The chronic malcontent reads a book

I would prefer to exist in the realm of the intellect, eschewing all things physical. I don't like remembering I have a body to inhabit and tend. My response to the dilemma of being a biological creature on the physical plane is to either ignore it by sleeping or overeating, or by running at my physicality with a sharp stick—in other words, revel in it by scratching, picking, poking, farting, and belching. To name a few. I won't say my response is logical, except that I can be counted on to ignore the happy moderate medium in favor of the two extremes. In other words, I'm either fully present or fully absent.

I video chat with my sister once a week. She's in France. Her evening is my morning. The Internet connection usually isn't great, but it's good enough that she can see me scratching and picking. Living alone, I'm generally unaware of my fidgeting, but my sister kindly brings it to my attention in order to reform my behavior. I assume it is because she knows someday we will be roommates. I imagine she's hoping by the time we are in our eighties, she will have trained me to sit still.

My sister would be at home at Downton Abbey. I am pretty sure she doesn't wear a corset, but I must say, she's got the posture and demeanor down pat. She's naturally poised. Maybe that comes from being born a blonde with perfect teeth. She's probably never had a dandruff flake in her life.

I on the other hand, would be at home in a cave. Maybe I would have a plank floor, but I probably wouldn't worry too much about housekeeping or hygiene. I mean, I do the basics. I do bathe and brush my teeth. Occasionally I look in a mirror. I don't do a lot of grooming, though, about on the order of how often I vacuum my rugs, which is to say, not often.

Yesterday I took our maternal parental unit to the dermatologist to get some cancer scraped off her forehead. Having learned from our previous visit, I came prepared with the hazmat bag of gloves, wipes, pull-ups, extra pants and socks, toilet paper, and paper towels. This time I brought my own plastic bags so I wouldn't leave a toxic mess in their restroom trash can. (I still feel chagrined at that.)

Luck favors the prepared. We only had to make one trip to the restroom. Everything got wiped up and neatly bagged. Mom endured the restroom operation and the skin cancer operation with good cheer. The dermatologist told jokes as he sewed up her forehead. We were on our way in an hour. I couldn't  have asked for a better outcome. And luckily for my sister, I've nothing gross and messy to report. She hates blog posts with certain words (e.g., poop, diarrhea, bwa-ha-ha).

The best part of the long afternoon for me was reading to my mother while we waited for the doctor. Anticipating boredom, I brought a paperback version of Bunchy, a book we both knew from our childhoods. Joyce Lankester Brisley wrote Bunchy in 1937. As a small child, I enhanced Mom's original copy with crayons. Some years ago, I bought a 2005 paperback edition and saved it from the many Love Shack book purges of the past ten years. It's a book about my three favorite things: imagination, creativity, and magic.

“You want to hear some of Bunchy?” I asked, holding up the book. Her eyes lit up.

“Might as well,” she replied, which I know means “yes.”

In my screensaver rotation, I have a black and white photo of us kids clustered around Mom on the couch as she reads Clare Turlay Newberry's April's Kittens. It was October 1961. Mom wears cat eye glasses. My older brother, my sister, and I, all in pajamas, lean in close. My little brother is not pictured. I imagine he's in a bassinet off camera. I assume Dad took the picture, although it could have been Grandma. Mom is reading with a serious expression. Only my sister looks at the camera.

Mom can't read much anymore, but she loved books, and she transferred her love of books to her two daughters. My sister studies medieval manuscripts and books—she's an expert in the field. Me, I love making marks on paper. Even though I do most of my writing on the computer, writing and drawing on paper is my idea of heaven.

I sat in the visitor chair in the dermatologist's exam room with the bag of gear close to hand. Mom perched on the exam table with her feet propped up a bit on a part of the table that could be raised and lowered. I began reading about Bunchy's adventure with the pastry-dough people, holding up the book occasionally to show her the illustrations. Outside the sky was blue with the promise of spring.

Not quite over it, thanks for asking

Life goes on. I'm adapting to living life alone, just me in the Love Shack, bouncing from project to project, moment to moment. Now that I don't have to worry about disturbing a slumbering cat, I've vacuumed more in the last week than I have in the previous year. I can rearrange the furniture. I can pound on things. I can play loud music. I admit, it is nice not scooping poop or sweeping up cat litter. Once I've absorbed the cost of Eddie's demise, I predict I'm going to save a lot of money at the grocery store.

It's been just over a month. I'm not quite over it. That horrible it I'd rather not think about. I divide life into BDE and ADE (Before the death of Eddie and After the death of Eddie). I'm still sleeping with the rice-filled cat pillow. I find it comforting. However, you may be relieved to hear, the grief is lifting. Seeing BDE photos of Eddie and me on my screensaver is becoming less of a stab through the heart.

I used to be such a pot-stirrer, a brazen risk-taker, a leaper into abysses. I was always ready to move on . . . new city, new job, new relationship, one little hiccup and I was packed and gone. Old age has tempered my willingness to explore the unknown. I don't like change now, I realize. When my perception is that I'm hanging on to sanity by a thin thread, change can look a lot like a sharp pair of scissors. Change happens; I know I'm not immune. For instance, losing my mother will be a drastic change. I've wondered if my intense reaction to losing Eddie has been heightened by the slow grinding demise of my mother. She's dying in slow motion. I'm grieving in slow motion. I don't know. I don't live with my mother. Eddie and I were roommates for thirteen years. You get used to something after thirteen years. When it's gone, you miss it, even if it's a cat. I'd miss a ham sandwich if I lived with it for thirteen years.

When I realize most of my life is behind me, what used to seem important no longer interests me. I continue the process of jettisoning stuff from the Love Shack. I'm like a rocket burning off its boosters as it launches into the stratosphere. Why did I think I needed all this stuff? The books and DVDs are almost all gone now, donated to the library. My wardrobe is in tatters; if I ever move to warmer climes, I will consider replacing some clothes, but really, how much does one person need, especially considering the unpleasant consequences of unbridled consumption?

Well, let's be realistic. I guess I'm not ready to let go of everything. I'd miss my bathtub, if I didn't have one. And my coffee maker, can't live without that. I wouldn't miss my television but I'd probably stroke out if I had to go without my computer. So there's that. I still eat food I buy in stores, so I won't be foraging in the fields or making campfires in the near future. I wouldn't call what I do cooking, but I do heat food before I eat it. Although if the big one hits, we may all be pooping in holes and cooking mush over fires made from our broken furniture. Well, I'll help my neighbors in any way I can, if I can extricate myself from the wreckage of the basement.

At least my cat won't have to go through that trauma. A strange kind of blessing, to count up all the terrible things he has avoided by dying. That may someday be my strategy, when dementia scrapes away the rest of my functioning neurons. I hope I'll have a few brain cells left to help me make my escape when it's time to exit, stage right.