The unicorn head is somewhat worse for wear but still grinning

Yesterday I braved impending wind and rain to slog around the reservoir. It wasn't terribly cold; I had no good excuse to stay home except the gray clouds piling up in the sky. As I scurried around the half-mile track, I noticed the north cell of Reservoir No. 6 had been drained for cleaning. A layer of mud coated the bottom, and crows and ducks were digging for tasty tidbits in the muck. In my typical oblivious fashion, though, I failed to notice the item lying on the mud in one far corner of the reservoir. Yep, it was my old friend, the severed unicorn head.

I wrote about this remarkable object last January. Back then, I posted a photo of the creepy thing on my Facebook page. The next time I walked around the reservoir, the plastic head was gone; I assumed some vigilant park ranger had managed to snag the head and drag it out of the water. Apparently that is giving too much credit to our over-burdened park budget. Now it is clear the head filled with water and sank, bobbed along the bottom over the ensuing months, and fetched up in the mud, still grinning. I posted another photo of it to document the event, more evidence that plastic does not decay, even when shaped like a unicorn head.

I relate to that unicorn head in the sense that I am feeling somewhat worse for wear but still grinning. Despite the cold wet spring, despite the lack of editing jobs, despite my mother's continued decline into dementia, I continue to show up for my life. I won't say I do it skillfully and some parts aren't pretty, but I haven't given up, even though sometimes I feel buried in mud to my chin.

I've started visiting the maternal parental unit every evening. I never know what I will find. Last week she was sitting outside when I arrived. She knew me, but not how she planned to get back into the building, considering the door gets locked at 5 pm. This week I found her in the hall. Some of her less demented peers were trying to help her figure out something. Mom was missing her upper dentures. Have you seen a loved one with no teeth? She certainly looked different. I found myself thinking of Granny Clampett and later realized I was humming the Beverly Hillbillies theme song.

Mom has lost seven pounds in five months. Now she weighs the same she weighed when she moved to the place one year ago: 96 pounds. Apparently weight loss can change the fit of a person's dentures. I made an appointment to take her to the dentist.

Mom had a successful trip to the dentist to get the upper plate realigned. By successful I mean she had no accidents and didn't die in the chair. The dentist prescribed a saline rinse twice a day. When I visited Mom the next day, I found a cup of salt on her counter. She pointed to it. “Someone left that here,” she said. I looked at it and figured out it was salt. It seemed clear to me at that point that the staff at the care center assumed Mom was capable of measuring half a teaspoon of salt into warm water, taking out her upper dentures, rinsing her mouth several times, and spitting out the salty water in the sink. Well, you know what happens when we assume.

We managed a partial rinse, and another one last night, before I called it good on the saline rinse. When I asked her, “Does your mouth hurt now?” she said no. I left the salt on the counter, though. Argh. I should not have done that.

Last night we sat outside, her smoking and me trying to dodge the smoke. I noticed she wasn't wearing socks. She didn't seem to care. She was more concerned that her cigarette holder was almost empty. When she was done smoking, I called for someone to let us back into the building. We made it back to her room. I got her some socks, which she managed to put on successfully. She couldn't figure out how to refill her cigarette holder. For the first time in my life, I opened a pack of cigarettes.  I was surprised to see those packs hold a lot of cigarettes.

As we were sitting on the couch, Mom pointed to the little box on the coffee table that her hearing aids came in. “What about that?” she said. The box was empty. I looked at her ears. No hearing aids. Yipes. I went over to her bedside table. Yep, there they were. Whew. $4,600 worth of electronics. I helped her put them in, silently berating myself for not noticing their absence.

I walked her through the process of sitting on the couch, taking off her shoes, putting her feet up, and covering herself with blanket. “What do I do now?” she said, looking up at me.

For a moment I was at a loss. Then I thought, what would I tell a two-year-old?

“Watch TV. Sleep if you can. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Last night I took a bath to relax before bed. Suddenly my right ear began to ring with a shrill tone. It didn't stop. My head felt lopsided. I was half-deaf in my right ear. With visions of urgent care in my mind, I squirted some nasal spray up my nose and went to bed, hoping for the best. Sometime during the night my ear cleared. I woke grateful to feel my old friend vertigo (three year anniversary this month) rush in to challenge my morning balance. Here's me, still grinning.

The Chronic Malcontent jumps a little

My sister has been challenging me since she first appeared on the scene as a rival to my position as the only girl in the family hierarchy. I was not quite two when she showed up, this blonde squalling red-faced thing, so I hadn't had a lot of time to consolidate my power. I've been struggling to keep up with her ever since. This week my sister challenged me to do the 7-minute exercise regimen she found on the internet. Well, she didn't come right out and say, hey, you fat slob, you should do this. She coyly remarked that she had tried it twice. That was all I needed to galvanize my shaky legs into action.

In this routine, you do 30 seconds of about 10 exercises—pushups, curlups, planks, jumping jacks, and some other stuff—all in seven minutes. First, jumping jacks to warm up. I managed 30 jumping jacks successfully without falling over or crashing into anything. The second exercise was the "wall sit," where you put your back against the wall and "sit" against it. I held it for about five seconds before my legs gave out and I ended up on the floor. After it took me 30 more seconds to get up, I realized I might not be ready for this particular exercise routine.

Exercise is not my favorite pastime. I'm not naturally thin. Food is my drug of choice. To my perplexity, my sister has always been slender and feminine. While I played softball and volleyball, she learned ballet and figure skating. As I got my hands and clothes dirty with paint, she studied painters and paintings and learned how to handle artifacts with fastidious care. I have photos of her wearing white cotton gloves while holding a framed painting of some saint or monk or duke. I was the dirty, mud-covered female in the family. She was the refined child—who (I'm gleeful to report) still cringes when I swear.

Our usual challenge involves writing. My sister is a prolific writer, although she might not agree. She just delivered her second book to her publisher, a year-long labor about something to do with medieval books. I helped her choose the cover design but I can't remember the title. Her audience is small—maybe a handful of libraries and world-class scholars. Not surprising, she will make little to no money for her efforts. But did I mention, published!?

My writing projects are all over the map. I need multiple pen names to encompass my diverse interests, few of which ever reach daylight. It's safer to keep them hidden in the dark.

Speaking of writing, I rarely blog anymore. I can't find my words. Interesting events happen, interesting people cross my path, but I don't write down the stories, and they fall away into the past. My memories are mostly dust. Yesterday's memories are already crumbling. As I wait for the next phase of my life to begin, my brain is processing my experience in a new way, the way an engine processes gasoline that has some water in it. That is to say, not well. Stuttering, stumbling, confused, apprehensive. Day by day, I resemble my mother, in thought and in appearance. Except I'm three times her size and still allowed to drive.

Recently I spent a few hours scanning some family photos and negatives. Pictures of relatives, far away in space and time. Lots of photos of my mother as a child, a teen, a young adult. She looked like a happy child, a contented teenager. She went on outings with her friends, to the beach, to the mountain. She went camping with her family, slept in a canvas tent, rode horses, caught fish. I suspect she would have been happier not to have been burdened with four children in six years. I have tried to compile a book of blogposts about her, but I was stymied when I got to the ending. I mean, I know what the ending will be but I'm not ready to write it.

Speaking of endings, Mom just received a clean bill of health from the nurse practitioner who comes out from the insurance company for an annual house call visit. For an 88-year-old smoker with moderate dementia, Mom is in great shape. Her heart is strong, her kidneys are pumping. She coughs like a demon but her lungs are clear. She could live a long time. At this rate, it is likely she will outlast me. Especially if I don't exercise once in a while. Guess I'd better get back to jumping jacks. Some action is better than no action.