HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Ethel!

the memorial box I made for my mother at an art workshop in Oaxaca in 2017
and the birthday cake that was a craft project at one of my daughter's birthday parties....ages ago

The doors to the memorial box are usually closed as it sits on its shelf in my living room, but in recognition of my mom's birthday week, I opened them a couple of days ago.

Yesterday began with the faint scent of cigarette smoke in the air. This is not a smoke-free building, but I've never smelled cigarettes before... still, there it was, wafting in from somewhere. My mom is such a talented and persistent ghost. Then a phone call came in that resulted in a small financial windfall--much appreciated, given all the moving expenses that will take months to recover from.

Later in the evening there were tickets to a play that I'd made plans for last week not quite realizing that the performance was on my mother's birthday. The action of the play opens just as all the characters have died in a tragic accident so....welcome to the afterlife and the struggles and the dramas that ensue there.

One of my daughters had reminded me in the morning that she celebrates her grandmother's birthday by buying a lottery ticket and having a martini. Schedules did not allow us to get together for drinks, so I had my martini before the theatre.

In my theatre seat, checking my email one last time before I turning off my phone, I received a thumbs up from the literary magazine that was considering  an essay of mine...that is in large part about death, the afterlife, and my mother.

Some days are surprisingly seamless. Thanks, Mom. 

Saturday Morning Beach Report: Feeding Frenzy

And I felt a little frenzied last night, trying to get into a bottle of wine after  the cork broke.

Welcome to Margaritaville

Holiday weekend population at my place is 3. Apparently other households are having guests over too. Yesterday at the beach, I must have seen a dozen people. And with fallout from the demoic acid continuing, there were a dozen dead birds, two dead sea lions, and one sea lion cordoned off waiting for rescue.

It's still paradise.
But for the dead, not so much.

And we have bars in paradise. I love bars.

I especially love bars with music. The night before last we went to see one of my favorite musicians at a beach neighborhood bar so tiny it appears to have been built in someone's garage. A guy we  dubbed "the tornado" blew in about half-way through our evening. He entered as if he was wearing those shoes with retractable wheels you see adolescents gliding around in. He danced his way to the dance floor after a quick word with the bartender. The next thing you know, everyone in the bar had a fresh drink. The Tornado danced. The Tornado knuckle-bumped quite a few of us. And then he blew out again.

This morning he was at the farmer's market looking fresh as a daisy.

So I'm back, enjoying life in Margaritaville.

But not that long ago I was here:

Always aware of the canyons in my heart.
How are you?

Last Call

The final batch

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that I ration my mom's martini intake. I mix up a batch, then pour a single martini into each jam jar and lock them away. For this batch I carefully counted out the jars we'll need to get us to our departure date. Who needs x-es on calendar squares? We have mixed drinks.

Just a bit ago, I got the automated call from the sheriff's office regarding the tsunami. We are not being asked to evacuate. Which is good. Very good. I gasped though as the message unfurled. 8.3 magnitude earthquake in Chile. Tsunami forming. Holy crap. I stopped breathing for a minute as I imagined waking my mom and getting her into the car and remembering to put the wheel chair in the car, in case the traffic jammed in a mass exodus and we had to run for it.

There's still quite a bit of martini mixed up in that gin bottle. Note to self: if you do have to evacuate, take the bottle!

My mom continues to talk about going home. I think she will get lots of visitors. Tonight at dinner she reviewed her burial plans: she wants to be cremated and then have the ashes buried in my father's grave. She has a plot next to his that I guess was purchased for her at the same time his was, but she's very clear that she does not want to be buried there. I assured her that I understood. That other grave though--she's obsessed with it. It shouldn't go to waste, she says. We own it. I should be buried there, she says. Or my brother should be buried there--it drives her crazy that good money was spent on it and no one has plans to rest eternally there.

What are you going to do with your body? she asked. I told her that I was going to be cremated and leave instructions for my children to deposit the ashes in the Mississippi, the Seine and the Aegean. I hope they'll take those trips together. Then again, who knows, maybe I'll change my mind about all of that. It would be nice if I had a good 20 or so years to think about that.

Monday Morning Beach Report and the latest Report from Pillville

Why do I like these gray days at the beach so much?

No place to anchor the eye this morning. Plenty of places to anchor my heart. My two weeks in Alaska were beyond perfect, but I am glad to be back here. 

I've told everyone who's asked that I've spent over 20 hours on a plane in the last couple of days. It was actually 11, but I guess it felt like 20. Maybe I'm counting my mom's hours too. Of course, the whole shebang of getting her to the east coast, coming back so I could leave for my trip, and then going back to Maryland to get her was over 20 hours just for me. Worth it. Worth it. Worth it.

We are back in our routine. Caregivers to relieve me, hospice nurses, pills, interrupted  sleep, yoga, T'ai Chi Chih, martinis, the hiss of the oxygen machine, dancing. I'll let you figure out who does what.

Last night during the dance classes someone asked if my partner and I were newlyweds. "I don't even know his last name," I said. We laughed like 8th graders. Except now I do know his last name.   All of the other couples are long married, I believe. My partner and I leave in our separate Priuses (his is white and newer, mine is red) and the other folks depart, not so subtly watching us as he hands over homegrown lemons, figs, tomatoes. I feel fairly certain that Dan has arranged this fresh produce pipeline. How do I return the favor? Savoring all the joy is the only thing I can think of. Savoring all the joy.

I want to say that you learn how to savor every joy when you hold a person you love as he breathes his final breath. And that's true. I did learn that. But the knowledge leaves me. I don't really know how a person can forget that, but I do. I forget that I ever learned it, and when it comes back to me, it's like an idea I've never heard of. Right now, I'm holding on to it. Hope I don't fall.

On top of it in Skagway, Alaska

People in Airport Bars and the Chaos of Everything (A note from 30,000 feet)

It might be that there are 2 kinds of people in airport bars.

The bartenders at LAX never take your order without asking if you'd like a double instead of a single  for x dollars more. Everyone answers the question without hesitation. Sure. Or no thanks.

I had a gin and tonic before I boarded the plane. I still worry a bit about a full blown anxiety attack although I haven't had one in a couple of years. I also had a turkey sandwich. I don't eat turkey sandwiches. I planned to save half for my in-flight meal for the more than 5 hour flight to Baltimore. That resolution lasted until I finished the first half. Like I said, there are 2 kinds of people.

The bartender refilled the diet coke for the young woman on the barstool next to me. He mistakenly set it in front of the guy next to her and then caught himself. We all laughed. I don't think he wants to drink out of my glass, the woman said. The guy looked at her. She looked at him. I think he would have loved to drink out of her glass. Getting to know you, airport bar style, I said. We all laughed again and talked about Baltimore. When I got up, they were still talking.

At the gate I bumped my roller bag into the work-booted foot of a guy standing in the middle of things. I apologized. You didn't hurt me...yet, he said. Kinda creepy. A minute later he was chatting up a young woman who mentioned to him that she was on stand-by waiting for a seat. You can sit on my lap, he said. Definitely creepy. I circled around to get a better look at her, wondering if she was an adult or a teenager. They kept talking. She seemed okay with it. I kept out of it, but kept an ear open, listening. There were no stand-bys called to board the plane.

I created a certain amount of chaos for myself in the time between Alaska and getting on the plane to pick up my mom. I started projects that were too big to finish. Left a stack of mail unopened mail on my desk for both me and my mom. I wonder if I'm losing my organizational edge. If I just don't care anymore. Or if the cumulative strain of being the CEO of Pillville is wearing on me. (Of course it is.) Nowadays it always feels like I will let something slide off the edge. Somehow though I got my mom back onto hospice with a simple phone call. The hospital bed and the oxygen were delivered promptly within the one-hour window I requested. Maybe things are going to get easier, I tell myself. Sure. Maybe next time I'll save the other half of the sandwich, and just tell the bartender no thanks.

Report from the Gin Mill and Other Destructions

It was martini day here in Pillville. I put 18 2-oz martinis in jam jars and tucked them away here:

You don't see them, do you? Good. I also lock the door to my closet and to my room whenever I'm not at home. Yes, I am pretty much a raving nut case. If you'd like to read about my mental decline and how martini rationing was instituted here in Margaritaville, go here.

Meanwhile, millions more dead velella vellela have washed up on our shores.

The old crop from a couple of weeks ago are now higher up on the sand, reduced to their sails, their shiny blue bodies decayed and gone. Today on NPR, I heard that 13 million California trees have already died in the drought. We should probably ration all kinds of things here on planet Earth--especially in California.

And today in the state of Pillville we had a summit meeting. The Minister of Finance met with the Director of Planning and we concluded that my mom's money will run out in a few months. Options for supplemental income include opening a martini bar where the martinis are served in jars and hidden in various locations around the house, procured by a scavenger hunt. Jar Jar's Martini Bar Adventure. (Is this a good place to throw in a Yoda quote? "The fear of loss is a path to the dark side.") Stay tuned. Maybe we can work in some kayaking. Maybe you get a free drink if you dress up like Yoda or JarJar Binks.

In other news, the Director of Recreation in Pillville has suggested that I dance every night. I'd enjoy that. I think I'll leave my mom in charge of Jar-Jar's.

A freshly washed up velella velella from last August.

 And a freshly washed up me (from the early post-divorce years.) I love this photo, taken by my niece in maybe 2008 or 2009.

Good Morning, wine. Is that you?

I've been hoping to drink a bit less wine. I poured a third modest glass last night and then said hey, I don't really want that. So I carried it upstairs with me since it might have been downed by my mom if I'd left it in the kitchen. This morning as I got ready to brush my teeth, I thought, hmmm. Maybe before I brush, I should have that.

This is not a plea for help. (I didn't drink it until dinner this evening.) I'm just telling it how it is for me on the island of Pillville. I'm sure many caregivers find their escape in a bottle or think about it anyway. I have narcotics in the house too, and don't think that they don't occasionally whisper my name. They do. So far I have not indulged.

I'm reading an excellent dark and funny memoir about caregiving. It's called "Bettyville." It's odd to sit on the couch after my mom has gone to bed and read what writer George Hodgeman probably wrote after his mom was in bed.

Speaking of writing, I was inspired by my mom's conversations with the dead (mostly her twin sister) to begin writing a few daily lines to the man who loved me.

Tired of death, drink and drugs?

Let's talk about dancing. I'm dancing two nights a week now. Two hours each session. Swing, Foxtrot, Rhumba. Tomorrow I'm going to buy some real dance shoes. I'm dancing with the same guy. He still goes east out of the parking lot. I still go west.

Tequila the Wonder Drug

My neighborhood looked like this yesterday morning.

I've been dragging myself through life the past couple of weeks. Gray sky inside my head. Mail piling up. Tasks accumulating. The layer of dust over everything in my house growing thicker. A dead plant on top of the armoire in the front hallway. Tired. So fucking tired. 

It occurred to me that I'm drinking too much wine. There was a time when I was making a point of not drinking. After my mom's fall on Thanksgiving and the post-fall rules which dictated she could have a mere 2 ounces of martini every evening, I decided I'd top that by foregoing alcohol all together Monday through Thursday. Things were pretty wobbly in Pillville back then. I needed every bit of focus I could muster. Then things changed. And I needed every ounce of wine I could justify. I'm never sure how these transitions get made here in Pillville. I'm just the boss of everything here in Pillville, and I guess, being the boss of wine, I declared that I should have more.

Yeah, so, yesterday I cooked my weekly dinner for my L.A. friends. (Chicken and cauliflower curry, roasted carrots and cucumber salad.) 

                                                            This is the chicken and cauliflower curry.

We had tequila afterwards. And chess pie. And more tequila. And more pie. And cookies. And more tequila. Honest to god, I thought I'd killed myself. And then this morning I woke up feeling fabulous and felt fabulous all day. I actually did stuff. Rectified all of the above-mentioned problems, plus called doctor's offices for my mom and sat on hold and then explained that no, she doesn't owe them money, that they have to bill her supplementary insurance (I'd had a complete mental block against doing this until today.) I ran errands like a champ, filed all the papers that had been teetering on every surface in my room, did laundry, made up the beds for guests, caulked the crack around my fireplace molding,  texted the Someone (which I'd been dreading) and asked about a check I thought I had coming, and THEN a neighbor brought a mis-delivered piece of mail to my door which turned out to be a check from the Someone. 

I mean. Really. It's got to be the tequila. Right?

Report from the Love Shack

Hahahaha. Just kidding.

I went to a wedding today though. The bride and groom kissed like crazy.

That looked like fun.

And in other news:

My mom got accepted into hospice care this morning.

Hold your horses.

All it means right now is that there's better pain management--and I'm happy beyond measure about that. I had a glass of champagne (all by myself) when the nurse left. The champagne was already in the fridge, opened and re-corked. Because friends.

And it made a big difference in my mom's day, taking those pills in four hours instead of six.

The big thing--and this is huge. I can call a nurse any hour of the day or night. The nurse will come to the house if I say we need her. Amazing. I keep looking at that piece of paper on my fridge, thinking, oh my god, there is a number I can call and someone will be right over.

That's what people do when you live near family members, right? I was away at college when my dad died very suddenly of a heart attack. It was evening. February. The roads were probably icy and it was mostly likely colder than hell. People came over. Yes, I have friends, excellent and generous and gracious friends, but I find it harder to impose on friends, especially in the middle of the night. Shortly after my divorce when I was living alone, I took a bunch of pain pills and bandaged my eye and went to sleep after my dog poked her toenail in it. I knew I had a scratched cornea. In the morning I drove myself to the eye doctor while holding a towel over half my face.

And here's the really amazing part--my mom can still go visit relatives in Maryland (which means I can take a trip with a friend) and be on hospice there. And then come back and be on hospice here. Well, the arrangements aren't totally solid yet, but it's in the works.

Originally, the word hospice meant simply an inn for travelers, I think.

And we're all just traveling through.

Sleep well.

Friday Morning Beach Report/ Report from Pillville

Sometimes I smell the bodies before I get close enough to the water to see them. A couple of days ago, I came upon four in a walk that was barely a mile, one so emaciated it looked like a sea serpent.  Sea lions are starving. Last year I saw quite a few pups and juveniles awaiting rescue. This year it's mostly bodies. Someone told me about the northern elephant seal pup that washed up yesterday. It was alive, she said, but didn't look good. This morning I came across the sign and the orange tape. Normally, elephant seals aren't this far south.

Also on this morning's walk, I saw a back hoe dig a big hole and mound up some sand. I guess this is how the dead ones are buried. It being Easter weekend and all, I suppose there's some concern about freaking out the tourists. Maybe we should put up signs marking all the spots where sea lions died. So people know and we can all freak out communally. There's a large sea lion colony in the islands. Maybe they'll survive this crisis.

As for life in Pillville, we have an assessment scheduled with a hospice nurse. Nothing has changed dramatically with my mom, but her slow motion slide inches downward. A walker instead of her cane. More pain. Less energy. But odd as it may sound, we're happy enough here in Pillville. Yesterday friends came by to drink champagne. They're all so pretty, my mom told me afterwards. She wanted to know if they all had husbands. No, I said, oversimplifying things quite a bit. I knew where the discussion was headed, so I changed the subject. I think if I hadn't, she would have told me once again I should have a husband--or at least a man in my life. I'd love to fall in love, but I don't think I'm ready. And I absolutely can't imagine how a man would fit into life here in Pillville. He'd have to be a saint. That's not exactly what I'm looking for.

"I'm no saint. I got papers to prove I ain't."-- fragment from one of Dan's songs.

So thanks for visiting and taking time to read about the dead and dying.

Here's a pure white dove for you. Peace.

Signs, Proof, and the Buddha Makes Lemonade

This is proof.

That this happened this weekend.

And this.

But I have no proof of what I saw this evening when I went for a walk around the block. Looking in my patio window, I saw my mother reaching behind my cookbooks where I stash my unfinished bottle of wine. Her martini glass had been drained just minutes before, and I mistakenly thought that her body had forgotten the sea of alcohol that it had been afloat in for so long. Of late she's been congenial about her two-ounce martini. She might have seen me. But maybe not. The bottle of wine was tightly sealed with one of those vacuum corks, and when I returned (just minutes later,) it was still sealed. "That sure was a short walk," she said. "It was," I said.

And this novel I'm reading, "The Debt to Pleasure," by John Lanchester---SPOILER ALERT---overwhelmed me with its darkness this afternoon. I have no proof, but there are signs that our narrator is a psychopath who has murdered his parents and caused the death of  perhaps two household employees. The book is a feast of language and wit and actual recipes. Not to mention a banquet of arcana that regularly sends me on a Google tangent. BUT. Either I've figured out on page 111 where this story is going or my prediction of where it all will end is a sign of my own darkness. 

And I'm not sure what's going on here in my iPhoto as it interfaces with Blogger, but for the second time in recent months, a photo that I have not selected--a photo from months ago--has appeared in this post. It's a photo from Dan's memorial. I'm going to call it a sign. 

The Envelope, Please.

Not quite what I have in mind. But close.

And.....the award for best doctor in Pillville goes to....my mom's neurologist.

The things he said to me at my mom's appointment this afternoon, not in this exact order, are as follows:

You are doing a big important job.
You must have two full days off every week. Full days. I insist. You have a brain and a body that need caring for too.
Your mom is lucky.
Your job is hard.

These are the things he said to my mom:
You are really lucky to be alive and enjoying life.
You look great.
Half of all the 90 year olds have Alzheimer's. Your brain is pretty healthy.
You absolutely can't smoke.
While I don't endorse alcohol exactly, I want you to enjoy life, so you can drink a little. But only a little.

He went on to tell my mom that if she was going to drink when I wasn't in the house, she should wear a helmet. (He's very concerned about her falling.) Can't you see it? A helmet with a martini glass on it?! Just think all 90-year-old tipplers could have custom cocktail helmets like dog lovers who get baseball caps or bumper stickers that say "I love my golden retriever," or "I love my dachshund." Just think, helmets with beer steins, martini glasses, champagne glasses, etc.

I love this doctor.
I want to marry him.

The Coming of the Light

Solstice sunset with Buffleheads

Suddenly it's here, this tide-turning solstice where daylight inches its way back to us. For the first time ever, the months of darkness didn't seem to matter to me. But not necessarily for the right reasons. The past month I've rarely gone out of the house in the dark since it's impossible to leave my mom alone. And I've kind of had my own dark mood going on, so the dark outside was just one big meh. It's only just now, a couple of hours before the calendar flips to tomorrow that I even realized it was the solstice. Which is a round about way of saying that the darkness didn't really get to me this year the way it has in the past. And even if it was for the wrong reasons, it seems okay in a way.

Here's what's different:

I've gone to bed really early and actually gone to sleep many nights before 9:00 p.m. Supposedly, this is what humans are meant to do when the days are short. It certainly has felt right to me. And by going to sleep so early, I'm always up by sunrise which is just plain good for the soul.

Also, I'm not drinking any alcohol unless there's someone else here in the house with my mom and me. So that means no drinking Sunday through Thursday usually. Why has it been so damn hard for me to grasp the fact that alcohol is a depressant and just plain not good for me when I am struggling?

When grief is a big thing in your life, the smaller challenges seem, well, smaller. Or I suppose they could seem bigger...so the fact that they don't is really good, right?

So here I am sitting in my living room in the dark, the Christmas tree doing its job as a symbol of light and life. M put up our outside Christmas lights this weekend and they are casting a lovely glow on the patio and the lighted tree is reflected in the patio window, making it seems as if it's both places at once. It's unbelievably pretty and quiet here. Well, my mom's in her room shouting in her sleep, but as unsettling as that might seem, she is not shouting in pain, she's just dreaming.

Detail of our Christmas tree with the snowflakes my mom has crocheted

So I'm content and happy. Seizing one of those rare moments when I am actually able to grasp for more than a second that I'm responsible for creating that for myself. That there's light inside me all of the time and that light is not at the mercy of the sun.

I'm really pretty thrilled at the way that everything has worked out. That I was dumped by the ex-husband and got to meet Dan. That my mother came to live with me and has spent two and a half years here in this beautiful place watching the birds and getting to spend more time with my daughters and my son and his family. And that we'll all be together over the holidays. Well, not Dan. But yes, him too in a way. His light still shines. I can see it.

Self-Portrait with the Dead

I didn't set out to make a selfie. Dan's memorial was just so pretty I ran around taking photos of everything. I look hunched up and sad, and that's how I feel these days. Like the couch is made of flypaper and I'm a bug who can't get off. Until I'm forced to manufacture some kind of dinner for my mom. Last night was an embarrassing array of no-effort leftovers. Tonight I'm making lentil soup if I get up in the next ten minutes.

I've been in the weirdest state of mind. Like I could sit all day and Google how to bring a person back from the dead and then actually read the shit that comes up.

It's fixing to rain here. I like the feel of it. Like at least the weather is doing something.

And now I'm doing something too. Soup. I'm making soup. I'm making soup. Well obviously, I'm not. I'm typing. But now really, I'm making soup.

*****

I made soup. I chopped up an onion and some celery and sautéed them in olive oil. I added chicken stock and seasonings and lentils. We'll have soup and some sliced avocado and persimmons, and could anything be better? I'll toast some french bread and butter too.

I just made my mom her 2 oz. doctor-permitted martini and if all goes as usual, she'll soon be having a pre-dinner conversation with her dead sister and who knows who else. She's got a talent for talking to the dead.

God, don't you just wanna come over here?

And did I mention that the non-alchoholic gin arrived? I'm going to have some with a little ginger beer--which y'all might think is ass-backwards. Like maybe I should be the one drinking and not the 90-year-old. Truth be told, I'm pretty sure she'd know the difference and be pissed as hell about it, and I really don't feel I can drink while I'm responsible for her. Any minute I could be following the ambulance to the hospital, then acting like a fool when I can't remember shit when the paramedics or the doctors question me about this and that. That's how I am stone cold sober under pressure.  I can act like a drunk with no help at all from a little fermented bunch of berries. 

Ventura Highway in the Pouring Rain

The title of this post is a song lyric I imagined into existence. The lyric is really "Ventura Highway in the Sunshine" (from  the band, America, 1972) which makes a lot more sense. It is, however, raining here in southern California as I write this. My research does support my recollection that there was another 1972 song called "It Never Rains in Southern California." We are obsessed here with rain in this very dry place besieged with wildfires and besotted with swimming pools, golf courses, and non-native greenery. So it's raining, and there will be mudslides in the area that recently burned. If I were to turn on the TV which I won't, there would no doubt be a newscaster in front of a graphic titled Storm Watch or Storm of the Century. It's all hype as many things are here--except of course for the poor people whose houses will fill up with mud.

The batten down the hatches oh my god it's raining mentality is a southern California phenomenon that used to bemuse me when I first moved here. I was doing theatre then and a rainy night always meant no-shows and the not as cozy as it sounds experience of having more people on stage than in the audience. But I've lived here far longer than anywhere else and now I feel that way too. I'm sitting on my couch watching the rain hit the water and waiting for my mom to wake up. I'm still in my pajamas and I'm thinking, wow these are nice pajamas and I just might not get out of them today, because, you know, it's raining. And of course I can't really go anywhere anyway since I don't have a caregiver lined up for my mom yet.

And now she's up. Question for the day. Will I be at the orthopedist's office this afternoon....or drinking champagne in my pajamas with friends.

********

This just in. Orthopedist.

Report from Pillville: How to operate a Lazy-Boy recliner with your feet/ how to stay on your feet

"You're one tough cookie," the ER doctor told my mother on Friday evening. She was flattered, I think. So when you're tough, you try to wheel your wheel chair with a broken hand. You don't let anyone help you screw the cap back on your bottle of Ensure even if it's incredibly awkward doing it left-handed. And when you're in your recliner in the sanctuary of your room, and it's pointed out to you that the control lever is on the right-hand side and that you shouldn't try to manipulate it because your hand might be further injured since it's not yet in a cast, you don't call for your daughter or your granddaughter to help you when you want to get up. No. You're a tough cookie so you somehow fling your ninety-year-old leg over the arm of the chair, and with your ninety-year-old foot you get that damn lever to put your foot rest down. Yeah. Fuck yeah.

that's my mom's room there to the right--and a glimpse of the foot-operated recliner

God help me. This is the second night of the two-ounce martini. The second night that she's home. The second night that I will be sleeping in this nifty little bed right outside her bedroom door. And it's okay, really. I suspect that in a few days after some physical therapy, she'll be strong enough to get herself out of bed.

I'll be arranging for a caregiver so I can carry on caring for myself and the needs of our household. While I wouldn't describe myself as a tough cookie, I'd say I'm good at talking and thinking things through, and that I'm resolute.

It also helps that my fridge looks like this.

That's homemade sangria and homemade chutney made by friends. And there's still leftover pie. It also helps that daughter C researched and found a home security camera/baby monitor that will come in handy when I move back upstairs to my own bedroom. It helps that daughter M may be able to work from home (meaning here) one day a week. It helps that I have just ordered a bottle of non-alcoholic gin which may enable me to dilute the teeny martini. Yeah, so we might just all stay on our feet.

So let's celebrate that. And please visit my other blog, and let's celebrate the end of National Adoption Month too.

It's All in the Timing

Why does anyone ever get sent home from the hospital on a Saturday or a Sunday?
Why does my mother seem particularly prone to being hospitalized around holidays and birthdays? (not her own birthday though)
How could it have possibly taken me a full hour tonight to put the detergent in the dishwasher and push the button to start it, each a step toward it interrupted by something my mother needed?
How is it that she could have fallen yesterday morning when that seems like several days ago?
And how is it that she could have fallen just minutes before I walked in the door yesterday morning (her version of the story) when her bedding was spotted with blood and pool of long dried blood was not that long after found on her floor?
How is it that a person who's been on this earth for 90 years has not learned to ask for help?
How much harder would this have all been without both my daughters visiting? (I don't think I really want to know the answer to that.)

I'm just full of questions tonight, aren't I?

In any event, she's home.

The foam topper on her hospital bed is now belted to the standard issue hospital bed mattress with yoga straps. (The askew foam topper is not why she fell, but was something that needed addressing.) Yet another reason to be grateful for my yoga practice and my yoga friends.

In other news: The two ounce martini was received politely. (The martini consumption can be, I believe, correlated to the fall.)

Two ounces per night (or perhaps less) will now be doled out by me. As opposed to the abundant pre-mixed supply as portrayed in the photo below.

And all other booze is now hidden. Come over. We'll party. The secret location here on the premises will be disclosed discreetly.

The coming days will hold a visit to the cardiologist (what is up with the low blood pressure?--hers--sure as hell not mine,) a visit to the primary care doctor, a visit to the orthopedist, home health visits from a nurse, a physical therapist, and, I feel reasonably certain, visits from my friends.

Traveling the World(s)

Ideally, when one goes off for the weekend to stay in a swanky-ish spot, one would not be wearing pink flannel pajamas and be in bed alone. However, I survived. I even had fun. A lot of fun.

My godson's wedding was completely charming. The after-party for the older generation (plus the groom's brother as a representative of the younger generation) was delightful and involved a lot of wine, some really good goat cheese, and one of those irresistible confections from Trader Joe's involving chocolate and nuts and coconut. I have no solid recollection of what exactly we talked about, but I do remember laughing a lot. I was afraid I'd feel like shit this morning since I barely drink these days, but I woke early and hit the road. Driving does weary me though. More than drinking too much wine. I got off the road  for a while and went exploring in a beach town a couple hours north of where I live. It was full of tourists eating salt water taffy, and  fro-yo and the sidewalks looked as though they had suffered a lot of fro-yo and taffy spills. I like where I live better.

So it's lovely to be home. I took a long walk and met an acquaintance/friend for a glass of wine which turned into dinner with more friends of hers, and god, we older women are fascinating. There were five of us and the collection of life experiences was not for the faint of heart. But there we were.

I've been trying to prompt myself to dream of Dan this past week or so. A couple of nights before I left, I dreamed I was at a party and ran into an old college friend who'd heard that I had a wonderful boyfriend. Oh, he died, I told her. He's dead. Her eyes filled with tears and she seemed shocked that I'd been so blunt. I had another dream a couple of nights ago and it slipped away before I could solidify the memory of it. I remember only touching his face.

And so it goes, I move through these two worlds, communing with both the dead and the living.

Sunday Evening Beach Report

I've been away most of September, only returning to do laundry and re-pack for the next adventure. I haven't seen "my" beach in weeks. Usually, there isn't much sea weed here--not like on the L.A. beaches--but tonight it looked like the sand was littered with carcasses.

There have been high tides, too. Pools of water are still standing near the dunes. I've missed witnessing these daily changes. Things are always changing, and the beach is one place where that's readily evident.

So I'm home. My mom is still on the east coast. It's been great to have a break from caregiving, but I feel I could fall back into some of my old ways. Tonight's dinner was Brie and crackers, olives, chocolate, and wine consumed on the couch while watching a movie. If I have popcorn and beer tomorrow, I'll know I'm in trouble.

Unscheduled time without obligations is both liberating and a bit like being in freefall. But I feel I used my day well. Laundry, a serious cleaning up of my patio while listening to podcasts of This American Life, reading most of the last New Yorker, unpacking.

Tomorrow I will buy and cook some vegetables.