Don't whine. Advice from the chronic malcontent: Get busy

Today as I was slicing a bulbous slippery yam, the knife slipped and chopped down on my left pinky. Afraid to look, I wrapped a wad of paper towel around my finger, gripped it hard, and did a little dance of pain. I had visions of the decision in front of me . . . would I prefer to lose the tip of my finger or would I prefer to pay the cost of going to the doctor? Hmmm. Finger . . . money. . . So hard to decide. For a few more months, I think, I still have health insurance, unless the Republicans figure out how to get along. Luckily, two band-aids did the trick, and now I'm typing, woohoo, look at me go. Dodged that bullet. Knife. Whatever.

Do you worry about losing your health insurance? At first I was worried, but now I am resigned. Soon my health insurance plan will be once again don't get sick and be careful with knives. I remember surviving years with no health insurance, with just the L.A. Free Clinic as my medical provider. Of course, I was a lot younger then.

The reservoirs at Mt. Tabor Park are full of water. The wind comes from the west and ripples the surface, reflecting the sky. We haven't had rain in over a month. Two nights ago, as the sun was setting, I was striding around the reservoir, enjoying the cool air. Suddenly I spotted a duck marching along the path ahead, followed by a brood (paddle? army? platoon?) of five barely fuzzy ducklings, trucking along in the gloaming, looking for a way to get down to the water. Runners and walkers went by, barely noticing the duck as she marched in a zigzag pattern toward me. Whenever she stopped, her kids would plop down on their fuzzy butts, hunkering until Mom started moving again. I didn't move, and she waddled right by me. She looked like any young mother with five infants: thin and frazzled.

As I was walking along the park trail last night, I had a disconcerting thought: I have passed my peak. My prime has come and gone. My best years are most likely behind me. If I was ever going to succeed, it most likely would have happened in my 40s. If I was going to be a great painter, a great writer, it would probably have happened by now. I don't have the energy to feel bad about it. Now I'm 60, and I no longer care about things like career, ambition, making a difference. I just want to survive until I can start taking social security. If there will be such a thing when I'm 62.

Like many cities in this new bizarre era, Portland is having a housing shortage. Decrepit motor homes and campers line many city streets. Tent cities mushroom around freeway interchanges. Residents are furious. Some houseless people aren't good neighbors, apparently. At the behest of irate taxpayers, city officials are passing laws prohibiting camping, parking, sleeping on sidewalks. Where are these people supposed to go? I feel like I'm about three months away from living in my car. I can't move into my mother's spare bedroom anymore. The sale of her condo is pending.

I've decided to stop dreaming of my future after I move to some hot, dry desert town. It's making me crazy to imagine moving but not be able to take much concrete action. While I am slowly downsizing, I am trying to enjoy my mother while I can. It has to be enough, to just be here now. That is how she is living these days, fully immersed in the moment. I call her the Zen Master.

I feel like I'm holding my breath. I'm waiting for the signal that tells me it's time for a change. Meanwhile, I'm in a slowly degrading holding pattern. My resources are draining out of my leaky life, drip drip drip.

Well, the good news is, I don't have to care about anything. I don't have to believe in anything. I just have to show up, one day at a time, and do the work. Time to get busy.

Nothing left to lose

Yesterday as I was watering the wilting mini-roses at my mother's condo garden, I thought about how I would like to die, if I have a choice. Not too many people get to choose the time and place of their demise. I doubt I'll be the exception. Still, it doesn't hurt to set some parameters. For instance, if I knew I would end up in a nursing home where there's no Internet and nothing but gummy string beans to eat with my parboiled chicken, I would definitely opt out.

My mother isn't dead, but wishes she were. “I'm no use to anyone,” she said. “I don't know why I'm still alive. I'd rather be dead.”

I have mixed reactions when she says things like that. My inner two-year-old wants to scream, No, you can't die! Who will take care of me? My terrified inner demon wants to find the nearest cliff to shove her over (the longer she lives, the less money she'll leave behind). My inner adult wants to treasure every precious moment with my scrawny maternal parental unit. I could be wrong, but I sense she is winding down toward the end. I try not to think about it. I don't want to feel my grief yet.

It's strange to watch her decay. The river of life was carrying her along, and she was staying afloat, more or less, until about six months ago. She knew her mind was eroding; hence, the move to the retirement center in early April. In the past few months, she's grown increasingly fragile, like a little boat made of twigs and sticks. The current is moving as fast as ever, but her vintage craft is listing and taking on water, coming apart at the seams. It's her brain, mostly, that is disintegrating, although her body is weakening too.

She may yet surprise me. Somehow despite intermittent uncontrollable diarrhea attacks, she's managed to gain two pounds since she moved into the retirement center. I don't know where she put them, she's as skinny as ever. We are all applauding her, clapping her on the back (gently), congratulating her achievement. (I wish people would do that for me.) It is pretty great that she's gained some weight. But at what cost, I wonder? No dairy, no wheat, no coffee, no orange juice... no cherry pie. No wonder she feels like life is not worth living.

Tonight I met my brother over at her apartment to meet with the real estate agent and go over the two offers that came in on my mother's condo. I know nothing about real estate, but I managed to glean some knowledge after Googling prepaids, reserves, and closing costs. I don't think the real estate agent knows much more than I do. My brother bought a house about twenty years ago, so I consider him the expert. My mother's formerly extensive knowledge has gone to that great landfill in the sky. She sat passively on the end of the couch while the real estate agent, my brother, and I discussed the merits of the two offers.

I hope the Universe treats my mother gently as she goes down with her ship. That is what I want for me. I don't have the funds to move into a fancy place like Mom's retirement home. I doubt if Medicaid will be there for me should I need it. So my alternative is to die in place, wherever that may be. Apartment, motorhome, sidewalk, park bench. I will attempt to make sure my footprint is super small and easy to toss in the trash for whoever finds me, if I haven't lost all my marbles before then.