A Special Day

Today is Ken’s birthday.  He would have been 58.  How tortured he must have been that he could no longer live in this world.  It’s been three years since he decided to take his life.  The world seems so empty on these special days.


“How Not to Die”

The book arrived from Amazon Sunday.  “How Not to Die” by Michael Greger, M.D.  My favorite topic: health and nutrition.   Dr. Greger presents scientific evidence that a plant based diet will not only prevent disease, but also reverse it.  He shows what to eat for specific diseases and he gives a checklist of foods we should eat every day, which he calls ‘the daily dozen.’

Convinced that food is the best medicine for healing, I’ve been collecting a library of books on the subject for years.  Two of my favorite experts are Dr. Dean Ornish and Dr. Weil.   I’ve followed the DASH diet, Paelo and Gaps.  I have shelves and shelves of books on Hashimoto’s, hypothyroidism, diabetes, heart disease, and a large mix of others on general health.  I acquired two degrees in nursing and became a nurse practitioner.  I’ve combed the internet and collected additional information.

I guess I’ve always been interested in how to be and stay healthy.  I was a sickly child.  Had scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, strep throats, pneumonia, and all the childhood diseases.   Rheumatic Fever left me with a mitral valve prolapse, and consequently, occasional paroxysmal atrial tachycardia.  I’ve had other problems as an adult.

I’m in my 90th year, and I’m still searching for ways to keep on living.  It’s been my main focus in life, while two of my sons chose to end theirs.

I wouldn’t say my adult life has been a happy one; far from it, yet, you’ll find me kicking and screaming all the way to the grave. I’ve made mistakes, have regrets.   I’ve closed the door on sorrow and love, lost faith and hope.  Yet, I jealously guard my right to occupy space in this world.  Why?  What do I have to live for?

I know there’s beauty in the world and I want to experience it before I die.  I want to feel again.  I want to do some good.  I want my existence, and all existence, to have meaning.   I want to accomplish what I was put in this world to accomplish.

One thing I do believe, without reservation, is the body’s ability to heal itself. Perhaps I can build on that and find my way once more to an open door.

Breaking the Monotony

Today Chris and I enjoyed our new TV that Mediacom installed in the living room.  It’s our first smart TV.  Chris put wi fi and netflex on it and we’re in business.  We have four televisions now.  One each in my bedroom, Chris’s bedroom, the sun room and the living room.

Maybe the new TV will draw me out of my bedroom and off my bed.  I’ve used the excuse that I stayed in my bedroom because  there was no TV in the living room and the sun room was too cold in winter and too warm in summer.

Although I do spend time each day cooking and fixing meals, filling and emptying the dishwasher, feeding the animals and letting  Jenny out,  most of my day is spent on my bed watching television, computering, reading, or talking on the phone.  I order groceries and put them away once or twice a week.  And my hair dresser and housekeeper both come every week.  Unless I have a rare visitor or have to keep a doctor’s appointment, it’s a good bet I can be found on my bed in my bedroom.

I hope the new TV will change that.  Better to sit on the couch in the living room than on my bed in the bedroom.  Leaving my bed will certainly lift my spirits.  Maybe I’ll feel like a normal human being again.

Mistaken Identity

Another call.  Hope again.  The other cat was not Niles.  This one wasn’t either.  The other cat was larger than Niles and not neutered.  Today, the cat was neutered, but the wrong color.

A week or so ago I saw a cat taking refuge under a pine tree in my front yard.  I called animal control but was informed they don’t pick up cats.  Unable to go out and get the cat, I was left frustrated and fearful for its safety.  It was cold and I live not far from a busy street.   The cat I learned about today was the same color as the cat I saw last week.  I hope it is the same one.  I’ve thought about it so much and hoped someone took it in out of the cold.  I wish someone had seen poor Niles and taken him in.

It’s so weird, getting a call about Niles three months after he drifted away.  And even though we found one close to home and had him cremated, I still hoped we’d made a mistake and Niles is still alive.

I remember when, 40 years age, someone lost control of her car and veered into my yard, hitting and killing my dog.  Until we could have her cremated, we wrapped her in her favorite blanket  and placed her in a box in the garage.  That night I couldn’t rest until Forrest went out and unwrapped her to see if she was really dead.  I could hear her footsteps behind me as I climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

Funny, how reason goes out the window when it comes to love and grief.

Grief Revisited

Curious Niles

Today I got an email from someone on Facebook where I had posted an ad about my beloved orange tabby, Niles.  Niles slipped out of the house early one morning when my son, Chris, opened the sun room door to take out his dog.  By the time I discovered he was gone, six hours had passed.  We posted flyers and made signs.  I posted ads online and in local papers.  Put a litter box, food and his favorite blanket outside.  I changed the food every day.  I even left the sun room door open all night for five nights so he could get in if we were sleeping.  Every time I opened the door to let Jenny, my dog, out, I called his name.  I felt trapped in my wheelchair, unable to go out and look for him, dependent on others.  I hired someone to make the signs and it took her two weeks!  My stomach was in knots.  I even hired a dog finder who was scheduled to come and search for him, but we found him (we thought), bloated, by the side of the road not far from where we live the day before she was due to arrive.  We had him cremated. That was two and a half months ago.

Today I talked with someone who found an orange tabby about two miles from our house. She said he had cuts on his ears and was very dirty.  And he is very friendly, just like Niles. I sent her pictures of Niles.  She said she believes he looks like the cat she found.  She is willing to show him to us if we can come and look.  Karen, my sweet niece who is here from Arizona, said she would work it in (she is with her sister, Susie, who is in the latest stages of cancer).  Chris works all day but said he would go if Karen was unable to. He warns me not to get my hopes up. I know, but …..

Did we make a mistake when we assumed the cat we found was Niles?  I so want this one to be him.  This call has brought back all the old grief and it’s like Niles just now disappeared.  If I was still driving, I’d have been over there by now.  It’s so frustrating,  having to give in to old age and ailments.  Hard to stay positive.

Book Release

My latest book, “That’s How I Roll,” was released on amazon yesterday.  It’s in memory of Ken who died in December, 2013.  It’s a combination of prose, poetry, haibun and haiku.  It was hard to write, but I wanted to keep Ken alive, if only in a book, just as I did for his brothers, Scott and John.

Ken once asked me when I was going to write a book about him.  I told him, jokingly, that he’d have to die first.   Except for one volume of poetry, which was published about a year ago, the books I’ve written are memoirs about my sons who died.   Today I am haunted by those words.

Shrunken Neighborhood, Expanded Memories

Last night, Karen, my niece, called to ask me exactly where the house was on Scott street where Bud, my brother (her dad) and I used to live.  She shared with me some memories she had of the exterior and interior and some things that happened there.  It got me to thinking about the years we spent there.  Dad bought the house when I was nine (the first house my parents owned); and except for a brief year at the edge of town where my father could have a larger garden, I lived there until I was eighteen when Dad, who was a contractor, built Mother’s dream house.

Before I turned nine, we moved five times before Dad bought the house and three years after we left, until I married Forrest.  So Scott street is the home that is a part of me and I remember the most with nostalgia.  I even remember the number.  609 West Scott.

After Karen hung up, I opened my laptop and googled the place.  I was delighted to find pictures!  Not only of the outside but of the inside!  Pictures of every room, the yard, the neighborhood.  The house was for sale and the realtor had posted them.  Everything looks so much smaller now than it did when I was young .  I stayed and visited and remembered for hours!  So many many memories.

Before I dimmed the light for nighttime sleep, it occurred to me, I am the oldest living member of my family.  There are so many things I could share with them that they might like to know.  I have always regretted not knowing more about my parent’s and other relatives in the past.  Then and there I decided that I’ll collect some writings I’ve done over the years about those times and write more if I have time and put a book together for the family.  I’ve been working on two other volumes, but this feels urgent to me.   I want to finish all three, but I do so want these family stories to live on.