door.

Rose sat in the same wicker chair from way back when as it was one of the few things she kept from those days and watched Bill make a mad dash to the nearest bush and unceremoniously lift his leg.  It was that eerie but lovely time of early evening when the day creatures start turning in for the night and the nocturnal ones are just getting started. 

How selfish was it of her that as Jeff faced the surgery he needed to save his life she was worried about the possibility of how she would make it without the one she loved. 

As Rose watched Bill in the yard, she thought back to Tim.

Chapter 3

She had loved Tim with every molecule of her body.  From the first time she saw him something fantastic and strange happened and she felt complete.  Those ever present nagging feelings of searching for something, needing something she didn't have immediately disappeared.  Rose thought that night when Tim was so drunk and violent, when he became Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll, that night when he drove drunk and died, she died with him.  She thought she would never recover from the loss, the guilt, but mostly the pain.  Her silver lining was that he didn't take anyone else’s life but his.   Even so, the pain was overwhelming.  That part of herself that she had finally found, reveled in as it snapped into place inside the core of her, had been ripped from her soul.  Before meeting Tim she knew she was missing something undefinable.  After that awful night, she knew exactly what it was and that she would never have it back.  The incompleteness drilled deeply through her heart and kept going until it gouged a cavern into her humanity.  That was why she had had trouble leaving her bed.  That is why she hadn't cared if she ate or bathed.  Her cat, Lovey, was the only companionship she could tolerate.  Her therapist was the one that pulled her up and helped her to find herself again.

Jeff was the love she thought she would never have, let alone try to find.  He was gentle and kind instead of fireworks and cotton candy.  He was strong and brave.  He was her cowboy and although she did not love him in the same way as she had Tim, she loved Jeff with all of her heart and she knew in her bones that he felt the same way about her. 

Her thoughts had come full circle when she heard Jeff’s footsteps as he reached the screen door.  He walked as if he were a much larger man.  “Hey, Sweetheart.  You ok,” he asked as he looked at her through the mesh.

Rose swiveled in the chair and got up.  “Yep.  Hungry?”

Jeff could always tell when she was thinking back to the time she nearly lost herself.  It made him sad when she tortured herself like that but he would never show her that.  He was her rock and he knew that.  He also knew that she felt guilty about still wanting, no, needing him to be strong now, too.  He wanted to be her man and everything that that required.  He wanted her and loved her.  He needed her as much as he needed to breath. 

Jeff held the screen door open for her and she gave him a kiss on the cheek as she walked past him into the house.  Bill followed behind Rose and Jeff followed behind Bill and closed the door behind them.

EPILOGUE

Rose stiffly sat on a puffy chair in the waiting area that some decorator tried to make cozy.  It was still the hospital and she was still waiting to hear from Jeff’s surgeon so no amount of dreamy colors or soft furniture was ever going to be cozy or comfortable.  She stopped drinking coffee hours ago and switched to diet soda.  When that lost its allure, she sipped on bottled water.  The TV was blah, blah, blah and when she tried reading the words made no sense.  She looked out the window and wished she could at least pace the sidewalk but if she did that she would probably miss the doctor’s arrival.  She hadn't felt this kind of anxiety for many years and was trying to remember the tricks her therapist had taught her.

Upon hearing her name being called, Rose turned away from the window.  She saw that it was Jeff’s doctor and he was smiling. 

The Weekend the House was Tented

Poppy taking advantage of Teddy's absence and rummaging through Teddy's toy stash.

This weekend Poppy and I stayed at my mom’s house while the house I am renting was tented. 

Die, mother fucking fleas!!!!! 

Thursday night I sweated through nearly 2 hours of double bagging anything edible in the fridge, in the freezer, and dry goods on the shelves.  Anything that could be ingested by both human and animal also needed to be double bagged.  Don’t overlook any kind of medicine, health and personal care items like mouthwash and toothpaste that had been opened or not in the original packaging, and make-up.  Do you can see why it was such a pain in the ass?  I also had to pack for the weekend for myself, Poppy, and the cats. 

I dropped the cats off to the vet Friday morning before work.  This was after looking for Trixie for 20 minutes, finding her behind the washing machine, using a broom to get her out, grabbing her, backing her into the carrier ass first, and finally locking her in.  A couple of scratches later and with sweat streaming down my head and face, the mission was accomplished.  Why did I bother starting the day with a shower?  This fiasco cut into my flea combing time and now the cats would have to be dropped off without it.  Embarrassing but it is out of my hands.

It just happened to work out that my mother was out of town this past weekend so it was just Poppy and me camped out until Sunday afternoon when my landlord was to text me the “all clear” and Poppy and I could return home.  The time frame provided was the whole afternoon and being just a tad OCD I forced myself to relax into the unknown.  I did not have control over it so I let go of it.

Something else I had to lean into and accept was that I would be without internet access unless I wanted to leave Poppy alone and venture out and TV options would be greatly diminished as my mother’s viewing needs are not the same as mine.  I knew that I would probably feel a little like I was marooned on a small island.  It ended up feeling more like a mini vacation.  I was stuck in the situation so I thought of it as a forced exile from the pressure of errands and other routine weekend rituals.

Poppy was so excited, knowing where we were by the change in the smell of the air that blew from the car’s air conditioner.  He ran into my mother’s house expecting to be greeted by Teddy, Shadow, and Nana.  As he made his way into the living room, I could see him realize that that the house was empty.  It was a little too weird for him and he didn't eat much for the remainder of our time there.  I didn't know that it was possible, but when we went to bed he was glued to my side even more.  When I would move him over to make room for myself in the bed he would panic. 

It was weird for me, too.  I would go to my laptop to indulge in internet time and remember I couldn't.  There was no TV guide/menu button on the remote so I had to flip through the channels or sit on channel 2 watching the channel programming scroll.  Then, I found HD channels that weren't listed anywhere. 

I started reading a new book, thanks to my brother-in-law’s mother who supplied me with a grocery bag full of them from which to choose.

All night it was quiet unlike at home where there is always something going on because of the street sweeper company next door that does most of their work in the overnight hours, my crazy sometimes druggy sometimes fighting neighbors across the street, or the Hispanic families a bit down the street celebrating someone’s birthday with a loud music-filled party.

Poppy got a lot of walks and I sweated some more in the heat and humidity of Florida.  People that didn’t know me waved to me from their cars as they drove by.  One man barked from out of his open car window.  I’m still unsure as to why he thought that would be funny.  I donated a poop bag from my roll to a lady whose miniature Dachshund had diarrhea.  I answered the door to a neighbor who asked if while she went back up north for a couple of months my mother would water her hanging plant.  I told her to just add it to the rest of them and it would be no problem.

I took a relaxing bath with ¼ of a jar of Dead Sea bath salts on Friday night and then again Saturday night.  Since I only have a shower at home, I took advantage of what has become a luxury.  Poppy also got a bath but I don’t think he considered his relaxing or a luxury.

Because Poppy was feeling off kilter, my only outing was when I went out Saturday night for Chinese take-out, a small gift and card for my mother, and lottery tickets.

Sunday afternoon around 1 p.m. I got the text from my landlord the tenting company took some readings and it was safe to return.  Woohoo!  I packed all of our stuff back up, made sure to take out the trash, clean any dirty dishes, and make our footprint as small as possible. 

I picked up the cats after work tonight and now we are back home and hopefully flea free.  I spent the weekend in the Twilight Zone.  It is good to feel normal again.  Relatively speaking.

How do I use the plug in the bathroom?

This is how.

Dad

My father was the best dancer.  He loved playing his Big Band albums on the hulking stereo system that lived in the living room.  He would grab me up and with patience and happiness he taught me how to be his dance partner.

I think he found freedom when he danced. To this day I am told by his friends from childhood what a great dancer he was.  As a teenager, to me weddings meant more than a couple's nuptials. They were when my father and I could spread out on the huge wooden dance floor and have fun.  I couldn't help but have a silly grin plastered on my face whenever we did that because he had one on his face, too.  The last time we danced at a wedding he took my hand as we walked out onto the dance floor and cautioned me that he could probably safely only manage one dance.  He had had a couple of heart attacks and heart surgery.  He was outliving the doctor's predictions but he was feeling his physical limitations more acutely.  

We got out on the floor and once again entered the world we created together with music and steps.  I knew when to turn, when to look for his hand, what he would do next.  The moments we danced together were golden.  My best memories are of those times.  I can still feel his cheek pressed against mine.  I can still smell his cologne.

Being his daughter was not always easy so when, after not making it out of his last surgery in 1992, he passed on, I didn't cry.

He is buried very close to where I live.  I drive past him every day commuting to and from work.  When I think about it I wave and turn my head in his direction and say, "Hi, Dad!"  This afternoon on my way to run errands, I visited his grave.

I parked, turned off the car, and reached for a stone of sorts that I had found at the beach a while back and was still located near the cup holder.  I was getting choked up as I swung the car door open and got out.  It had been a couple of years since I was last there and I meandered a bit as I headed in the direction I knew to be correct.  Tears were running down my face as I looked and when I saw his name I started sobbing.  As is Jewish custom, I crouched down and put the stone from the beach on his tombstone.  The sobbing and the tears kept coming.  Standing up, taking off my sunglasses, wiping my eyes, still crying.  It took 22 years but finally the anger was gone.  My heart could break for the father I lost way too soon.

No Waste

Rickety tickety tock
Blickety flickety flock
Running around, arms on a clock

Blippety flippety flop
Strippety mippety mop
Running hard
Heart wanting to pop

Racing, keep pacing
Flying, keep trying
Speeding forward ahead of the line

Fingers gripping the life
Out of life
Squeezing, forcing the seeds of
Despair, disdain, dislike, distaste
No waste

My Bedroom

My Bedroom

How strange is it that my bedroom, at 53 years of age, looks like it could also be a 16 year old's?  I guess it is okay since otherwise I am a responsible adult.  The bills get paid on time, I go to work where I am a conscientious employee, and the oil in my car gets changed as recommended by the sticker on the windshield.  

I like to play.  I certainly don't feel my age although there are times when I feel 100.  Have you noticed that my lamps don't match?

  

I am an Introvert

I am introverted.  I talk only when I feel that what I have to say is something of substance.  I will add my input only when there is a large enough lull in the conversation as barging in with my two cents is uncomely.  I will make small talk when the situation forces me into it but am very uncomfortable doing so.  I usually end up kicking myself under the table because of the stupid things that Hai Karate themselves out of my mouth attacking the listener in the brain.  More often than not I walk away from the conversation feeling like a moron.

A couple of years ago I was talking with a co-worker and he started to chuckle.  As far as I knew nothing funny was said so I asked him about it.  He very bluntly stated, "You are Sheldon."  For those of you that watch The Big Bang Theory, this needs no explanation.  For those of you that don't watch the show, Google it.

It's weird.  Half of the population thinks I am charming and gets a kick out of me.  The other half are offended by me.  I am actually much less introverted than I used to be.  As a teenager, in social situations it was hard for anyone to get two sentences out of me.  As a young adult, when I went out on my first date with my soon to be husband, he carried the whole conversation all night.  As an adult, I find that I gravitate towards the more outgoing and forthright individuals as they allow me to be me without thinking that I hate them.  I think these types of people find me soothing to be around because while at times I may be a horrible talker, I am always an excellent listener.  Just don't abuse my ears or my patience because while I can be quiet, it doesn't mean I am enthralled or, to the contrary, not being thoughtful, analytic, and empathetic.  Quoting a friend, "Don't let this dumb look on my face fool you."

In a world where being outgoing, friendly, and the life of the party is extolled, us introverts get a bad rap.  Our quietness can be intimidating, unnerving, and misunderstood.  Oppositely, we find those that jump on tables and swing from the ceiling fans gives us cause for burrowing even deeper into our protective shell.

Lastly, please don't confuse introversion with being shy.  I have no problem walking up to you, shaking hands, and introducing myself.  I am unafraid of being judged.  I just find large social situations to be way too stimulating.  For further information on the difference, please click on this link:

http://www.thepowerofintroverts.com/2011/07/05/are-you-shy-introverted-both-or-neither-and-why-does-it-matter/

I once lamented to a friend that I wished I could be more extroverted.  She said to me, "If we all were talkers, who would be there to listen?"

Now let's all channel Julie Andrews and sing, "Getting to know you, getting to know all about you, getting to like you, getting to hope you like me....."

Rules do apply to you, too.

Yesterday morning Poppy and I were in the car waiting for the light to change from red to green.  We were just starting the drive from home to Mom's house, as we typically do on Sundays.

I was the one driving and Poppy would soon start the battle of wills as he believes he should help.  He has full access to look out the passenger side window but instead pointedly tries to cram himself between the steering wheel and me.  Placing his front paws on the steering wheel and his butt on my stomach, he uses my chest to lean back on.  This way he is able to comfortably see the activities in front and to both sides of the car.  This is important to him as he polices the other drivers and with either silence or barking delegates them to either the "Good Driver" or "Bad Driver" categories.  I'm not sure what the parameters are, but he's got the checklist memorized.

This is the first light I encounter when leaving my house.  It is also the longest light on the planet.  I have sat in front of this light for 2 minutes anticipating moving my foot from the brake pedal to the gas.  It really is 2 minutes long.  I have timed it.  This is FOREVER especially on work days!  It is also teeth grinding when you are car number 5 and car number 4 is being driven by Mr. Slow MoFo who takes a 1/2 an hour to move then another 1/2 an hour to make a right hand turn causing you to have to sit through the light again.  The good news is that recently there was a pneumatic road tube counter laid across the road so that traffic volume could be counted and since last week the light doesn't last more than 1 minute tops so just as I am ready to break out into hives from the anticipation the light changes.

It is about 10 am when Poppy and I are at the red light trying to be patient.  We feel pretty good because he knows we are going to see Teddy, the terrier, at Nana's house and I have the upcoming week off of work.  A pedestrian starts to cross the street in the designated crosswalk and then the light turns green.  Depending on the walker's speed, I may have to sit through this light again.  Eventually he makes his way to the other side of the street and the light is still green!  Foot on gas, moving forward, making our way into the intersection and then movement in my peripheral vision causes me to look to my left.  I am still moving forward.  I look up and check.  Yes, my light is green which means the opposing traffic should be stopped at a red light....which they are.  All of the cars are stopped.  What the hell?  It is a bicyclist running a red light.  RUNNING A RED LIGHT.  He is peddling bent over his handle bars in his bicyclist helmet and tight uniform ignoring the red light.

Without braking, he corrects his trajectory and scoots behind me.  What if there was someone behind me?  I continue driving and look in my review mirror while calling this person all kinds of names from the benign moron to more colorful adjectives.  I am experiencing the after-terror adrenaline shakes and my breathing is jagged.  I have to loosen my grip on the wheel and as I come back to being present in the moment I look for Poppy with my hand to check on him.  Sensing something upsetting just happened, he is quiet and his ears are folded down submissively.  I talk to him and tell him everything is okay and he recovers much more quickly than I.  I could have killed that man.

I don't understand why bicyclists don't think the traffic laws apply to them and this is where I get judgmental only because it has been my experience.  It seems that the ones that ride the expensive bikes with the fancy outfits are also the ones that think they are above the rules.  The thick-wheeled bikes being ridden by people in street clothes normally align themselves with traffic. I have even seen them get off of their bikes to walk them across the intersections.

This man put his life in danger and he also could have ruined mine.  For Pete's sake, bicyclists, when you decide to ride in downtown traffic, obey the traffic rules!  I hope what happened had an impact on him but I am not counting on it.  If he didn't learn this time then it wouldn't surprise me the lesson is put in front of him again.

You never have to ask

You never have to ask your dog how much he or she loves you.

Poppy snuggling with Senator

Mom

My mother and I have not been close our whole lives.  It isn't until the past year that we've found peace.  There has always been some kind of weird behavior from my mother towards me that she has a hard time controlling.  She has admitted to it on and off through the past 10 years most recently about three months ago.  She has apologized to me again and again for "not being nice to me" and I know that a large part of it is that she feels that if she had loved me properly and treated me kindly I would not be in the position I am in now.

One of my earliest memories of my mother is when I was somewhere around 4 years old.  I was in the front yard playing while she was taking a nap on the couch in the living room.  This was the early '60s in a small town at a time when it was safe to let your kid do that.  Being curious, I observed a bee a little too closely as it went about it's business in the bushes and I got stung.  Crying, I ran into the house to my mother asking for solace and help. Instead I was told to go back outside and play.  Everything was fine.

I no longer experience emotional pain when I recall this.  With age comes acceptance plus my mother has apologized enough.  She is 79 and I don't want her to be awash in guilt.

The position I am in now is I am making 36% less money in Florida than I did in Baltimore. I live in a house where 95% of the windows are painted shut and the ones that I can open don't stay open unless there is something propped up keeping them that way.  There are termites and the bedroom carpeting, despite my vacuuming efforts, is a luxury spa for fleas.  Since last fall my landlord has promised he will tent the house.

The appliances were new in the '70s except for the microwave that my landlord replaced last year.
Since the old one was part of a stove/oven/microwave combo, the new one sits on a table in the kitchen.

Because I left my abusive alcoholic ex-husband who wouldn't allow the 40 some odd potential buyers into the house I used to own to view it to make a possible $40,000 profit, I have been in the foreclosure process and have been notified I owe a lot of money despite the auctioning off of the house that was a couple thousand short of the asking price.

Getting back to my mother.  I routinely call her on my drive home from work.  It keeps me awake after a long day,  the hour long drive seems shorter, and I can give her the time she wants.  As we were talking yesterday afternoon, Poppy's allergies came up which was followed by the subject of fleas and termites.  My mother with a voice choked with emotion said, "I can't believe a child of mine is living this way."  I told her it was okay and I wasn't ashamed to live where I do.  Of course I wish I was living somewhere nicer but in the end we all die and we can't take it with us.  Whatever we do in our present lives will end and some day we will be back and I hope the next life, having learned what I have in this life, will be cushier.

I have lived through cancer and decisions I made hoping they would patch-up emotional wounds.  I no longer raise my fists in response to fists being raised at me.  I can admit to imperfection without losing my sense of self.  I can cry without feeling less than.  I can feel weak or strong without guilt and/or the sense that I am letting someone down or carrying them.  The only expectations I aim to fulfill are my own; the ones I set for myself.

I love my mother and I accept her.  She is not going to change and she loves me with all of her heart as best she can.  I am going to enjoy and cherish her and sometimes grit my teeth because of her but I will do it until I don't have her anymore.

Rose and Jeff Continued

Jeff could always tell when she was thinking back to the time she nearly lost herself completely.  It made him sad when she did but he would never show her that.  He was her rock and he knew that.  He also knew that she felt guilty about still wanting him to be strong even when facing the prospect of his own mortality.  He wanted her and loved her and needed her as much as he needed to breath.  He knew that she knew but neither one wanted to say it aloud for fear of jinxing the world they created together.

Stained with Red

I never asked you to change for me, to make my life better.  I thought it all would come naturally and a little of it did but it didn't last.  How can I know you if you don't know yourself?  The evil twins and their handmaiden surrounded you.  Your past clung to you like a dying man to a stick in the water wanting to use you to keep it alive.

How is it that my heart still bleeds for you?  For you?  I don't even know you.  The real you.  How is it that the pain of loss is still alive?  I keep thinking I have pulled the knife out only to look down and discover it is still there.  Just a little messier.  The handle a little more stained with red.

Rah-rah!

I am my dog's cheerleader.  When he poops or pees on his puppy pad, I set off the celebratory fireworks and get out my pom-poms.  It is weird.

I always had large dogs.  My whole life, in fact, and that includes when I was a kid.  Wait.  I'm lying.  French poodles are not large dogs but they aren't teeny, either.  They have bladders large enough to hold their pee.

With Poppy everything was different and I had a steep learning curve that required me to sprint up it.  No time to lollygag.  Chihuahuas can't hold it the same way large dogs can.  When told I needed to train him to go on puppy pads, I squidged up my nose.  Say what?  No dog of mine is going to have to use a puppy pad for evah!

Wrong.  It was the best move I made.  It saved the floors that he was peeing on whenever and wherever.  There were no rules.  Walk him at 9:00 where he peed and pooped and then at 9:10 he peed and pooped again in the house at a random location of his choosing.  If it weren't so disgusting it would have been whimsical.

That is why I am his cheerleader when he uses the puppy pads.  It works for us.  I am not ashamed.

It is you I still miss

Folding clothes from the dryer
On the bed with the dog
And his toy

Thinking about one and a half years ago.

Two and a half years ago was the start
I never wanted to part
My soul would tear in two
And bleed when not with you.

The dog walks on the clean shirt
I throw the toy, what a good boy.

Your arms were my nest
The place I found rest
From the outside world of noise.

Then the whole thing changed
Everything was rearranged
Dark gloom descended as
Light backed out the door.

I walked the halls
I bumped into walls
Feeling every misstep and mistake.

No longer willing
No longer able
I asked for your keys
Please put them on the table.

Folded clothes in drawers
Standing, staring at the dog
Bending down for his kiss
It is you I still miss.

Not a Hotty

Apparently I am attractive to Hispanic men or I could chalk it up to percentages because of my neighborhood.

One tried to make conversation with me from his car window as I was walking Poppy.  He had waved me on and then after Poppy and I left the curb he caught me mid-cross with compliments.  We went through the whole "I don't speak Spanish" routine as I dragged Poppy along.  "It is NOT the time to smell things, Popparooni!" my inner dialogue was screaming.  When the dog and I were finally a comfortable distance away the drive said while sticking his head out the car window, "You are beautiful."  It wasn't said with menace or vulgarity.  He was kind of polite, actually.

Another pulled up to the gas pump next to mine early one morning before work.  He smiled at me over his car as I got out of mine, so I smiled back.  "Good morning," he said.  "Good morning," I replied.  With my credit card button punching question answering completed, I lifted the nozzle, chose the lowest grade, and inserted the nozzle in the tank of the car.  I stared at the numbers flying by in the dollar section and compared those to the numbers ambling along in the gallon section.  I felt a pulling in my psyche so I looked over and sure enough this guy was smiling at me.  I smiled back.

Done pumping the gas I ripped my receipt from the machine and started back around my car.  He looked me over and said, "You look nice," in a benign and easy-going way.  "Thank you," I said as I kept walking.  I was starting to feel a little closed in and scrutinized.  Wait a minute here.  I'm wearing jeans shorts and a t-shirt.  I look nice?

"You going to work?" he asked still smiling while holding his cell phone in one hand and the gas nozzle with the other while leaning over the top of his car.
"What?" I asked.      
"Are you going to work?" he asked again.
"Yes," I replied as I lowered myself into the driver's seat.

He said something else but I have no clue what it was because I was closing the car door.  As I drove away a niggle that was in the back of my head came to the forefront.  Did he take my picture with his cell?

Both men were very polite and I didn't feel dirty for having spoken to them.  I didn't feel threatened, either. As a woman, I am always aware of my surroundings.  From Jr. High on it has been drilled into my head to look around, appear confident, and the old stand-by of grab, twist, and pull.  I suppose I have been thinking that at my age and nearing being on the other side of menopause I would have become invisible.  Maybe not.  At least not for these two men.

Keep Calm

You can tell yourself everything is alright and that you're not stressed out.  You're handling everything just fine.  You're an expert at juggling and keeping everyone happy.

Nope.

You're sitting at your laptop and you feel your heart start banging around in your chest.  You have to take deep breaths.  Keep calm.  It's a panic attack.

I don't like the name panic attack because in my personal experience it happens when I am quiet, not panicking.  Heart disease runs in my family so when I had my first one many years ago my initial thought was heart attack.  A co-worker, who was a sympathetic soul, told me to lie down on the office couch because it was a panic attack.  We didn't need to call the paramedics just yet.

Periodically someone will post on Facebook a bare bones explanation of why people have panic attacks and that those that experience them should not be ashamed.  "They are signs of having tried to remain strong for too long."  I cannot argue with that as those are the times I experience them.

My heart and mind voted to have my body, the big mouth, do the talking for them.  "Take it easy.  Don't put so much pressure on us because you are freaking us out!"

Got it.  I'll make some changes.  Thanks.  And sorry.