5056 Coming out

Thursday, February 11, 2016

"No one really listens to anyone else, and if you try it for a while you'll see why."

-- Mignon McLaughlin --

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Today is my next-younger brother's birthday.  I think he's 67.  Dear Big-Little Sister and Daughter are in close touch (I'm a social slob, I leave family contact to them) and Sister told Daughter that Brother has throat/oral/mouth? cancer.

I don't know what to think about that.  I haven't seen or spoken to him in more than 35 years, and I don't want to.  The last contact I had with him was when we (Ex#2, Daughter, and I) were living in the DC area, and for some undisclosed reason (Mom later hinted at his being in trouble with some drug cartel or something) he had to get out of Florida and hide for a while, so he came to live with us.  It was not a good experience.  He may or may not have done something unforgivable while he was living with us, that's murky because Daughter was only 3 or 4 then and didn't tell me about it for many years, so I don't know, but given some things my late baby sister said I believe in the possibility if not the actuality, anyway he was very disruptive while with us and then he disappeared with no notice, leaving me to deal with phone calls and threats from very scary people looking for him.  And he never explained what was going on or said thank you (or paid back the money I lent him).  He just disappeared.  So, it's like he's a stranger.  I have no feelings.

I had more of a reaction to the news about Evan Morris, the "Word Detective" guy.  He's been battling progressive MS for years, and has now been diagnosed with Stage 4  cancer.  He and his wife and a herd of adopted ex-feral cats live way out in the sticks, and their 19-year-old car died, and they have no means to buy another.  I really feel for him.  The link above goes to a letter to those of us subscribers who have been enjoying his column for years.

Sister has given rides to Brother to his treatments.  I admire my Big-Little Sister.  She has even greater reason to write off Brother than I, but she is capable of more compassion and forgiveness than I.

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I've been reading old posts in this blog.  You know, memories are not always very accurate.  I loved the country house, loved the countryside, all the things to do there, all the friends and acquaintances.  I went out for lunch or dinner with friends at least three times a week, and there was something interesting going on almost every weekend.  I remember all the good stuff.  In fact, I was so deluded as to think that I never felt cold in that house.

Wrong!

The winters were brutal!  The house is on a ridge, higher than surrounding land, so I got more snow and wind.  The 300 foot driveway was constantly buried in snow, ice, slush, a horror, and it was not always easy to find someone to clear it.  If the snow was soft enough that I could run the snowthrower, it took hours to do it myself, and the snowthrower was constantly breaking down.  We were constantly losing electricity because of downed wires, which meant no heat, no water (no well pump).   And even though the house was technically tight and the thermostat said the temperature was constant, every time the sun went down, I felt so cold. 

In the spring and fall, there were storms, ice storms and wind storms, that took out branches and whole trees on my property.  One year I lost more than 23 trees.  I don't know how there's any trees left in my woods!

In the summer it was the weeds, and raspberries, and wild roses that threatened to overrun everything - a constant losing battle.  Then there was the yellow jackets, who built nests in, on, and under anything that held still for more than a few hours.  I had to be careful every time I opened a car door, or filled a car gas tank, because there was likely a nest in there.  And then there were the ground-nesting hornets that made it dangerous to walk across the lawn, let alone mow.  And the chipmunks who undermined the driveway, causing cave-ins.  And the mice who rampaged in the attic, and died in the walls.

Old blog posts remind me that it wasn't all that idyllic.  At my current age and physical state, I'm not sure I could handle it.  Well, maybe I could, but I absolutely don't want to anymore.

I've about decided the only thing I really miss are the daffodils.  And Jay.

I think I'm finally ready to do something about it.
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5012 I think I'll title all posts "Rambles"

Monday, September 21, 2015

"Few people can see genius in someone who has offended them."

 – Robertson Davies –

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Since last spring, Daughter had been looking forward to visiting my sister in Florida this fall. 

Well, Daughter checked on flights, I guess in late spring, and, I don't know what she was looking at, but she said the tickets were a bazillion dollars each.  So Hercules decided no, they couldn't afford it.  Badda boom.  End of story.

When I asked her a few weeks ago when they were planning to go and she told me they weren't going, and why, I was devastated.  I hadn't realized until then that I was so excited about the idea, too.  I haven't been keeping in touch (no reason, I'm just a clod), and hadn't seen sweet Sister in years, and the thought of my daughter and Nugget visiting thrilled me in some way I can't explain.  

I was crushed.

So, I went online and checked on tickets myself.  Maybe the drop in gas prices has something to do with it, but all the flights were a hair over $200.  So I told her pish on Hercules -- I'll pay for Daughter and Nugget to go.  I'll even pay for a rental car.

Well, with that news, Hercules decided he'd go, too.  (I'm not paying for his ticket.  Pish on him.  I'm betting he's all excited about geocaching opportunities, not about Daughter seeing her aunt and Nugget meeting her great-aunt.  Pish on him!)

They leave next Thursday.  I'll drive them to the Newark airport and pick them up after.

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A random reference to TMI, and what it used to mean.  

Things have changed.  In 1975 when I was pregnant with Daughter, proper maternity clothes were circus tents.  You weren't supposed to even hint at an outline, like you were supposed to pretend it was a secret or something.  I wore the proper tents to the office, but rebelled outside work.  With the hippie influence, flower power, Woodstock, things were changing. 

I had found a T-shirt with BABY in big letters across the bust, and a wide arrow pointing down, and it wasn't even a tent.  It hugged my belly.  I loved that thing and wore it everywhere.  At that time and place, it was original, unique.

And everywhere I went, I got frowns, sneers, and whispers behind hands from women, and averted eyes from men.  The shirt was absolutely disgusting to many, and they let me know.  This was, by the way, in the mid-west.  I suspect that on either coast, folks may have found it more amusing.  But St. Louis was definitely NOT amused!

I asked a friend why there was such a strong response, and she said it was because the shirt was saying that I'd had sex.

Um, yeah, all pregnant women had.  Just being pregnant says that.  Besides, I'm married, so it's ok, isn't it?

Well, yeah, it's ok, but you're not supposed to talk about it, she said.  You're supposed to hide it.  That shirt not only literally points out that you've had sex, and points out where, but it BRAGS about it.  So when people see that, it makes them think about sex, and that disgusts them.

Oh.

Forty years later, I wonder what they'd think of pregnant women in bikinis?
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3325 Collection, Chobani, Sister

Monday, August 1, 2011

"Who understands does not preach;
Who preaches does not understand."
-- Tao Te Ching --

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Baby Sister, I know you read this. I missed your birthday! I'm so sorry. I say missed instead of forgot, because I didn't forget, but when the time came, I missed it! Blew right on by.

Well, I hope your day was great, and that your offspring were more attentive than I, and that the next year goes well for you. Happy birthday, Baby.

(She's baby sister because she's younger, but I can't call her Little Sister because she got the long legs, and can run faster and beat me up.)

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I'm not buying Chobani Greek low-fat yogurt any more. I'm done. Two containers in the past week went to alcohol, and one of those two absolutely didn't get warm - it went from the store refrigerator to my refrigerator within a half hour - and the container I opened yesterday had a spot of mold in it. The foil lid was tight - no open spots - but there was mold along the edge. I don't trust the crap anymore. And that stuff's expensive!

I used to pay about $.80 for the old 8-ounce Dannon. Then they went to 6-ounce containers, and the price went to like $.68. It's been creeping up since then, of course, but was never over $.89. Well, this stupid Chobani is something like $1.39 for 6 ounces. That's ridiculous!

Dannon has become too sweet-tasting, and the local stores don't seem to stock the fat-free Dannon in the right flavors (I don't want fruit-on-the-bottom). I need to find a new good clean live-culture low-fat or fat-free yogurt. I haven't had a yeast infection in nigh on 30 years, and I don't intend to, and I credit my once a day live yogurt for that.

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In other news, the urine collection has not gone well. I had TOLD them that one 3-litre container par day wasn't going to be enough. They patted me on the head and told me I was silly.

Well, Friday I started collecting in the acid-treated container. By 2 pm, it was already 2/3 full, and I knew the overnight collection would be most important because I take my vitamins and minerals in the evening, so I didn't drink anything from 2 pm until 8 pm. This is NOT my usual pattern. I filled the container to the top with the morning's deposit, and took it to the lab Saturday morning.

Then I started the plain container with the next piddle on Saturday. I curtailed my usual intake so it would all fit.

Don't know if you've ever done this, but they give you what is sometimes called a top hat. It looks like a plastic hat, with a brim around 3/4 of the top, and you set it in the toilet with the hat brim holding it in place in the front of the bowl, under the seat ring.

Well, when I went to bed Saturday night, I put the hat in the toilet upstairs. During the night, maybe about 2 am, I got up and filled the hat. Literally. It slightly passed the 30 ounce mark on the markings in the hat.

Sheesh! How big is my bladder? Anyway, note that that's 2 lbs of urine in the hat. I lifted the toilet seat ring to remove the hat, and the brim of the hat collapsed from the weight, dumping half the urine into the bowl, and splashing water into the hat.

I can't use that.

Now what?

I could dump out what I'd already collected from Saturday and start over on Sunday. Or I could shrug, keep what I've got so far up to 10 pm Saturday, and then start collecting Sunday night at 10 pm.

So that's what I did. Middle-of-the-night again, Sunday night, I exceeded even the previous night's. I not only passed the 30 ounce mark, but I passed the top of the hat and it overflowed into the toilet bowl. Sheesh! (Just for the heck of it, I measured how much it takes to overflow the hat. It was at least 45 ounces, not counting what got lost when it overflowed.) I tried to pour what was in the hat into the collection container, but it wouldn't all fit.

So the first deposit of the morning and the remainder of the night's had to go into a 1-quart Melamine storage container.

This is getting ridiculous. I spent much of Sunday out with Daughter and a friend, and then with Daughter until after 7 pm. They saw how much I drank during the day. From about 11 am until maybe 8 pm I had one large glass of restaurant water, no ice, and one large glass of iced coffee, half of which was ice and discarded. And then in the evening, maybe two or three 10-12 ounce glasses of water.

Where is this stuff coming from?!

Just how big IS my bladder? Actually, I suspect a lot of the overnight stuff was coming from the collection chambers in the kidneys.

Incidentally, I never used to get up in the night to piddle. That crap started in April when I had the stent. I'm not too happy with this new habit, but apparently the kidneys and bladder like it. And the doctors always tell you to piddle after sex, so if I ever have sex again (snork!), it might come in handy. (A little more TMI - I never could do it for two reasons - I get so congested and puffy there that it shuts off piddling, and, as I used to tell the doctors, "I can't piddle that many times in one night.")

So, anyhoo, I took the regular container and my storage container with the excess to the lab this morning. They were a little upset and told me that I should have asked for TWO collection bottles.

Then *I* got upset, and informed them that I DID request additional, and was refused since they were SURE I wouldn't need it. Regardless of the fact that I was sure I did.

I am so pissed.

...pun...

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Oh, hey, something else stupid. They didn't want to give me my storage container back, because it had had urine in it. Duh? It isn't soft plastic. It's 30 years old, and solid, and can be washed on the sani cycle in the dishwasher! Also, it was MY urine! I touch it all the time.
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3276 Morbid urge

Monday, June 6, 2011

“Progress ... is not the result of individual accomplishments, but the product of a vast human consciousness that contains ... a perception of purpose, potential, and need.... [The] contributions of any single person is not substance, but style.”
-- Les Kamm, letter in the Mensa Bulletin --

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I've been bitten by an urge I don't quite understand.

By the usual circuitous internet links route I ended up this morning at this article, http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2011/06/05/thats-not-in-the-bible/?iref=obnetwork, about how people misquote the Bible. I then read the comments, which were interesting until people (as usual) stopped commenting on the article and began sniping at each other.

Many of the commenters in attempting to refute the author's arguments did not seem to realize that they did exactly what the author bemoaned - they interpreted the passages to suit their desired interpretation.

Anyway, I wanted to look up the passages in question. My late youngest sister's Bible happened to be on the shelf over the computer, so I pulled it down. My late sister had tucked in a newspaper clipping of my mother's obituary, and apparently my sister's mother-in-law had also tucked in a clipping of my sister's obituary before she sent the box of materials to me.

I read the brief obit again, for perhaps the third time since I'd discovered it, and was seized by a strong desire to visit her grave.

I'm not a grave visiting kind of person. I visit the place where Jay's ashes were spread, but mainly because it was one of our favorite places. Otherwise, no. I see no point. But for some reason I want to visit youngest sister's grave.

The obituary has the name of the town, the name of the church and the cemetery, and the name of the funeral home. It's smack in the middle of Georgia. The town is tiny. Google maps has found the church for me, but not the cemetery. That's disappointing. I would have liked to see the satellite view. There are many online lists of cemeteries in Georgia, but the one I'm looking for isn't listed anywhere.

I suppose I could call the funeral home and ask, but somehow I don't want to. I want to go to the little town this summer sometime, when I'm able to drive distances again, and to the church, and find her myself!

I lost her, and now I want to make the effort to find her.
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3195 Janice's box

Sunday, March 20, 2011

It's not what you have in your life but who you have in your life that counts.

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I went north to the old house Friday. For once, I remembered to both set the trip odometer and look at it when I arrived. 130 miles.

My goal was not so much to pack up stuff to bring back, but to fill big black garbage bags. My minimum goal was five garbage bags, and five recycle bags. I took the recycle bags to the center (open only on Saturday morning), and put the garbage bags out for pickup. Saturday morning I had filled the sixth garbage bag and was starting on the seventh (I'm being tough! Haven't used in a year? Haven't missed? Not valuable? OUT!), when I unburied a box I didn't recognize in a corner of the bedroom.

I opened it. Big mistake.

My youngest sister Janice died in April of 1999. She was one of the most beautiful women you'd ever see, with skin that reflected light, huge dark eyes, clear unambiguous smile, fluffy dark hair, and amazing eyebrows. She was also sweet, gentle, and forgiving. She never had a chance in life, because our father got worse as he got older, so the last two, Janice and Baby Brother, well, it's a long sad story but they both ended up deep in addictions.

Janice and her husband were both alcoholics. They met in AA, and at the time they married, they had both been dry for a few years. But the husband (a handsome and very talented cabinetmaker) had low self-esteem also, and I guess he was afraid he couldn't hold such a beautiful wife --- unless he kept her too drunk to leave. His jealousy wouldn't even let her go to AA for fear she'd meet someone else.

I sent her money to save their house when they'd lost another job. I sent her money when they didn't have grocery money, even though I knew they'd probably buy alcohol instead of food. Every once in a while she'd be involuntarily committed to dry out, but he'd pull her out as soon as she was allowed to leave.

I kept waiting for her to hit bottom and agree to stay in rehab regardless of what he wanted, and I offered to pay for any clinic, for both of them if necessary, but it had to be separately, and she'd have to commit to the full time. She'd have to agree to be away from his influence for the duration. She never got to that point.

They went on a weekend binge, and she died sometime during the weekend, and he was too drunk to notice. They figure she'd been dead three days before he figured it out.

They buried her immediately, so I couldn't go to the funeral. Jay'd just been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, had surgery, and we were starting the clinical trials. I didn't have the energy to morn both Janice and Jay. There was a brief period of shock and regret for Janice, guilt that I didn't know how bad it was and didn't do more, and then I had to turn to Jay and more immediate matters.

Early in 2001, Janice's husband died. His mother, going through his stuff, found a lot of photos and papers that she said was Janice's family stuff, and she sent it to me. I'm not sure why me, when I believe our other sister had been more involved with them, but maybe because I had paid for Janice's funeral. But at that time, Jay was blind, bedridden, hemi-paralyzed, on a gazillion medications, and I was his fulltime and sole caretaker. We were in the end stretch, and again, I couldn't yet face what might be in the box. So I didn't go through it. Then Jay died, I went into a 3.5 year depression, became somewhat of a hoarder (I guess because I had lost so much, I bought bought bought anything and everything I wanted and didn't want to give anything up), I lost control of the house, and the box got buried.

I rediscovered it yesterday, and opened it.

Suddenly all the mourning for my sister that I had suppressed back then came flooding in. I cried and cried over the life she should have had, the life she could have had if our father hadn't beaten her into thinking she didn't deserve anything ... and then it got worse.

Her death certificate was in the box. Under cause of death it said "Alcoholism", and listed as a secondary cause was "Hepatitis C". I didn't know she actually had hepatitis. If I had known, I'd have taken more drastic measures to stop her drinking. I'd have gone down there and physically kidnapped her. If I had to, I'd have provoked her husband into beating me up so I could have him arrested so he'd go to jail, and then as soon as I could walk again I'd have a few days to convince her to get help, or failing that, I'd kidnap her.

I think. I don't know if I could have. Kidnapping her would be one thing. Keeping her would be another. But the point is, I didn't do anything. And so the guilt hit, and it hit hard.

I had planned to work on the old house until about 7 or 8 pm last night, but I ended up leaving at 2, because I knew I wasn't going to get anything else done, and if I were driving I could stop the crying.

I think I'm ok now. I'm able to think back to that time and what I was already dealing with, and it's easier to accept my inaction. Sometimes things are just fate.

But the green quote at the top of the page (random! honest!) will make it easier to fill more garbage bags.
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