The risk of living

When I was a young adult, I dressed to be noticed. Being in the garment industry, I felt I had a professional obligation to experiment with norms of decency. I could design and sew just about anything, and I did. Appearance was everything. The goal was to shock and provoke.

In the late 1970s, I made strapless blouson dresses of gaily flowered cheap poly-cotton, accessorized with chunky beads and a crown of pigeon feathers. I let my artist friend draw circles of purple, white, and black makeup around my eyes and on my cheeks. The outcome was a weird white-girl interpretation of a generic African native dance ensemble. My best audience seemed to be old men at bus stops, who indicated their approval by . . . you know, letting it all hang out. My friend and I rode the bus to dance clubs, so we saw our share of weirdos. We fit right in.

In the early 1980s, jumpsuits made of vinyl with shoulders the size of small turkeys were my favorite for going out. Back then, I was about twenty pounds overweight; thus, I believed the wide shoulders made my waist look smaller. I didn't have money for nice fabric, opting instead for cheap vinyl, cotton chintz, and antique faded rayon crepe excavated from the attic of the fabric store that employed me for $4.75 an hour. With my spiky hennaed hair, I was quite a sight.

Gradually, over time, a few run-ins with crazies motivated me to shift my attitudes about attracting attention. I began to think it might be safer to be invisible. Age did the rest. Now I can go just about anywhere, at least in this white part of America, and be unnoticed. I have grown to prefer anonymity, except when I'm trying to get service at Best Buy or Target.

These days, I pray to outlive my mother. I am well aware that leaving the house is risky. I could slip and die in the tub, I know, but my chances of survival decrease the moment I walk out the door. To avoid incurring the wrath of other drivers, I drive carefully and courteously. I admit I sometimes drive too slowly, and that behavior on occasion has inspired people to honk and speed around me. So far no one has pulled a gun and taken a shot as they roar by, but I am aware it could happen. Hey, guys, I drive an old Focus. It has a top speed of 35 mph.

Getting out of my car in a parking area makes me a target. To avoid attracting negative attention and possibly tipping a passerby into a rage, I paste an inane smile on my face. I dress in shapeless unremarkable clothes. I have no bumper stickers on my car. I try to look harmless. I hope to be invisible. I don't want any random psycho to see me as a threat. I probably look like a nut myself, grinning and talking to myself. If you must know, I'm praying. My prayers are along the lines of please don't let me hurt anyone today and grant me the serenity. You know the rest. This is how I remain calm.

After the sad events of the past weeks, well, really of the past few years, well, really of the entire history of America, I realize I am always walking the moment between life and death. A stray bullet, a wildly swung blade, or a curb-jumping SUV could take me out in a few seconds. I could be a random victim, I could be a target. Wrong place, wrong time. Just another casualty of western civilization. It's not that I want to die. It comes when it comes. I just don't want my family to experience the grief and inconvenience of losing me. Mom would have a harder time getting her gluten-free cookies and cashew milk ice cream.

Last Friday evening I caught the tail end of a documentary on the 1966 Clocktower shooting. Reeling from the recent mass shootings, I found this show both riveting and horrifying. Oddly enough, I have compassion for people who come to believe the only way out of their misery is to take others out with them. From a certain perspective, their actions make sense. They aren't insane. They may have lost touch with the reality we all sort of pretend to agree on, but they aren't nuts. They are hurting.

Fear drives us to see the other as an enemy. Fear drives us to elect leaders who say they can keep us safe from people who don't look and think like us. I doubt if there is much hope for the human species if we don't figure out that love is the only path to peace. It's deliciously ironic though, that our effects on the climate will take us out before we can spread our madness outward into the universe. Maybe there is a god.

I can't leave it there, I suppose. Please don't text me to find out if I'm okay. You know I use this blog as a vehicle to express my feelings. Once expressed, they often dissipate. So weird how that works. Anyway, now that my fears are on the page, I can continue on with my day. For example, I washed some clothes this morning while I was cooking breakfast (multitasking, look at me go!). My next action item is to design a new course to help artists figure out . . . stuff. I don't know. I'm an artist: I haven't figured it out. But I will by end of day, I promise.

I don't subscribe to the idea that life is so precious, I should focus on sucking from it every drop of pleasure. I don't know what the purpose of my life is, but I don't think the end goal is just to be happy. I'd be thrilled if I could unravel the mystery of disappearing socks before I die. Happiness is dandy, but the real challenge is bringing more love and less fear with me as I go about the job of living. What do you do to bring more love and less fear into the world?

Eighty thousand words in thirty days

Next Saturday is my mother's ninetieth birthday. Family is coming. The weather should be good. Not hot, not humid. (I feel for my sister, who is sweltering in Boston right now.) We don't have anything big planned. Mom can't handle a crowd. One balloon, one bunch of flowers, one cupcake, one candle. One or two people at a time. We don't want to disrupt her routine, which is all she has left, besides her television.

M.A.S.H. isn't on on Saturdays so we typically switch between Fixer Upper and the Three Stooges. She laughs at Curly, Moe, and Larry. She can't understand the plots but she understands the slaps, pokes, and punches. If my two brothers come to visit, we can all sit on the couch and marvel at the violence we kids grew up on. No wonder my older brother felt motivated to break my nose once in a while.

On the maternal parental unit front, Mom continues to deteriorate. It's a slow crumbling of mind and body. She's still talking, but not as well. She's still walking, but with more difficulty. She's not walking me to the back door anymore, but she's still walking herself to meals. Sometimes (they tell me), she has to interrupt her meal to hightail it back to her bathroom. Hightailing happens in slow motion, which means she often needs some clean-up assistance before she can come back to dinner. It's chronic and exhausting.

Speaking of clean-up, I'm cleaning the Love Shack. This endeavor happens only once a year when I have visitors (my sister). Today, I vacuumed the two lime green shag rugs in my front room. That shag really stands up and salutes when I run the vacuum cleaner over it. My sneezing fit has subsided, thanks for asking. I moved the cat litter box and scrubbed the bathroom floor. Within minutes after cleaning the box, the cat went in. When he came out, there was once again litter all over the floor. I washed a load of towels and cotton scatter rugs, scrubbed part of the kitchen floor (the white squares), and hunted down tumbleweeds (cat hair, dust, and detritus that coalesce into floating allergy bombs). My sister arrives tomorrow. I'm not ready.

I could have started cleaning sooner. However, as you might remember, I've been doing my own personal NANOWRIMO. I gave myself a timeline of thirty days. My goal was to write a 50,000-word novel. When I committed to doing this insane task, I estimated I would have to write 2,000 words per day. Yesterday was the thirtieth day. Today, I laid down my pen, metaphorically speaking. I don't actually write with a pen anymore. I used to when I was a kid, or pencil, too. I didn't care, as long as I could write. Anyway, I digress.

I'm pleased to report the results of my personal month of self-inflicted torture. Counting the chapter headings, a short blurb, and the title, I just barely exceeded 80,000 words. I now have a first draft of my novel. I wrote an average of 2,760 words per day. During the thirty days, I cooked, ate, slept, did my grocery shopping, visited my mother daily, and attended my weekly meetings, and in between, I wrote. I did bathe a few times, too, in case you were wondering, and I'm sure I did some laundry, although I have no recollection. I immersed myself in a world of fictional characters who now seem more real to me than many people I meet in real life.

It was the best thirty days I can remember. Better than ice cream. Better than sunshine. The best.

I don't know where it goes from here, but if I die tomorrow, I will die satisfied.

Happy Independence Day, if you can stand it

Happy Independence Day, blogbots. I hope your Fourth of July celebration is . . . celebratory. If that is what floats your boat. Laser shows, fireworks, rumbling tanks, sloppy BBQ ribs dripping with carcinogenic sauce . . . whatever works for you. May you enjoy your day. My little leaky boat is floated by peace, quiet, and solitude. I will be hunkered down in the Love Shack, helping my cat ride out the artillery barrage that will begin at dusk. To each her own.

My schedule for tomorrow is unusually busy. I have two entire things planned. I don't know how I will manage. In the morning, I plan to Wire with my sister, who is stateside in Boston. In the evening, I will visit my maternal parental unit, as I do daily at 6:15 pm. After that I would like to bury myself in the bathtub, but I have a self-imposed obligation to write 2,000 words per day. What's that, you say? Thanks for asking.

For the past couple weeks, I have been torturing myself with my own personal NANOWRIMO commitment. If you don't what that is, no fear. It stands for National Novel Writing Month. Officially, it happens every November. I tried it once, a few years ago. I did not reach the word count goal of 50,000. I am still working on that book; it's the book of blog posts about my mother. Unfinished. You are reading one more chapter right now. How cool is that.

In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert wrote, “When an idea thinks it has found somebody—say, you—who might be able to bring it into the world, the idea will pay you a visit. . . . This idea will not leave you alone until it has your fullest attention. And then, in a quiet moment, it will ask, ‘Do you want to work with me?’” (pp. 35-36).

An idea came to me in a dream. I had a choice: say yes or say no. I chose yes. Sorry, I can't tell you what it is about. I can tell you it is a novel. That is all I will say.

My self-imposed commitment is to write (at least) 50,000 words before my sister arrives on July 22. To achieve that goal, I have to write at least 2,000 words per day. I've been writing almost every day for two weeks. Today is Day 14. I have 28,000 words.  I will add, there's not much magic involved in flogging oneself to write 2,000 words per day. This is a classic case of stop whining and just do it.

I work better when the temperature is at least 80°F. It's 71°F and overcast. The sky is gray and gloomy. It's cold in the Love Shack, but I refuse to drag out the space heater. It's July, for garsh sake. Two days ago, we had a tornado a few miles away. Just a little bitty EF0, lasted only six minutes, only managed to go a mile. Tore up a bunch of trees and power lines. How endearing. Summer in Portland officially starts July 5. It can't get here soon enough. I'm so ready to be warm.

When I came strolling down the hall at the retirement place, Mom was still in the dining room, sitting alone at her table. I went in to see what was going on. She said she was late getting out of dinner because she had to run for the bathroom. I use the word run loosely. More like, shuffle along with the walker, squeezing her butt cheeks as she goes. Unsuccessfully, apparently. Luckily, a staff member was there to help clean her up and get her back to the dining room to finish her dinner. Everyone was sympathetic. The Med Aide patted her shoulder when she brought her a little cup of pills.

We watched Property Brothers. I made snide comments about people spending $1.2 million on a house. Mom said she didn't know what was going on. I get the feeling she loses a few more brain cells every time she gets stuck in the bathroom and can't figure out how to leave. Every day I shudder through about five minutes of hell, knowing for certain that I am going to end up just like her, but minus the helpful daughter.

She hasn't walked me to the back door at all this week. I left her sitting on the couch, watching MASH. Tomorrow is my sixteenth anniversary of moving to the Love Shack, the beginning of my personal independence. I dread the day I lose it and so I try to cherish every drop.

Those who can't . . . teach

I spent almost ten years teaching business and general education courses to reluctant, resistant, and recalcitrant adult learners, many of whom attended school only for the student loan money they lived on. I used my time as a teacher to learn the craft and earn the advanced degree I now regret pursuing. Teaching was fun. I relished the challenge of organizing my approach to communicate material that most students would briefly absorb then promptly forget. I strove to create handouts, worksheets, templates, rubrics, guidebooks, cartoons, board games, dice games, role-play games, whatever it took to jam information into their heads that would stick long enough for them to pass the finals and graduate. It wasn't easy. Students often slept in class. They texted and played Farmville. They cheated on tests. They ignored me. They didn't read the textbook or do the practice exams. Many of my blog posts from 2012 and 2013 are stories of my angst and frustration with students.

It's happened again. I am now officially a teacher. Recently I taught two sessions of a day-long class for artists who want to learn some business skills. This time the format was continuing education, which meant no tests, no lectures, no jamming and cramming, no grading. This time, my students were artists.

Artists are the greatest. I love artists, probably more than I love art. Art is great, but once it's on the wall, it is done, it's over. Artists carry an endearing combination of creative confidence and urgent desperation. They make art with faith and trust in their ability to enter the zone, the flow. They know exactly what that zone is and regally assume their right to enter it. However, when it comes to bringing their art into the world, to show it, to sell it, to price it, it's like half their brain has gone missing. They are lobotomized by the prospect of applying business tools to their creative lives. They can't find the balance between creating art and marketing art. It makes them insane, timid, angry, anxious, resentful, all in the course of one discussion about whether we should make the art we want and then find a market for it, or whether we should seek a market and then produce art for that market. Yowza!

The day was long, split in two by a leisurely lunch hour. The students were attentive and eager, until we reached the point in the discussion about including financial statements in the business plan. Then they all entered their own private hell. I know this from the student feedback forms I collected at the end of the class. What is it about artists and business? Oil and water is trite but apt.

At one point in the pricing discussion, after much debate about how to price a painting, one older woman said, “What about that thing that artists bring, our creativity, shouldn't that be added in, shouldn't we get something for that?”

“Because we're so special and unique, you mean?”

“Well, yes.”

“If you can convince your buyer of that, then yes,” I said. “If people want what you are selling and can afford it, they will pay for it. Your job is to persuade them that your painting is worth that extra premium.”

“Well, what if they don't want to pay for that special extra thing, the . . . muse?”

“Then you don't sell the painting.”

“But shouldn't they understand that artists are different from . . . I don't know, ditch diggers?”

“Do you mean, buyers should give you something extra just because you are an artist?”

I could see other people nodding. I could feel myself nodding. The story of my life.

“Boy, wouldn't that be great? To be recognized for our creativity and compensated for it?” I sighed. “Art buyers might buy your painting because they think you are special. But mainly they are concerned with their own needs and wants. How will that painting make them feel? How will having one of your paintings boost their self-esteem? You need to convince them that your work is worth whatever price you are charging.”

I could see they were still dissatisfied. Some part of their artistic souls still thought they should have what they want, when they want it. They didn't want to do any work to get it, beyond making the art. Making the art should be adequate. They thought recognition, wealth, and fame should be theirs by divine right, apparently, simply because they were the artist and the buyer was not.

Finding the balance between the practical brain and the creative brain is the quest of the serious artist. We know we have to play by certain rules to bring our art into the world—that is why these artists enrolled in my class. But they still couldn't help complaining about the unfairness of having to think about things like marketing and selling, financial statements and business licenses.

Oh poor us, poor artists, woe is us, alas, alackaday. For those of us who haven't figured it out, it's easy to retreat to the hothouse and wait for someone else to administer the fertilizer, preferably in the form of big checks with no restrictions. And for those of us who still haven't figured it and who have all but given up, there's always teaching.

From self-awareness to self-obsession in two seconds or less

Howdy blogbots. Has this ever happened to you? You are busy grappling with whatever issue confronts you, no time to think. Then you take a bio break and while you are sitting there, you let down your guard and the weight of your life suddenly falls upon your hunched shoulders. In the time it takes to blink and take in one breath, you realize your world appears to be imploding and you say oh God out loud, forgetting for a moment where you are. No? Hmm. Maybe it's just me.

Meditation aficionados wrestle willingly with self-awareness as a path toward self-forgetting. For me, self-awareness is the kick that plunges me into self-obsession. I would like to launch myself off the cliff of self-awareness, metaphorically speaking, and find myself floating in serene detachment above the fray of my humanness. Self-forgetting sounds like heaven. Maybe it is, I don't know, I haven't been there. I'm not even sure such a place exists, but whatever.

Taking bathroom moments to reflect for me is dangerous. Washing dishes is another mind trap. My hands are occupied, leaving my mind free to roam. Roaming is not relaxing. Roaming is an invitation to reflect (self-awareness) and judge (self-obsession). What am I judging? Thanks for asking. Myself. You. The world and all its inhabitants. Life. Time and space. My mother and her slow demise.

The oh God moment emerges from a bone-deep certainty that everything is moments away from screeching to a halt. As if I knew the timing of the destruction of everything. Ha. There's an example of self-obsession for you. Everything is (probably) not imploding today. Therefore, my problem is my fear that everything is imploding.

Moreover, my fear of imminent implosion really applies to me, not so much to you, sorry. Of course, I would be sad if you imploded, but what I really care about is how implosion would affect me. What pain and suffering would I experience during said implosion? Oh, alas, alackaday. Poor me.

In movies, there's a moment sometimes when you can see the hero reach an emotional resolution. It's evident in the relaxation of the shoulders, a deep gaze, a nod, indicating an acceptance, a surrender to a new normal. Maybe there is a change of circumstance, a loss of something dear . . . the music swells, the montage fades to serenity, roll credits.

I have those moments sometimes: A sense of resignation and acceptance, a calm surrender to the strange limbo of my interrupted life. For a breath, I feel relief. Then I realize nothing has changed. She's still slowly dying, this could take years, and my life is not my own.

Life is not a movie. In my personal movie, the hero (me) goes home to her apartment and waits.

A few nights ago, Mom walked me to the back door after my visit. We perused the progress of two waist-high tomato plants planted in big clay pots. Someone had courageously planted one corn plant in another pot. Since then, Mom hasn't felt like walking much, not even when I told her the corn plant grew six inches overnight. I'm not keeping track of her decline, but my sense is that she's preferring her couch to walking about half the time now, when it used to be she would walk me to the door every evening. But it's not a linear decline; sometimes she surprises me with her alert conversation and peppy stride.

Death is gaslighting us both. Ha. There's my self-obsession again, making her death all about me. Her life really is imploding (in slow motion) but I'm the one choosing to suffer.

Rejection is a form of protection

In recognition of my need to increase my income, last week I applied to a local home improvement box store to work as a part-time merchandiser. In my previous blog post, I predicted I would not receive a response. In fact, a few days later, I received an email inviting me for further screening. Am I willing to work night shifts? Am I okay with working part-time? Am I okay with earning $13.00 per hour? Am I willing to take an on-the-spot drug test after the interview? Answering no to any of these questions means I would be disqualified, so of course I answered yes, thinking, if nothing else, it will be something to blog about. The final screen was a calendar inviting me to choose a day and time for the interview. I set the interview time for today at 11:00 am, a nice civilized hour, thinking it might be a while before I see such a civilized hour again.

As I closed the web page, I thought, all right! I made the first cut! Well, really the second cut, but who is counting. I immediately went into interview prep mode. What would they be likely to ask me? I pictured myself sitting across a desk, well, more likely a folding table in some dark corner in the off-stage storage warehouse. The traditional first interview question is Tell me about yourself.

I pictured myself saying, Well, I like to build things. In accordance with the adage of show don't tell, I decided to wow the interviewer (interviewers? Would it be a panel?) with some photos of things I have built over the past sixteen years with lumber purchased from their store. I took photos of the cat tree, my umpteen shelves, more shelves, and the aqua-topped table in the bathroom that shelters the cat box (strategically omitting the box itself, no easy feat). I artfully arranged the photos in a Word document and enhanced the color saturation of each one slightly to really make them pop on the page. I printed the photos on one double-sided sheet of card stock (to give it substance in the hand) and slipped it into a non-glare plastic sleeve left over from my teaching days.

Now, what should I wear? The interview instructions required “business casual.” I looked up the term on the Internet to make sure my idea of business casual conformed with current style. After perusing multiple websites aimed at much younger audiences, I realized I should focus on being myself. I wanted to be comfortable, not too casual, not too weird. And not too old. I dug out my black pinwale cords and, in a nod to current fashion, altered the flares out of the hems. I'd altered the waist and hips several years ago but after I lost a few pounds over the past year, the pants gape in the waist. It's hard to get pants to fit given my unique set of figure flaws, I mean, figure challenges. I planned to pull a long t-shirt over the waist and try to remember to suck in my gut. Once I was seated, my bulging tummy probably wouldn't show much if I sat up straight. Besides, I anticipated they would be too busy admiring my photo portfolio.

The unspoken elephant in the room would be my age. As I mentioned last week, the job application website would not allow employment dates older than 1993. Perhaps it was a web development error; maybe the prohibition was intentional. In any case, I knew that I would have to acknowledge openly that I am experienced. To appear younger, I decided to wear flat and perky white-laced gray tennis shoes.

Finally, I wondered, did I need to bring a resume? I reviewed my myriad resumes and CVs written over the past few years. All the jobs focused on teaching and academics. None of the jobs I listed were older than 1993. Hmmm. I started to add the art-supply sales job I held in 1985, thinking it might be relevant to this merchandising position. After looking at the date 1985 in black and white, I decided to print a copy of my current CV. It's two pages, focused on my short list of publications. I anticipated the interviewers might not care but at least I had something to show them if they asked for a resume. And maybe I could score some wow points for having a PhD. Maybe I would be the overly educated mascot of the merchandising team. Maybe they would call me Doc.

I got dressed and left the Love Shack in plenty of time. I drove to the box store and found a place in back to park in the shade (it's going to be 90°F today). I hiked across the parking lot to the mall entrance.

In the 1970s, my friends and I visited this mall often. I bought fabric at Discount Fabrics and many pairs of shoes at Thom McCanns. I bought a rayon print dress in 1975 at Casual Corner—I wore that dress once. I shopped at Montgomery Wards, White Front, and the Emporium and watched movies in the cineplex (multiple theaters in one location, how novel!).

Today, the mall air was refreshingly cool. A few mallwalkers strolled to the 60's musak. I walked around the corner toward the door into the home improvement store, noticing the fitness gym was still there but the bike store was gone. The one remaining food stand, a hotdog kiosk, was shuttered.

The door from the mall into the home improvement store opened as I approached. The overweight employee manning the register looked up from his phone and said “Welcome in,” the phrase recently adopted by my bank. Must be a customer service trend. I acknowledged his welcome, feeling self-conscious that I might soon be sharing an employee break room with this guy.

I shuffled through the store to the service desk and asked for the merchandising manager. In a few minutes, a burly young man with pink cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses appeared. We shook hands.

“Let me do a quick walk-through with you so you know what we do,” he said. He pointed to the display of patio furniture at the front of the store. “We organized that display a few days ago. It's looking a little . . . ” I didn't want to complete his sentence. I would have said frayed. Tatty. Disheveled. Neglected. Being highly educated means I can usually draw from a deep repertoire of adjectives. Perhaps not an essential trait for a merchandiser, but maybe some customers would be amused.

“Okay,” I said, thinking, I could move around patio furniture.

 Next, the manager hustled toward the garden center. I scuttled along in his wake.

“We work for a company that is hired by the store,” he said over his shoulder.

“Oh, okay,” I said. Huh, did not know that. The merchandisers are not actually store associates.

We went through the sliding doors into the garden center. Past the rows of potted azaleas I could see a half-dozen people in orange vests milling around between twenty-foot high warehouse shelves. I quickly gauged ages and genders. Mostly men, mostly young. One robustly built young woman with long blonde hair. One older guy with a grizzled beard and glasses. I thought, okay.

The manager grabbed the older guy's smartphone and quickly scrolled through the screens, explaining how the team received and followed plans for building the displays. I barely heard what he was saying. Next to me was a row of tall cardboard boxes wrapped in strapping tape. I could not tell what was inside. I reached out and gave one box a tentative shove. It barely budged. It was clear the box was taller, wider, and much heavier than me. There is no way I would be able to lift or even move that box.

I tried to make eye contact with the older worker, looking for some encouragement. He did not look at me. For a tiny moment, I thought about what I would tell Mom. Then I remembered, I don't tell my mother anything about my life anymore. I tell her stories about the neighbors, the birds, the cat. I show her pictures I take on my walks in the park. I share with her the photos my sister sends from France: rainbows, sailboats, and red alstroemerias. We discuss the fascinating lives of Chip and Joanna, the stars of Fixer Upper, and I remind Mom of their new son's name. We marvel at the height of the Property Brothers. I joke that we should start our own mother-daughter demolition team.

The manager turned to head back toward the store. I followed, feeling fragile and delicate. Who do I think I am?

“So that's what we do,” he said. “Day in and day out. Every day.”

“I don't think I would be able to move boxes that heavy,” I said.

He stopped. “Thanks for coming in today, Miss Carol,” he said. We shook hands. I turned and headed back to the entrance to the mall.

The entire “interview” took less time than it took me to walk back to my car.

I put on my baseball cap and drove home, admiring the blue sky, breathing in the warm air, and reveling in a fizzy sense of freedom that comes from not knowing what comes next.

The Chronic Malcontent endures a moment of world sorrow

I rarely cry. I'm not prone to sobbing. When I do cry, though, to avoid prolonged sinus congestion, I try to get all my angst and sorrow out during one session. I weep over every tragedy that comes to mind, large and small, from a pancaked squirrel in the road to the slow demise of my mother. I don't cry so much over abused children, because they can eventually overcome their trauma with therapy and the Twelve Steps. But I wail over dogs left in hot cars. I really lose it over sea turtles with plastic straws up their noses.

My editing agency jobs have all but dried up. The agency guy decided he needs to spend more time with his growing children and his full-time job. Who knew this editing agency was his side gig! He could have said he was tired of wrangling unhappy dissertators complaining about paying four cents per word before I cut out half their content. I wouldn't have blamed him. In response to his long list of reasons (excuses) why he's stepping back from the agency, I wrote, “Family comes first.” That is my standard response when someone chooses family over meeting my needs. I really believe it.

Last night, in a bid to stave off homelessness, I applied online to work part-time at a local home improvement store. I like to build things; maybe I could sell lumber to older gals who aspire to build their own bookshelves. I was cruising efficiently through the web application when I encountered a date field that would not accept a date earlier than 1993. I laughed and took a screen clip of this reminder that I am old. As if I would forget.

I will be very surprised if I get an interview request, even though I'm an employer's dream. They couldn't pay to buy the qualities I bring in the door for free: I will show up, work hard, and never steal. The Universe will have to decide this outcome. I don't really want to work at a home improvement store, but since when have my intentions produced results. I'd much prefer to earn money writing and making art. At my advanced age, here's what I've learned: It's easy to say I want something but much harder to take action to get it.

I am frequently reminded that the people who seem to make money are the ones who tell the rest of us how to make money. There's something wrong with that picture but I can't quite figure out what. You've heard the conversation, no doubt, which goes like this: Person 1 says to Person 2, “Give me a dollar and I'll share with you my secret strategy for making money.” Person 2 hands Person 1 a dollar. Person 1 says (while walking away), “That, my friend, is how you do it.” The winners: PayPal, Etsy, Udemy, and all the (former) artists and writers who figured out their path to success was telling people how to find their own path to success. Who are the losers? The hopeful, gullible dreamers who don't know what to do with the “secret” when they get it. Or are too scared to try. Or who keep trying in spite of failure. Talent is highly over-rated. Success depends more on persistence and luck. That is why I don't give up.

I can't seem to generate much enthusiasm about anything these days. I waver between derisive humor, self-deprecating chagrin, and debilitating despair. On the days my mother is too sleepy (tired, weary, depressed, exhausted) to walk me to the back door of the retirement home, I walk myself, humming our favorite tune (She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain). I walk myself out the back door to my car. As I drive away, I always look back at the window where she stands to wave me good-bye with the peace sign and a big grin. When she's not there I feel sad, relieved, fearful, and bereft. I don't know what to do with all these feelings.

From day to day, I attempt to do the things on my to-do list. Hence, this blog post. It's on my list. Sometimes I avoid blogging because writing means feeling. Other times, I'm anxious to get all my angst onto the page but my brain is too fogged to focus. Spring is my S.A.D. fog time. Later I will go out for a walk in the sunshine. It's on my to-do list. Walking always makes me feel better, eventually, although sometimes I prefer the oblivion of napping. Sometimes I find it difficult to be awake. However, on my last stroll through the park, I had four satisfyingly creative ideas. I arrived home sweaty but so happy to know I have not lost my creative spark.

Getting down and dirty: Reader discretion advised

The sewer construction recommenced at 7:00 a.m. this morning, ten yards outside my back door. A cacophony of gerunds ensued: banging, grumbling, pounding, grinding, beeping. My cat spent last week under the couch. Today he seemed resigned. We ate breakfast and stoically ignored the noise. At 10:30, I tiptoed past the roaring backhoe to do my weekly grocery run. Burly workers in neon vests and hard hats were trying with hand signals to direct my neighbor as she tentatively backed her Prius out of her driveway past the gaping twenty-foot long, six-foot deep trench holding the pipe that would soon hook her house up to the city sewer system. I took a couple photos to show my mother.

I drove away feeling somewhat superior that I had remembered to park my car on the street last night instead of in my usual parking spot now occupied by said backhoe.

I did my errands, came home, and parked my car on the street. I think I could have parked in my usual spot. As I lugged three grocery bags of food toward my back door, I saw the workers had finished laying the concrete tubes, filled in the trench, and parked their equipment at the bottom of the hill. In fact, they were nowhere to be seen. Only their little neon flags and the big Local Traffic Only sign remained. I admired the level gravel parking area. I put my groceries away, reveling in the silence. Then the cat and I took a nap. At 6:00 p.m., it was time to visit Mom. Three of my neighbors' cars now occupied all the parking spaces.

When I got to the care facility, Mom had just returned from dinner.

“I have some gluten-free macaroni to give the cook,” I said. “I'll be right back.” The kitchen is twenty steps down the hall. I put the boxes of pasta on the stainless steel table. Thirty seconds later, I returned to see Mom just settling down on the couch.

“Hey, Slacker, let's change the batteries in your hearing aids.”

She levered herself back up to a sitting position, an astounding feat considering the couch is actually a pastel flower-covered black hole. Every Monday night I remove her hearing aids, open the little trap doors, and switch out the tiny batteries. I have to take off my glasses so I can see to peel off the little coverings that keep the batteries fresh. I have a routine so I don't mix up the old and new batteries. Sometimes I have to use a little gizmo to replace a tiny tube that gets clogged with ear wax. I used to find it a little gross to mess around with my mother's ear wax. Now I don't care.

I got the hearing aids situated. “Testing, testing.”

“Uh-oh. Something feels like it needs to come out,” Mom said, standing up. It took me a scant moment to realize what she was talking about.

“Okay, do your thing.”

She grabbed her walker and shuffled around the divider wall to the bathroom. I turned on the television. Sadly, TV Land stopped running M.A.S.H. reruns last week. Now we are stuck with HGTV. I sat on the couch, tempted to crank up the volume on Love it or List it, praying I would soon hear the toilet flush. No such luck. Considering the sewer-related theme of the day, it was no big surprise that Mom went into the bathroom and got stuck there as her brain tried to figure out what to do with the poop in her pull-ups.

She called my name. I leaped into action.

It never occurred to me that I might someday be helping my mother navigate her toileting challenges. When my parents wrote their wills, I was the last of the four children to be named executor of the estate. I'm sure they figured it was the end of the road if my three siblings had somehow expired before me and my parents' care was left in my hands. I don't blame them. I was not a reliable or trustworthy daughter. Certainly I didn't seem to be caregiver material. Fast forward four decades and look at me now. I'm an expert at tearing the side seams of poop-filled pull-ups.

I removed her Merrells and pulled off her elastic waist blue jeans. I tore off the pull-ups. “Are you done pooping?”

“I don't know. I think so.” She reached for the toilet paper roll.

My mother has developed a . . . how shall I put this? A specific cleansing routine involving two carefully counted and folded sheets of toilet paper. I'm sure somewhere in her crumbling neurons are intense memories of the clog-prone toilets at our old house, which no doubt accounts for her stingy use of TP. She does not have to pay for it at the care facility but telling her that does no good. She slowly folds the two sheets in half and goes in from the front, if you know what I mean. She leans so far forward as she's trying to clean up the damage, I'm afraid she'll do a face plant, but always she bobs back up, like a Bobo doll. Then she drags out the soiled tissue from between her thighs to examine the results, which inevitably ends up on her fingers.

At this point, she's caught in a loop. She cannot resolve her dilemma. I've seen this routine a few times now and wondered to what extent I should try to intervene. Today I thought, what the hell.

“Hey, let's try this.” I reeled off a fine handful of toilet paper and handed it to her. “Scoot forward a little and go in from the back.”

She's a trooper when it comes to taking direction. She doesn't question. If she had any brain cells left, she might have said, “What, are you crazy? Hokay, here goes nothing, Einstein.”

She leaned forward, reached around with the wad of TP, and rummaged around back there for a good long while. Finally she sat up and we both examined the results. I reeled off another wad of TP and handed it to her. “One more time,” I suggested. She repeated the routine. Eventually we were both satisfied.

“Okay, great. Now stand up, and give it a good wipe with this.” I handed her a big wad of wet wipes, which are stacked in packages on the back of the toilet.

“Wipe what?”

“Your butt.” She did as directed. We checked the results. “That goes in the trash,” I said. She complied.

“Alright. Sit back down.” I got her toes into a fresh pair of pull-ups. She waggled her feet into her jeans. I could tell she has done this before. I positioned her shoes.

“Now you can stand up and hike up your drawers.”

She stood up with some help and yanked everything into place.

“Now flush.” She flushed, watching the action. I'm pretty sure she fears clogging the toilet. She closed the lid and turned back toward me.

“Let's wash our hands,” I suggested, thinking of all the surfaces she touched with dirty fingers. While she washed at the sink, I grabbed another wipe and wiped down the door handle and the toilet handle. 

We watched the end of Love it or List it. I turned the channel. M.A.S.H. was on MeTV at 7:00 p.m. She decided she wanted to walk me to the end of the hallway. We sang I've Been Working on the Railroad. Partway along the hall, she said, “Jane died.”

“Jane, your smoking buddy?”

“No, no, the one who sits at the end of my table.”

“Oh, you mean Alice.” I couldn't believe it. I saw Alice just last week, looking as hale as anyone on oxygen and in a wheelchair can look.

“Right. Alice.”

We walked in silence to the back door.

“I guess that is why people come to a place like this,” I said.

“My turn will come,” she said.

I kissed her forehead. We exchanged peace signs with our (hopefully clean) fingers. I walked out to my car. She waved as I drove away.

The chronic malcontent calls in sick

On Monday night I caught a cold. I don't remember the last time I had a cold. I had forgotten the misery generated by the drip, the scratch, the snot, the clog, the ache. I guess I thought I was a cold-germ superhero. On the upside, a cold probably won't kill me; the downside: at 3:00 in the morning, when I'm snuffling, coughing, and breathing through my mouth, it might make me wish I were dead.

I haven't been sick in years. All the witty words I had planned to write have been flattened under a pounding sinus headache. I wanted to tell you in excruciating detail (but funny, of course) about how wretched I feel. Then I realize, you've had colds before. You know what it feels like. Having a cold does not mean the universe revolves around you; it just makes you feel as if it should.

In accordance with the advice from multiple websites, I'm laying low today, resting and drinking lots of water. I called in sick to the care facility. I hope the nurse actually writes the note and puts it on Mom's coffee table. Although Mom might not even notice I didn't show up, the way things are going lately. She's been dozing on the couch every night for the past week. Yesterday I shuffled out to my car and drove in rush hour traffic to see if she might be more alert before dinner. She woke up when I came in but did not sit up. I sat in the visitor's chair on the other side of the coffee table and didn't touch anything.

“Do you want to go outside and plant seeds in your pots?” I asked her. My spirit was willing but I hoped she would say no. My flesh was definitely weak.

“Do you want to go outside?” Was she reading my body language? My mother is a master at the codependent redirect—I don't know, what do you want to do?

“It's up to you.”

“I don't think it is the right thing to do.” She was rubbing her stomach under the blue plaid blanket.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

“Is it your stomach?”

“I don't know what I need,” she said in frustration. Her eyes started to close. “I just want to sleep.”

I didn't kiss her forehead like I usually do because I didn't want to contaminate her with my germs. Although a tiny voice inside me said, hey, pneumonia, the old person's best friend. I told her I loved her and quickly left. I should not have come, but I felt compelled to see her. I only sneezed twice on my way out the back door. Into my elbow, of course. I drove slowly home, too slowly, apparently, because some guy in an old American car sped by me and flipped me off. I didn't have the energy to feel righteous anger. Besides, I drive slowly everywhere. I used to be a school bus driver. That is another story.

The weather is lovely this week. Unfortunately, higher temperatures means low humidity, which means not only am I parched but so are the forests. Two weeks of spring and now apparently it's summer. That was fast. The roses aren't even blooming yet. Now there's a fire warning for tomorrow night. Wind, low humidity, and high temperatures create the perfect conditions for wildfires. Sometimes when I walk in the park, I imagine what one carelessly thrown cigarette could do. In the city, with houses so close together, it wouldn't take much to generate a conflagration. On the upside, if the air filled with smoke right now, I would not be able to smell it.

The best way to endure a cold is to immerse myself in the screen. I caught up on a new CW television show last night. It's free TV, so every five minutes I was treated to a commercial of happy people cleaning their kitchen floors using special gizmos to capture dust and dirt. Clearly, the companies that make floor cleaning products don't know about my kitchen floor. In the distant past, some ambitious soul laid down a checkerboard of black and white linoleum squares. Over the years, these squares have come unglued in many places. Corners have broken, revealing the subfloor. Crumbs and cat hair collect in the crevices. Beige paint speckles the black squares from the many cupboard repaintings. The white squares are speckled too but you can't see it as well. The whole floor should be bulldozed. Swiffering is not a solution.

Speaking of bulldozing, on Monday, heavy equipment moved into the gravel road behind the Love Shack. Three little houses up here are not on the main sewer line. That means we all must endure the beeping and banging while the City digs trenches and lays pipe. On the upside, wiped out by this cold, I went to bed early the past two nights, so I was up when the bulldozing began. Early morning for me is like one of those plants that bloom once a century. I would appreciate dawn more if I could breathe.

Being sick has inspired me to take some chances. Despite my fear of dying from amoebas eating my brain cells, on Tuesday, I dug out my neti pot, figuring I could either suffocate now or maybe die of amoebas at some unknown point in the future. Early this morning, I found some expired Tylenol in my medicine cabinet. Turns out ten-year-old Tylenol still works. What do you know.

All of this is happening while my mother is fading. I am confounded that so many things can happen at the same time. You would think the earth would cease turning out of respect for the loved one who may soon be exiting the earthly plane. You would think cold germs would hold off until a more opportune time. You would think digging a sewer trench could wait until the tears have been shed. But everything happens now.

I think she is leaving but of course I can't be sure. Maybe it's just the humidity.

Coming apart at the seams

Last weekend, four out-of-town friends came to Portland for a reunion. We were a small group, just six in all. Two locals served as drivers; we split the passengers between two cars, one of which was my dinky old Ford Focus, emptied of trash and toothpicks for the occasion. After getting lost, driving in circles, misreading road signs, and driving east when I should have driven west, I am supremely aware of my failings.

On the bright side, the other driver (a man ten years my senior), got lost, drove in circles, almost crashed his car, and upon arrival at what he thought was the correct house, led his two passengers up some steps and through an unlocked door into a stranger's house—clearly not the correct destination. Quick exit, stage right! This week I have prayed the party of three were not caught on security cameras. Just in case, I've planned my defense: We plead early onset dementia, Your Honor! The busy weekend is over. No one was jailed or killed.

After two days of above average temperatures, by Saturday my limited wardrobe was exhausted, forcing me to stuff myself into a pair of old Levis jeans I have been saving should I ever lose ten pounds. Luckily, the groaning seams on my authentic (not knock-off) non-stretchy, faded blue denim jeans did not fail me as I diligently played tour guide, chauffeur, host, and organizer. Added bonus: My jeans made me sit up straighter in my chair and eat somewhat less at the restaurants we seemed to patronize every two hours.

The sun is shining today. I finished editing a paper early (misread the deadline, argh). That means I have some extra time to get some things done: change the sheets, do some laundry, and write a blog post. Spring is finally really here. Baby birds are nesting in a flowerpot at the care center. Brilliant leaves have burst out everywhere, glowing a color of green I spent my childhood desperately trying to mimic with yellow and blue tempera paint.

As a former fashion designer—well, okay, seamstress—I know a bit about seams. When I think of seams, I usually think of clothing and the thousands of seams have I sewn in my lifetime, trying to cajole other people's poorly sketched ideas of style into something real they could display to their envious church friends. Governments have seams too, I think. I don't notice seams much except when things fall apart. Then I realize how some poorly sewn policies leave us naked and undone. For example, we are now seeing the seamier side of healthcare.

I notice that the seams on many of my clothes are failing. When I fold my long-sleeve t-shirts, besides the occasional broken seam, I see stretched necklines, unraveled hemlines, faded colors, and frayed edges. I don't mind. These butter-soft remnants remind me I used to have a job that required me to think about clothing. I am glad that job is gone while these old t-shirts just seem to get better.

As I get older, in every way conceivable, I seem to have less stretch. In obviously visible ways, gravity drags everything south, but in my mind, too, I perceive less flex, less give. My brain seems to be coming apart at the seams. Maybe it's just stress pulling my mojo down with my butt and boobs. A friend told me I would gain 10 IQ points after my mother dies. She spoke from experience. I fear I'm sloughing off brain cells at an increasing rate. Where do they go, I wonder. Into the same void that disappears my socks, I suppose. If I ever find the gravity well that is hoovering my neurons, no doubt I'll find the mates to the socks I now wear in mismatched sets because I refuse to buy new socks. Ponder this: Socks have no seams. Unless I count the ridge across the toe that produces blisters if my shoes are too tight.

I think of my mother's brain and body coming apart at the seams, as if she's a cartoon character exploding from the inside from accidentally eating a bomb. Ooops, it happens. I imagine the core of her personality, the essence of who she is, still glows deep in her center, like a melty pool of maternal magma. I think I see it now and then, when she laughs at Klinger sewing the stylish frocks that never seem to get him kicked out of the army. Almost ninety years of psychic dust, detritus, and clutter obscure the sun at her heart.

The Chronic Malcontent practices mouth breathing

I'm learning Spanish in preparation for moving to the desert. Está nublado y oscuro en mi cabeza hoy. On the dark side: Children deliberately orphaned by the U.S. government, mold spores in my damp kitchen cupboards erasing my neurons, cat barf in the shag rug, the burning of Notre Dame, spring allergies. On the bright side: poacher eaten by lions, a day of 70°F weather, spring flowers. I guess it is true what they say, nothing is ever all good or all bad. We can look for and (usually) find the bright spot in any disaster. Mr. Rogers recommended we look for the helpers. Even when bombs are falling, angels will try to dig you out of the rubble.

Speaking of rubble, the brain of my maternal parental unit continues to disintegrate. I'm resigned to the gradual decline of her capacity as a going human concern. I'm really getting my money's worth on this carnival ride. Unfortunately, like most carnival rides, you can't get off until the car comes to a full stop and the gate designed to keep you from falling to your death unlocks. Then you are free to resume your normal life.

I don't remember what normal is. I've orbited my mother in an increasingly tighter spiral for three years now. First, I helped her shop. Then I shopped for her. Then I took over managing her money and drove her to her appointments. Two years ago, she moved into a care facility. She's stopped playing the piano, reading, and knitting. She no longer turns on the computer to play games. She cannot easily talk on the phone. She can't figure out how to work the remote when somehow the TV power is on but the cable box power is off. The decline from day to day is slight. The decline over two years is obvious. It's like watching a niece grow up. If you only see her at Christmas, it's a shock.

Mom got her toenails trimmed this week. A family friend is a foot care specialist. For a modest amount, she will come out, kneel down in front of your elderly loved one, and clip and grind their toenails into a semblance of submission. I am there to chat and pay the bill. And help Mom to the bathroom when the urge comes on her.

The urge can strike at any moment. One minute she's happily reminiscing and then next moment she's leaping in slow motion from the couch. The urge struck twice during the pedicure. Our friend obligingly moved aside so Mom could shuffle to the bathroom. The first time she navigated the trip there and back successfully. The second time she had a disaster in her pants. When that happens, her brain cells flee to Florida, leaving a paralyzed husk with no capacity for thought. I've seen this episode before so I know what to do.

“You doing okay in there?” I asked, fingers crossed that she got there in time. She never closes the bathroom door: privacy means nothing. Doors are unnecessary obstacles.

“No...” She sat on the toilet, staring at the mess in her pants, at a complete loss.

I quickly shut off all air flow through my nose, rolled up my sleeves, and waded into action. Little globs of poop were on the bathroom floor, on her jeans, and on the trip-hazard rug she insists on putting in front of her toilet.

“Okay. Let's tear these things off.” From observation, I know that the pull-ups tear on the sides. Great idea. The pull-ups can be extricated and dumped without having to take them off over the feet. Brilliant. Holding my breath, I got the offending garment out from between her legs and into the trash can.

I know the drill now. “Shoes off. . . . Okay, jeans off. . . . Okay, stand up.”

I handed her a wad of wet wipes. “Wipe your bum.” She complied. I pointed to the trash can. She dropped the dirty wipes on top of the pull-up. I grabbed two more wipes. “Again,” I commanded.

We repeated the wiping ritual three times before we agreed she was probably clean enough. (I have refused to actually look at my mother's butt for reasons I don't need to explain to you.) I grabbed a new pair of pull-ups and a clean pair of jeans from the closet. “Sit back down there,” I said. She sat on the toilet. I maneuvered the new pull-ups over her feet. I helped her get her legs into a clean pair of jeans. I got her feet back into her shoes. She went back to visit with our friend, who was admiring the photos near the front door. I cleaned up the bathroom, tied off the plastic bag of trash, and put it into another trash can. I folded up the jeans and rug and put them in the laundry basket, briefly wondering if I should somehow rinse them off before discarding the idea as beyond my pay grade.

I washed my hands, still breathing through my mouth. Mom and our friend were chatting. I wrote a check and got Mom situated on the couch.

“I'll see you tonight,” I said and walked our friend out to her car.

“I told my folks you visit your Mom every day,” she said, putting her gear into the trunk. “Everyone thinks you are amazing.”

I wanted to cry but I did that oh, it's nothing, really eye roll and pretended la, la, la, it's all part of the service, as if I wasn't ready to collapse.

Parents clean up their kids' dirty diapers, multiple times a day, for years. My mother did that for me, second in a line of four children. I'm sure she was grossed out from time to time. That was before Pampers, before home diaper cleaning services. I remember seeing her on her knees rinsing my little brother's cloth diapers in the toilet. No wonder childhood was hell. Jeez. Who wouldn't be cranky all the time having to do that thankless chore?

I never wanted children. I never imagined I would be a caregiver, even to the minor extent that I am now called to be. The only training I've had in cleaning up haz mat disasters is scooping cat poop and sponging up barf. I don't know why this is my job, but it is. I do what is in front of me. Just for today, I'm showing up for poop duty. Maybe someday I'll retire to the desert and be able to say siempre hace sol aquí as I sip my iced tea and relax in the shade. Until it's time for someone else to come along behind me and scoop up my poop.

Don't think too much

I visit Mom every evening. Before I go out the door, I do what I can to ensure the place will be standing when I return. Is the heater off? check. Stove off? check. Cat dish not empty? check. I look in the mirror by the door to make sure I'm wearing my driving glasses and my outdoor cap. I look down at my legs to make sure I am wearing outdoor pants. I check my feet to make sure I'm not wearing slippers. You can't be too careful. This is how the mind-crumble begins: wearing computer glasses to drive the car . . . wearing pajamas and slippers to the grocery store. Not good.

Last night Mom was peppy. We watched the millionaires choosing their houses on HGTV. We merrily criticized the host's garish fur coats, admired his dimples, and guessed which house the lucky winners would buy (I always guess wrong). At seven, Mom walked me down the long hall to the back door of her care facility, singing lustily all the way. We are great entertainment: I can't carry a tune and she can't remember the words.

As we neared the back door, we heard the lady in the last room hollering “Help me!”

We've heard this lady before. She's lived there a few weeks. The first time I heard her yelling, I thought it was a man. Back then, I was shocked and confused. I continued  out the door, sticking to the routine, pretending I didn't hear anything. I figured anyone who could yell like that wasn't in imminent danger of dying. When Mom didn't come to the window to give me the peace sign, I went back to the door. I watched through the window and saw Mom talking to Debra the Med-Aide, pointing over her shoulder toward the resident's room. I punched in the door code, wondering if I should get involved. I hovered in the foyer. Mom did not see me. Duty done, she headed down the hall back toward her room, forgetting our peace sign ritual. I thought, this is what she looks like after I drive away.

Debra rolled her eyes as she hustled into the resident's room. As I went out the door, I heard Debra say “We have a lot to do after dinner . . . we get to you as soon as we can.”

Last night we heard the same cry: “Help me!”

We broke off our song. “Where is that coming from?” Mom asked.

“The new lady, at the end of the hall,” I said.

“Help me!”

Mom, ever the helper, started to veer toward the lady's room. I grabbed the back of her embroidered sweatshirt (this one says Hugs are one size fits all across the chest).

“No, better not,” I said. “Insurance and all.”

We looked back down the long hall. No Debra in sight.

“Use your call button,” I called into the open doorway. I did not look into the room. No way was I going to make eye contact. I know what the lady looks like now: enormous, gray-haired, and scowling. I've seen her being wheeled back from dinner. I used to work in a nursing home. I know how hard it is to push a very large angry person in a wheelchair. As I often do at the care facility, I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have that job anymore.

“Help me!” The tone of the lady's voice reminded me of the tone my cat uses early in the morning when something needs to be addressed, pronto. Empty food dish, pile of barf . . . emergencies only to him. It's the kind of mrowl that makes me want to throw pillows.

“Use your call button!” Mom yelled back. We were at the back door. We looked at each other and shrugged. Oh well. I could see it in her eyes: things aren't great but they could be worse.

Earlier this week, I seriously contemplated renting an apartment and moving my mother in with me. After a few days, I regained my senses. Today I'm back to normal. I wasn't built to be my mother's caregiver. When she runs out of money, if she lives that long, Mom will have to take her chances with Medicaid, just like all the rest of us.

Tonight Mom did not walk me to the back door. She didn't feel like getting up. I understood. I feel that way most of the time.

Taking it as it comes

My mother's insurance company sends a nurse to visit Mom annually. I've sat in on several of these house calls. Yesterday Sherrie arrived around 10:30 am, lugging two big gym bags of gear for a comprehensive medical exam. Mom was sacked out on her flowered couch, mouth open, snoring loudly, but she quickly roused and sat up to greet the visitor. Within thirty seconds, she had grabbed her walker, aiming for the bathroom. As Mom went by, Sherrie handed her a plastic cup and started giving instructions on peeing in the cup. Mom paused, took the cup.

“What do I do with this?” she asked.

“Just put it on the back of the toilet when you are done,” Sherrie said briskly. Mom went into her little bathroom, leaving the door open but the light off. Sherrie turned her back to give Mom privacy. We chatted while Mom did her thing. After a while, Mom did not emerge from the bathroom. I called to her to see how she was doing.

“I don't know what to do now,” Mom said. Sherrie leaped up to help. I thought about letting her do the work, but she hung back when she saw the poop in Mom's pull-ups. Mom was tearing one side of the pull-up. I tore the other side. I stuffed the offending undergarment into the trash can and brought a clean pair. I know the drill now. One step at a time: Shoes off, jeans off, underpants on, stand up, pull up . . . meanwhile Sherrie had spread her gear all over the apartment, blocking the path to the couch. Mom sat on the bed. I clumsily helped her get pants back on. She sat there quietly, feet dangling, waiting for the next cue while Sherrie babbled on about this and that, getting her forms ready, telling me about her own mother (aged 83, also demented, living day-to-day in a care home). Eventually Mom got bored and toppled over sideways on the bed.

Sherrie checked Mom's blood pressure. Next, she checked Mom's feet. She had trouble getting Mom's slip-on Merrells back on. I sat on the couch, changing the batteries in my mother's hearing aids, and pretended not to notice as Mom expressed her discomfort by shouting “Ow!” when Sherrie forced Mom's foot into her shoe. I know that feeling, the desire to appear efficient and helpful that backfires—it's one of my well trod paths to humility.

“Well, now that I'm done abusing your mother . . . ” Sherrie joked. “Here are some things you might want to watch for.”

Sherrie told me dementia is a slow-moving disease. Apparently, dementia patients are more likely to die from falls, pneumonia, or infections. “Your mom could last five more years.” Sherrie was entering data into her notebook, so she almost missed the look of horror on my face. 

“What is going on with you?” she asked. I went over to the bed and put Mom's hearing aids back in place. Red goes in the right ear, blue in the left. Images of future wreckage flitted through my mind.

“Let's talk about this later,” I said. “Testing, testing.”

“Loud and clear,” Mom said, smiling up at me.

By the time the visit was over, Mom and I were both exhausted. Mom sank into the couch to catch a few winks before lunch. I left to run my errands, after which I went home for my own nap. I woke up bleary-eyed and ham-fisted, like a kid who just woke up from a nap but is pretending she has perfect control over all her faculties. I dropped a few things as I prepared my lunch, nothing breakable.

I went back to visit Mom as usual in the evening. She was upright on the couch, watching TV, but not for long. Shortly after I arrived, she drooped and her eyes rolled back in her head. I suggested she might want to rest. She agreed. I helped her get her feet up on the couch and spread her old wool blanket over her legs. She pulled it up to her chest.

“I'm not walking you down” she said sadly. I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and walked to the back door alone. Three nights in a row now, she has opted for the couch. I don't know if that means anything except it's hell getting old. As if we didn't already know.

The Chronic Malcontent makes end-of-life plans

Howdy, Blogbots. How's it going? How are you doing on your end-of-life plans? Oh, you don't have any? Good for you, you eternal optimist, you. I'm sad when young people end their lives, whether or not it is on purpose, but as an older person who has lived a relatively long life, I respect our right to exit on our own terms, if we happen to be so lucky. I think a lot about how I would like the end of my life to be, especially after I visit my mother at the assisted living facility.

Last night, as usual, we sat on the couch watching reruns of M.A.S.H. I heard loud moaning coming from the hall. It sounded like what I imagine a cow being slaughtered might sound like. I ignored the din until a commercial break.

“What is that noise?” I asked.

“Oh, that's Rosy,” Mom said. “She does that.”

“What is wrong with her?”

“She's getting ready to croak.”

I was slightly taken aback at her word choice, but then I realized my mother has no illusions about what is happening there. People don't go to assisted living to recuperate, rehab, and return to their homes to live blissfully independent lives. It's a rare broken hip or leg who escapes from the nursing home. Everyone knows that these warehouses have one purpose: to make money by taking care of old people until they die.

Old people used to die at home, cared for by family members. Generations lived together under one roof. What changed? Women got jobs. Kids went to daycare. Seniors went to adult daycare. Very old seniors went into care facilities—what do we call them? Retirement homes, nursing homes, assisted living . .  euphemisms for warehouses designed to house nonproductive humans.

Mom isn't into bingo or crafts. She naps on her pastel-flowered couch between meals. The activities people, the chefs, the entertainers, the managers . . . everyone disappears by six o'clock, right after supper. The Med Aide turns the hall lights low. The staff start putting the residents to bed. By the time Mom walks me down the hall at seven, the place is a ghost town. I hear a few televisions blaring from behind closed doors. I see an occasional aide exiting a room carrying a plastic trash bag. I think I know what is in those trash bags: dirty adult diapers.

For the past week, the old woman in the last room down the hall has been having some incontinence issues. The stench emanating from her room is nauseating. My mother doesn't seem to notice. She sings our current favorite song, She'll be coming round the mountain, right to the back door. I must stop singing because I have to breathe through my mouth. It's either that or barf. This is what we have to look forward to if we are lucky enough to live long lives. Whether we age at home or in a warehouse, eventually the systems give out. Growing old is not for wimps.

I'm formulating my end-of-life plan. If I'm fortunate enough to have the mental and physical capacity to choose my end, I have some preferences. I won't share them with you; you might think I'm depressed or something. I'm not depressed. I try to live each day as it comes, stay productive, focus on being useful . . . but I have no illusions either. Like Mom, I know I will die someday. I hope it's not soon. I hope I can enjoy some warm desert air before I go. If I can, I'd like to choose the nature and timing of my demise. But nobody knows where, when, or how,  not for certain. The question, as always, is how do we want to spend our time until our time is over. Living is not for wimps, either.

Spring is a-maundering near the Love Shack

It's finally spring here in Portland, which means the east wind howls through bare branches, clouds roll over unexpectedly, and the temperature varies twenty degrees depending on what side of the apartment I am on. It could hail at any moment. Or not. I don't know whether I should open a window or crank up the heat.

I went for a walk in Mt. Tabor Park yesterday to stroll around the big reservoir. I shivered going up the east side of the hill in the shade and sweltered on the west side in the sun. I would have gladly stayed on the west side forever, under blue sky and balmy breezes but my feet started to hurt.

I usually bandage a toe on my left foot before I go walking. However, I haven't walked since last fall. On my third circuit around the reservoir, toes on both feet began to hurt. I expected some pain, but both feet? As I limped along, I tried to recall . . . did I bandage the wrong foot? I made a pit stop to sit on a step and pull off my right shoe and sock. Sure enough, I had bandaged the toe on my right foot and not the toe on the left foot. Looks like I lost a few more brain cells over the long winter.

My cuticles are shredded, a sure sign that I am stressed. Among my many fears, I am sure I have early dementia. I fear I'm going blind. I fear I'm a walking heart attack. I fear my mother will live forever. I fear she will run out of money and have to move in with me.

To stop thinking, I took the plastic sheeting off the kitchen windows. I hope I don't regret my quest for more light and fresh air. The sky is clouding over. Rain is on the way. It gets cold when the east wind blows in.

I figured out that my experience of life is the result of five factors: circumstance, luck, persistence, talent, and insanity, pretty much in that order. I have no control over the first two. I can't do much about the last two. It seems to me that persistence is where I can leverage my capacity as a going human concern. To that end, I'm trying to do the things on my list, no matter how trivial, and avoid thinking too much.

That is why I'm blogging right now. It's on my list. I usually blog after something noteworthy happens. The only memorable thing that has happened so far today is that my cat ate food and then upchucked on the rug. Hey, barf happens.

The trick is to put tasks on my list that matter, not trivial things that I would do anyway just so I have something to check off. Sometimes I need to do that, though, I confess. Demoralization sets in when I don't do at least one important thing per day. Sometimes taking out the compost bin is an accomplishment; however, usually, taking out the compost, trash, and recycling does not merit a place on my to-do list. I used to think I deserved a medal if I got up before nine o'clock. Now I don't care. My idea of what is important has evolved as I've aged.

Speaking of aging, my relationship with gravity continues to evolve. As I drive, I feel my muscles melting into goo. I would like to say I keep a smile on my face when I am in public, but that would be a lie. My face sags when I'm not paying attention. My expression morphs from grimacing, to pursing my lips, to squinting, to scowling. I'm sure I often look insane.

Did I mention I try not to think too much?

Let's think about something else. How is everyone doing? Thanks for asking. My sister is living an academic life in Rennes. That is to say, she pursues her research like a terrier with a bone. It is not easy. I vacation in France through her photos and emails. My friend Bravadita is almost done earning a teaching credential. I fear for her safety as a public school teacher but I don't tell her that. She's got enough on her plate writing meaningless essays about classroom management and learning theory. I hope I live long enough to read her memoir. It is going to be magnificent.

My mother exists in a strange world outside of time, going through the daily motions as if she's caught in a time loop. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, nap, visit from daughter, repeat. If she didn't have dementia I think she would be a lot more frustrated. The thought occurs to her—is that all there is? I can see it flit across her face, but then it's gone. M.A.S.H. is on: time to discuss the merits of Klinger's latest frock.

The chronic malcontent cleans house

In summer 1977, I was an immature twenty-year-old, recently flown the nest in favor of sunny Los Angeles to find my fortune among the stars and palm trees. I was unaware that in 1977, NASA launched two school bus-sized spacecraft, Voyager 1 in September and Voyager 2 in August, aimed for Jupiter, Uranus, Neptune, and beyond. The most concrete memory I have of the word Voyager is the ridiculous revelation in the 1979 Star Trek movie that the enemy V'Ger is actually Earth's Voyager 6. That sounds less ridiculous to me today, given, well, you know, everything.

PBS showed an update a couple weeks ago of the Voyager mission. I was surprisingly moved by the journeys of the intrepid spacecraft, chugging along toward deep space with their primitive computer brains. Any number of times, they could have been lost, but they both successfully matriculated—they have crossed the boundary between the solar system and interstellar space. Off they go, like kids to college. We will never see them again, obviously, and they are having a harder and harder time phoning home. Eventually the signals will be too faint to hear.

Both Voyager spacecraft carry copies of a twelve-inch disc known as the Golden Record, crammed with as much data as NASA engineers could fit on a round gold-plated piece of copper. The Golden Record contains images and music, math and science—humankind's achievements (as of 1977, that is).

The Golden Records are a message to the universe that we existed, we were here. The discs should last at least a billion years, long after the human species has destroyed its habitat and gone extinct. I get a little weepy when I imagine some far away alien child finding a gold record buried in its backyard, figuring out how to play the disc, and discovering Chuck Berry, many light years from Earth. Oh, Carol, don't let him steal your heart away!

I'm back in the present. Today rain and sun have battled for supremacy. That is how we know it is almost spring here in the Pacific Northwest. Despite the 45°F temperature, I tore down some of the plastic sheeting that protected us from the worst of the east wind. I opened multiple windows.

When I can't figure out what to do next, I embark on a cleaning binge. I started with the bathroom, on the assumption that my effort will be most obvious in the smallest room. It's good I did. Under the cat's cozy fleece window seat in the bathroom were layers of moldy wet towels. Gross. No wonder my sinuses are constantly clogged.

After throwing all the moldy towels in the washer ($2.00 to wash, $2.00 to dry), I tackled the bedroom rug with my old Tidy Maid, something I do a few times a year. However, I soon noticed I wasn't having much success—the machine was not hoovering! Argh. I diagnosed the problem with a flashlight: The vacuum cleaner was gagging on a gargantuan hairball stuck in its craw, I mean, its hose, halfway between the entry and exit.

Oh, yippee, a rare chance to use my human ingenuity to solve a domestic problem! Rare because I so rarely do anything domestic besides cooking and eating food. Time to exercise the calcifying brain cells. I got busy strategizing my approach. Yes, in case you are wondering, I remembered to unplug the vacuum cleaner before I started poking around with metal tools.

First, I tried the cat's wooden-dowel play stick (good for making mysterious under-the-rug creatures that are super fun to pounce on . . . so it seems, I mean, not that I would know). The stick was too short. Next, I tried an untwisted and unbent hanger, repurposed to catch and pull out the hair clog. No luck. Both the stick and the hanger were too weak and too short. Hmmm. I know that feeling. I debated doing a Cesarean on the plastic hose, but wasn't sure I could duct-tape the thing back up successfully. Thinking, thinking . . . a-ha! The broom! The broom handle turned out to be the right length, weight, and thickness to shove that clog down the tube and into the belly of the machine. Because I had removed the dust bag, leaving only the gaping exit hole, I witnessed the birth. I even helped, although sadly, the clog came apart in chunks. Eeeww. I thought maybe I had sucked up a cat toy. Nope. The clog was just a solid mass of cat hair, dust, and detritus. After the hairball was ejected, the vacuum cleaner sucked like a dream. Back to work.

While I vacuumed (multitasking!), I washed a load of bed linens and miscellaneous t-shirts and socks (another $4.00). Only items made from synthetics ever truly get dry in this dryer. I often must festoon my apartment with slightly damp clothing and towels. Today when I pulled the mass of laundry from the dryer, I could tell right away that it was nowhere near dry. What gives? I discovered that every single item—fitted sheet, pillowcases, socks, towels, underwear, t-shirts—had all somehow magically been sucked inside the duvet cover. Not a single thing remained. Everything was neatly bundled in a sodden heap inside the giant pillowcase. I couldn't have done it better myself.

Doing laundry opens a window into parallel universe, whose inhabitants apparently sometimes need just one beige sock. I wish they would at least ask. I don't mind loaning a sock once in awhile. But they just take it. Sometimes they return it, sometimes they don't. Today they didn't appear to take anything . . . they just wanted to have some fun, I guess. Ha ha. Now the Love Shack looks like a cheap clothing store after a hurricane.

All these daily challenges that sometimes seem so overwhelming (I want my darn sock back!) pale in comparison to the challenge humans are currently facing. I can't do much to save the world. I can't call out to outerspace . . . save us, superior beings, wherever you are! My song is not on that Golden Record. In fifty years, heck, in twenty years, no one will remember me or my tirade about recalcitrant laundry and missing socks. Sometimes I'm sad about that. The stories I write will disappear into the past along with my bones. Maybe in some cosmic scrapbook, all our stories shine forever, who knows. 

I'm not twenty anymore. I don't have a lot of time left. Humans have such a short blip of time to make our mark. Not everyone makes it into the history books. I'm okay with anonymity. Just another bozo on the bus.

Traveling light

After a day of snow flurries and House Oversight Committee testimony, I'm ready for spring. Mom and I agree, it's time for winter to move on. My little space heater chugs nonstop all day, grinding out tepid warmth. It never really gets warm at the Love Shack. I thaw my toes with microwaved rice-filled socks and take hot baths before bed so I can sleep. My kitchen windows are covered with plastic and still the east wind blows in. It's not really all that cold outside, compared to someplace like Michigan or Minnesota or Spokane. Still, it's not great. Portland gets a special kind of damp cold that chills you to the bone but leaves you ashamed to complain because it's not forty below.

I'm glad the old smoking buddies (Mom and Jane) don't go outside to smoke anymore. They both have the Patch. But they would be outside in a heartbeat if they could coerce me into taking them out. Weather does not stop these old addicts. If they could get outside on their own, they would. The only thing stopping them is the knowledge they wouldn't be able to get back in.

It's a smoker's COPD dilemma: What do you do when the thing you love more than anything else in the world will kill you if you do it? If Mom could put a sentence together, she would say that she's going to die anyway so she might as well enjoy the time she has left. I can't fault the logic. I understand addiction. I don't want to be her enabler but neither do I want to deprive her of one of her few remaining pleasures. If Make-a-Wish called me to tell me my mother's last wish is to smoke a pack on her deathbed, I guess I would comply. My only excuse is she's not in her right mind. Actually, if she were in her right mind, whatever that is, she would say, get out of my way, let me die my way.

Tonight we walked over to Jane's room to say hello.

These days she leaves her door open to help her cope with claustrophobia and anxiety. Mom and I stood in the doorway. “Hi, how are you doing?” I asked. Jane came over, looking thinner than ever in her cutoff gray sweatpants and tiny velour jacket. Her hair was in pin curls. I noticed she had on footwear I hadn't seen before: fuzzy lavender ballet slippers with bows on top. She said she was doing much better. No more oxygen tank burbling in the corner.

“I sure miss going outside,” she said. “I can hardly stand it. I'm going to do something about it.”

“You know smoking again could kill you,” I said.

“I've about had it. I talked to all my doctors,” she said. “Two or three puffs, they said would be okay.”

I noticed my mother looking interested. I turned to her. “You had one cigarette and it almost killed you,” I said.

“Really?” She sounded skeptical. She didn't remember gasping on the couch. I shrugged. I know when a battle can't be won.

“Would you like to walk down to check your mailbox?” I asked Jane.

“Yeah, let's do that,” Mom said. Jane found her mailbox key.

“Should I close my door?” she frowned, hovering in the hallway. She worries that people (staff) go inside when she's not there and look through her stuff. Mom was already shuffling down the hall with her walker. Jane decided to leave the door open. We strolled past the front door, down the hall, past Mom's room to the mailboxes. “Here we are!”

Jane opened her box: two letters from Kaiser. I opened Mom's box: empty.

We walked Jane back to her room. Mom decided it was time to walk me down the long hall to the back door to see me off. We passed her room, where M.A.S.H. was blaring. We sang When the Saints go Marching In as we walked, a pleasant alternative to our usual She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain. By the back door, I kissed her forehead. We exchanged peace signs. I told her I loved her. She smiled. I went outside in the frigid air and got into my car. She waved the peace sign at me through the window. I turned on the overhead courtesy light so she could see me return the peace sign. I started the car, pulled forward, and waved my hand out the window. She waved back. Over her shoulder I could see a fuzzy moving image on the big screen TV that the old folks use to play wii bowling. I waved back and drove away down the hill.

I begin to see that memory occurs on a continuum, and people's capacity and willingness to remember varies. Just because she can't answer when I ask her what she had for dinner doesn't mean she doesn't remember. If I prompt her by saying, “Remember when you had potato chips for dinner?” she'll say yes with some certainty. Potato chips for dinner is a memorable meal.

Who cares whether we remember what we had for dinner? I can remember what I had for dinner because I have the same damn dinner everyday. Mom's menu varies and she's fed frequently in large amounts. Who could possibly keep track? And why should it matter?

Dementia strips out the nonessentials. Everything we don't need sloughs off like dead skin, leaving us with just the core, the white hot essence, burning bright. Memories of events, people, places, meals . . . it's all just mental clutter. It's not that there is no longer room for those memories. It's more like we don't need them anymore and the goal for the next adventure is to travel light, as light as we can, as light as light.

The end of a life is not like the movies

We all know how the story ends. In the movies, the hero's loved one declares faith in the hero's capacity to overcome obstacles and then quietly dies. People die quickly in the movies. If you blink, you'll miss it, it happens that fast. The spirit eases out the window in a flurry of fireflies, ascending to heaven where all good characters go (I'm thinking of Gena Rowland's character in Hope Floats). One moment ago she was here, gazing with love at her daughter, and the next, she's dropped her teacup.

First, when it comes to witnessing the end of a life, there are no heroes. Either that or we are all heroes, flailing valiantly to cope with life on life's terms. Just because sorrow is imminent and overwhelming doesn't make us special. Everyone has sorrow. We're either all heroes or none of us heroes. Movies have to have a hero or we won't watch. Preferably one who isn't dead when the credits roll. I can't stand Nicholas Sparks movies.

Second, I suspect in real life the end of a life usually happens in slow motion . . . really drawn out, excruciatingly tedious slooooooow motion. What they don't show us in the movies are the grinding weeks and months leading up to that transcendent moment when the hero's mother dies. They can't make an entire movie about that process—who could stand it? It would be like My Dinner with Andre. Yeesh. Still, some verisimilitude might be welcome for those of us who could use a dose of reality to stay grounded.

I don't know what I expected this process to be like. Did I think she would be herself up to the very end? Did I imagine she would keel over in the middle of a sentence or cease to be while snoozing on the couch? Somehow I didn't think it would (a) be so excruciating (for me) or (b) take so long.

Once again I show my uncanny ability to take my mother's life and death and make it mine. I'm not the one who is coming to the end of the runway, but it feels like it. Hey, maybe I am, who knows? The big one could hit tomorrow and pancake me into the basement. We all know how our stories will end. We just don't when, where, and how.