Now I lay me down to sleep....

The Room

My father was gone,

My brother and sister married and in homes of their own.

I, still living at home, still sleeping in my childhood bed.

Except for those night when I couldn't sleep,

Or move, or even breathe.

"Asthma," said one doctor;

"Not likely," said another, "Sleep paralysis," Hmmm.

So on those nights when everything stopped,

And the horror began,

I would struggle against the chains of sleep,

Until I could break free, into my mother's room

Where she slept alone, well, not quite alone,

Her terrier slept at the foot of her bed,

Underneath the pile of covers,

In the unheated upper floor of the house.

She still slept on "her" side of the bed,

And I would climb into the other.

Wordless, I would sleep there til morning came.

I remember the bed, with the dog, and a peppery smell.

Later on...

I would wake, or think I woke,

To the sound of my own cries:

Some monster, or dark figure of the night

Had inhabited my sleep.

My mind, awake, or misleadingly so, before my body,

With a single goal--to find that room.

Until fully awakening to the knowledge of loss:

There is no room, no refuge, no place to hide,

From the inevitability of grief.

Diagnosis: Terminal

She had asked for more weapons to fend off the enemy for another while. The oncologist sketched a circle, representing her head. He drew another circle, just inside the first. He used a few strokes of his pencil to shade in the area between the 2 circles. "The cancer cells," he explained, " are here, swirling around in the fluid layer outside the brain. If it were a ball, (tumor) we could treat it, but not in this area." Who could be haunted by anything worse?

Another myth shot down

After I resigned from teaching at Hoosic Valley, in an attempt to save my soul, I worked at a variety of jobs, not all better jobs than HVC, but invariably more interesting. For a period of time, I worked as a proctor for Civil Service Exams, usually administered at the college or Albany High or some such site. People with disabilities were allowed to take the tests, but the tests needed to be administered individually. Not too many were interested in that job, so I agreed to do it. One day I had to read the entire test to a blind woman, a rather boring assignment that took all of a Saturday, probably 6 hours or so. The woman told me that she had been deprived of her sight since childhood, but had compensated for her loss by developing her sense of hearing, saying she could identify, recognize, and remember the voice of anyone she'd met. After I'd finished reading her the exam, we bade each other goodbye and I went to hand in the exam, sign out, etc , taking about 15 minutes before I left the building. As I was going down the front stairs toward where I'd parked my car, I saw the woman at the bottom of the stairs, looking lost and alone. So I retraced my steps and asked her if she needed any help. She said yes, she would like to be shown the way to the bus stop. So I walked her to the bus stop, chatting with her on the way. We had bonded a little during that long, long exam session. Before she got on the bus, she thanked me and asked me who I was, and how I came to realize she needed help. She had no clue that we'd spent the last 6 hours together, with her listening to my voice for most of that time. I can't remember exactly what I told her, but I know it raised my level of skepticism about sensory compensation.

Dream Within A Dream

Words of praise,

Professions of love,

Ease of movement,

Sense of belonging,

Joy of being:

Gone forever it would seem,

But not so--

In life's recurring dream.

Pogo says....

We have seen the enemy and he is us.   I say I can see the future and it sucks. 

Finale

If there is an afterlife where questions are answered and issues resolved, everything will be all right.  If there is not, then at the end she felt deserted and hopeless because no one would help her.

The Notebook

I found a red 3-subject notebook among my sister's things. The notebook was one of many. She was a note taker of the first order, chronicling everything that she did or owned or had to resolve. She kept records of the proceedings of the dissolution of her marriage; she wrote down every step she took and the hurdles she had to overcome to sell her first home, and then to purchase a new one of her own. Every appliance, home repair, insurance issue, warranties---all duly noted and preserved in writing for future reference. I found pages filled with her struggles which documented her early, and futile, efforts to conceive a baby. She wrote down every step she took to find the best treatment for the horrible disease which came into her life; even when things did not look promising, she detailed all the research at the time which indicated there might be some alternative measures. She wrote pages to various agencies when her disability was first denied and, once gained, later withdrawn from her, even though logic would have dictated otherwise. And through all the events which occurred in her life, her notations were true to the facts of whatever the matter was. She was not one to color her observations with emotion or even opinion---just the facts. The red notebook I came across appeared to be empty, no dates or name or labels on the cover and the pages unwritten on----until I rifled through it and on the first page of the last of the 3 sections found these words written in her handwriting, and curiously, in a little larger script than was usual for her: God can Heal-God can Heal me-

We discussed the disease and we discussed dying, or at least not being alive anymore. She and I both knew we couldn't live forever, and that her time to go might come before mine. But we did not want her to die of that horrible disease. We wanted to be free of it, and knowing that could never be the case, we wished for something else, the lesser of however many evils. It's stupid of me, I know, and seems unfeeling and reeking of self serving cynicism, but I find myself wanting to ask how big should she have written her plea, or her prayer, or her wish. Maybe not in a notebook hidden in her dresser drawer, but on a banner being pulled by a plane over a beach somewhere........

Never

I never thought that I would be placing roses on your grave.

The Notebook

The Cry
Pages and pages of entries
Detailed documentation
Of visits, proposals,
Queston after question,
Hope, despair, choices
All written in her hand.
A journal, a diary, a quest,
All so objective
As if the writer were observing
Rather than enduring.
Dispassionate observer--
Except for one brief plea
Midway through that first year.
A plea, or a prayer, or maybe
Only a hope:
"I know God can heal me--I know that God heals--with You watching over me." 4/2/97

Religion and Old-time

I always used to believe that growing older and definitely being old would strengthen one's religion. As the end of life grows inevitably nearer, one would seek the reassurance that there is more, right? But my so far rather limited insight into religious beliefs and old age has not sustained that way of thinking. Oh, this is way too deep and depressing for me to be thinking about now. It reminds me of that woman reading the poetry of her lost life to her churchmates, who kept waiting for the epiphany which never came. Cripes, if you're disillusioned with your life, why should the onus be on you to cheer others up. Who ever called religion a victory march?

Everything

She told me once, when she was angry at me,
That it was because I was the one
Who she loved the most, in the whole world.
It didn't sound to me,
at the time,
That she loved me very much, at all.
I'm pretty sure I didn't tell her,
at the time,
That I loved her too. I probably didn't.
And now, after she did everything for me,
I can't tell her that I do, and I did,
at the time.

The Doctor told her

"I'll still be your doctor," he told her,
After he'd pretty much told her
That she may well want to do nothing more.
He complimented her on the success of her struggle
"Up to now."
She'd fought the fight, had triumphed over the meager odds,
For a time.
She'd been a very good patient.

He even bent forward to embrace her,
As she thanked him for his efforts.
Within minutes, he would be walking down the hallway,
Talking about last night's game
With one of the living.

The Next Day

The day after that terrible day,
When even last hopes were all but gone,
The day after was ever harder
When that slimmest shred of hope
Had been blasted forcefully away.
Still later the frantic and despairing plea
To be carried to that place of dread,
That terminal of last frenzied hope
Still seeking the coldest and most remote avenue of help.
But all roads now were closed, all doors were shut
Against the spirit that could only utter, "Why?"

The News Today

I think I'll wear my bedazzled sweater to a gay wedding, then throw on a rumpled trenchcoat and take in a mobster arraignment in Boston. What else is there?

Last Thoughts

THEY'RE TELLING ME

"I'm afaid," says one,"I don't know how I'll live without her."
"I miss her so," says the other. "I don't want to live without her."
And I
Who remember her birth, who with her received our First Holy Communion, made our Confirmation, graduated from high school and college in the same class,walked down the aisle as each others' bridesmaids, who grieved with her as we buried our parents, who welcomed her as godmother to my first child and was privileged to share my children's love with her, and who sat with her as she learned what first was ominous and later devastating,
Now I,
who never envied her beauty and her incredible hair, or her intelligence, or perseverance, or her joy of life, or her adventurous spirit,
I feel the grief of others as a barrier;
I feel somehow deprived.

Quote, unquote

A while ago, the lyrics of a song kept running through my head, so persistently that I googled possible causes. Best answer was that it is a defense mechanism to keep you from thinking of some dreaded reality. The song was "Hallelujah." Sounds religious, but I don't know what "They say that there's a god above, but all I've ever learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you," has to do with religion. Anyway, my inner voice has finally moved on from the plight of hearing about someone tied to the kitchen chair to thoughts of quotations, familiar or not. Now when I'm driving alone in my car, I hear: "Hey, Lenny, I just tried a new shampoo---want to feel how soft my hair is," and "Wow, Phinney, you were able to climb way up in that tree; now let's see if you can balance on that limb without hanging on to anything." Oh, well, nobody ever said love was a victory march, did they?

Verizon employees

In the last week or so, I've contacted quite a few Verizon employees who are cast in the role of Customer Service Representatives. I picture them as confined to a space to do their jobs, not unlike the galley rowers in the holds of those old ships, where they had to pull the oars in concert with their fellow captive workers. Verizon CSR's must speak in monotones, maintain inordinately long pauses between your query and their response, and never indicate that they could possibly be of help with your problem or question. They must excel at transferring your call to another department, and in the process of the call transfer, re-route you back to the main menu. The main menu then tells you there are too many calls to handle at whatever time you call, and suggest you try using the internet. If you persist and do reach a live person, the Verizon rep is to tell you that you've been transferred to the wrong department again, and then transfer you to another rep. If the customer pleads to talk with a live person, the Verizon rep is to agree to do so, but then transfer the customer back to the recording yet again. The good employee will, if pressed, say that a supervisor will call the customer back, and give a pre-set madeup name, like Mr. Gray, who, being fictional, will never call the customer back. The representatives need to be able to reinforce company policy through repetition, and must never waver from what they are told to repeat, even if they don't understand what policy is being reinforced. The rep may appear to be angry, arrogant, impatient, or adopt any other tone, as long as they never imply the customer is going to be helped. The ideal Customer Service Representative must above all discourage callers: Act angry, as if you hate your job, seem to be underpaid, appear to be suffering from cramps or the flu. Above all, do anything to discourage people from making those annoying calls. Let them know nobody wants to answer that @%^#* phone@

Early spring

As I sit here, I think of nothing and everything, and hold imaginary conversations. I had a funny kind of dream last night, which included scenes from our old chicken yard, the Schroder Schnauzers, a cocker spaniel, Matt Lauer, an aerial ride, massages, and a sense of my rising far from my body. I could fill in the details, but who would care? People get annoyed if they think you are keeping something from them, but not nearly as annoyed as when you try to tell them about something. Being in need has no power or attraction. Beverly Sills said she was a cheerful person, but not a happy person because she'd had too many sorrows in her life. So that's how she's remembered---as being cheerful.

Parting fractions

When my sister was a young teen, she and her friend would sit on our porch til late at night in the summertime. Sara's store closed at 10:00 p.m., and she turned off the outside light at that time. Sometimes Dorothy and Sandy would sit out on the darkened porch for a while after that. Then it was time for Sandy to go home and Dorothy would walk her home, which was five houses down River Road. When the two arrived at Sandy's house, Sandy would walk Dorothy home. Laughing all the way. When they reached our house, Dorothy would offer to walk Sandy half way home, and then Sandy would walk Dorothy half way back to her house. And so on. When they got to the point where the fractions of walking each other home were too hard for them to figure out at what point each should turn back, the earlier giggling had progressed to hysterical laughter. My father, upstairs by then, was perplexed and vaguely disapproving of 2 young girls laughing out loud on the street after dark. Such a sad thing to be chided for laughter when soon enough that spontaneous joy and friendship of youth is destined not to be lasting anyway.

Tactile

I have one of those vivid memories. I'm about 7 years old and have become the owner of a pair of Bantams, Dick and Polly. A proud owner, because my mother gave them to me; I understood she wanted me to love them and I truly did. We would come home from school for lunch in those days, and in that first year of the chickens, I would eat my lunch as fast as possible and run out to my chickens where their coop opened onto a fenced yard. I would climb up onto the flat roof of their coop and lie on it to watch the bantams, fascinated by the way that Dick would find something on the ground and call Polly over to eat it. There were giant sunflowers planted around the coop, and the huge heads would hang over me as I lay on top of the roof, supplying shade if the day was hot. Girls wore dresses to school back then, and I remember pulling the skirt down to shield my knees from the roughness of the sanded tarpaper roof. I don't remember anyone else being there with me. My brother and sister would have been home from school at the same time: I suppose they were busy forming their own memories. It seemed that time was endless,and of course that was wrong because lunch time could not have been very long. It seemed like heaven and that may have been right because I don't think I've ever been any closer than that.

The Mare's Nest

If you found a nest made by a mare, that would be a terrific discovery. Mares, however, don't make nests, so therefore there is no such thing as a terrific discovery. In Logic 101, that's a false corollary or misleading assumption or some such term. And if you THINK you've found a mare's nest, you're completely wrong, and what you've come upon is a twisted, confusing utter mess.

Death Be Not

After the doctor told her , as kindly he could, that she was going to die, she asked him how it would happen. You'll most likely just get more and more tired, he said, sleep more, and gradually ease away. He was so very wrong. Either he was continuing his kindness by deliberately misleading her, or else he didn't know. Doctors don't sit at the bedsides of their dying patients, do they?

Love-hate relationship

You would think you couldn't have a love-hate relationship with someone you don't really know, but I'm here to tell you that yes it can happen. It's like quicksand. You don't know what you're getting into, and by the time you realize that you're in danger, it's too late.

Did I lay dying?

I woke up this morning, or almost so, and my first thought was to wonder if I was still alive or if I had died. I managed to open my eyes, moved my arms and legs, and got out of bed. I'm alive.

Fear

I am very frightened of 2 things---wait, make that 3.

Crystal ball

"I can't even guess what the price of fuel oil will be this season," says the fuel oil seller, "I don't have a crystal ball." "I can't tell you whether your portfolio will grow," says the investment manager, "because I don't have a crystal ball." "I can't say for certain if the chemotherapy regimen will be effective at this point in your treatment," warns the oncologist, "since I can't look in a crystal ball." "I'm sorry to say," says the hospice chaplin, "that I don't know how long the dying process is likely to take, because I don't have a crystal ball." Would a crystal ball really help to answer any of these questions, and if so, why not acquire one? I see crystal balls advertised in various catalogs and at garden stores. They're not very expensive either.

Little Rabbit

"Help me, Help me, Help me he said,
Or the hunter will shoot me dead."
Go ahead:shoot.

An ass on purpose.

Why is it that some Jeopardy contestants deliberately sound bored? "WHAT is a toucan?" they'll ask, stressing the first word and looking as if they are insulted by the simplicity of the question. Don't they know that makes people hate them? We as viewers look at a person we never saw or will never meet, and form an opinion as to whether or not we like them. So very unscientific, but I can't help thinking that such a passing impression would probably hold true in actual life. After all, who wants to be friends with a pompous ass?

A gift, eh? Damn options!

Today I signed up with Verizon, (long story as to why.) The package for phone, cable and internet was $99.99. But wait, I have options. I can choose a $200 gift card to be spent anywhere or I have the option of having an additional $200 of services. The cost is $109.99. But wait, isn't that an additional $10.00? And for what? It sounds crazy, but I do not want any options.

Yet more options

Why don't they say, "You have the option to remain silent"? Because you could talk if you wanted to. Since you would have the right to talk, shouldn't you be read that right also? Do rights trump options, and if so, all the ground should be covered.
What to do, what to do? I have 3 options regarding my rental car. I can (1) just surrender it, and they will tow it to auction, over and done, (2) I can continue the lease, (3) I can buy it now. I bet the now price is prohibitive. I just love options. I think that Option would be a good name for a child, that or Leander. I fancy myself to succeed Andy Rooney.

Trivia or Truvia

How many know that the shortest chapter in "As I Lay Dying" is "My mother is a fish"? How about that stream-of-consciousness anyway?

Avishidi

A capital ship for an ocean trip was the walloping window blind.
Avishidi before I wake.
Dinah Shore is too magasaw.

Well, that was inevitable

If I had the power to apply the Inevitable Discovery Doctrine to my circumstance, I would be the most successful person on earth. Inevitably.

QED

The doctor says you have 3 options: "Option #1 will do more harm than good, and is far too risky to implement. Option #2 carries less risk but will probably not help at all, and at best any help would be insignificant. Option #3 is to do nothing." So, you have a choice and a voice; which option do you pick?

The Lottery Redux

There is a sign up at the elementary school near where I live. The school is accepting applications for a pre-kindergarten class for the coming school year. However, since more applicants than positions seem likely, the accepted candidates are to be chosen by lottery. This is not an easy task since there are places for only 35 children, and 42 have already applied. As I understand it, there will be 42 stones in a grab bag. The numbers 1 to 35 have been painted on some of the stones and 7 of the stones will be unmarked. Each child will draw a stone out of the bag and if they have a number from 1 to 35, they will be accepted into the class. The 7 (or maybe more) children who have blank stones will not be accepted into the class. Since they are excess children, and therefore rejected by the educatonal system, they will be dealt with expediently. The children with unmarked stones must return them to the bag. The 35 children who drew the lucky numbered stones are to cast their lucky stones at the unwanted children until they are no longer a threat. Other solutions have been suggested, but this time honored method has met with the most approval so far.